Introducing - Wendy Reid Crisp

Writer, editor-in-chief, and most importantly, a voice for women and children everywhere…

About Wendy . . .

Wendy Reid Crisp has joined the GRAND family as editor-in-chief of GRAND magazine. Wendy has been in magazine editing for 43 years (yes! She’s a grandmother), beginning right after her graduation from Whitman College (Walla Walla, Washington) with a degree in English. Her first job was with Datamation magazine in Los Angeles, a computer trade journal; she worked for Datamation in various capacities for 17 years, leaving in 1981 (by this time, relocated to Manhattan) to become the editor-in-chief of SAVVY, the magazine for executive women.

In the years 1987-1997, she founded and ran New Chapter Press, an independent book publishing company, while simultaneously being the national director and spokesperson for the 250,000-member National Association for Female Executives. She was also the editor-in-chief of the independent publishing trade journal, Small Press Magazine.

When she later moved back to the family farm in Ferndale (Humboldt County), California, she became the editor-in-chief of “the only show in town,” the quarterly Humboldt Historian. In the meantime, she has written five books, three of which : 100 Things I’m Not Going To Do Now That I’m Over 50, Do As I Say Not As I Did: Perfect Advice from An Imperfect Mother, and When I Grow Up I Want To Be 60, have been published by Penguin/Perigee. She is also the author of the book of essays, From the Back Pew; and the fund-raising, historical book, Old Favorites from Ferndale Kitchens: The Museum Cookbook. She has won national magazine awards for her weekly newspaper column, “From The Back Pew,” has had several works of short fiction win prizes; and has been honored for her work in historical video documentaries. She also serves on the board of directors of several foundations and corporations with emphases on early childhood education and prison reform.

In 1997, she was awarded an honorary doctorate in letters from Middlebury College in Middlebury, Vermont for her “writing and speaking on behalf of women and children.”

Wendy is married to John Lestina, and is the mother of Max Crisp, and Nana to Cooper and Carson Crisp, and David, Matthew, Joshua, Jeanette, and Rachel Lestina. She is also the “American abuelita” to Juan Carlos, Tony, and Paola Valverde; Yaritza and Elvis Santos; Juan and Mauro and Chellie Valverde; and Yuli and Junior Jimenez.

Love and Marriage, Part II

FORTY YEARS AGO, my mother said if I married a Catholic she’d stick her head in the oven. If I had been at all reflective, I would have noted that she had an electric oven, thereby reducing the threat to a mere hyperbole, but I was young and angry, and I waged the war by bringing home a series of non-Catholic ne’er-do-wells, characters so appalling she rushed out and bought a microwave.

There’s a Pennsylvania Dutch motto that should be on my tombstone: Too soon old; too late schmart. Eighteen months ago, when my son Max announced he was engaged to Lauren Shilling, what was my first thought? Did I think: she’s a beautiful, educated, healthy and happy woman from a family of loving people, a hard-working free spirit who adores Max? Did I even think: whew, she’s not a fugitive running a meth lab in a stolen camper? No. Lauren is Jewish, and my first thought – okay, I didn’t think, I just said -- “I guess this means I won’t be seeing my grand-children in choir smocks singing ‘Away in A Manger’.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” Max said.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

********

After the ’96 flood, Craig Jacob designed and built an elegant bridge, wide enough for two adults to cross together, over the creek at the ranch. I’ll redeem myself, I decided. I called Max.

“We’ll get the ranch ready; it will be a beautiful wedding.”

“You can forget that,” he said. “I’ve seen the video of her sister’s wedding. There was a sushi chef at the reception. This isn’t a barbecued tri-tip and bonfire crowd.”

“How do you fit in?” I asked.

“I fit in fine. I love them. They love me. It’s you who needs to get with the program.”

And then, last summer, my friend Giuli’s daughter eloped with a much younger man. We burned up the telephone lines, she with sobs; me, with advice.

At last, in one crystallizing moment, I said, “Giuli, consider what will bring your child happiness and love – and even if the marriage has its problems, she will learn the same lessons we had to learn on the same journey. Enough with the self-pity and the disappointment. You’re upset because you’ve lost control of her life. This isn’t about you.” It was a fine speech.

When I had finished, without the slightest pause, Giuli said, “Physician, heal thyself.”

********
The morning after we arrived in New Jersey, I met with the catering manager to inspect the room in which we were to host that evening’s rehearsal dinner. It was dismal, even by Holiday Inn standards.

“I don’t care how you decorate for the dinner,” Lauren had said, “I just want it to be homey and warm, not hotel-y.”

Homey and warm. Right. The extent of the existing décor was an artificial Christmas tree slumped in the corner, shabby plastic gold and silver bows hanging from one side. “That tree looks like it was decorated by high school boys, and then it fell over and they threw everything back on and split,” I said.

The catering manager said, “That’s exactly what happened.”

Unwisely, John had worn a new pair of shoes on the trip, and he was crippled by blisters. “I have to run all over northern New Jersey and buy decorations,” I said. “Why don’t you stay here and watch television?” Few situations threaten a relationship as much as a tired man driving an unfamiliar car from strip mall to strip mall while his wife says, “No! I want pink candles!”

At home, I’d made place cards onto which I’d glued a photo of the kids the size of a postage stamp. I’d bought canning labels off the ‘Net which read: Maximilian and Lauren, December 8, 2001, and I’d stuck those on, and I wrote the names of the guests on the back. I worked out the seating arrangements: five round tables of ten.

My initial idea for a theme had involved photographs. I’d arranged with Amy, a bridesmaid, to mail all the snapshots she could find to the hotel. And I’d had the wherewithal to pack extra glue-sticks, masking tape, and scissors in the suitcase. I am not very talented at craft projects: I’ve always depended on the creativity of my friends to bail me out, but even though son Pat was to be an usher, Pam Mauney had stayed in town to get out the Christmas mail.

Alone in New Jersey, I threw myself on the mercy of Beverly, the first kind face I encountered.

“In eight hours, I’m hosting a rehearsal dinner for fifty people in a dopey conference room at the Holiday Inn, and the bride wants it to be the magic kingdom. Help! I have a credit card.”

Beverly took me under her large, white wing. “So what are the colors?” she asked, and took over.

********

At eight o’clock, the guests arrived: cousins and old friends and children of old friends, former in-laws, and far-flung children, all the lively, pretty bridesmaids and the handsome ushers, the bride’s parents and grandmother, and Max and Lauren.

Everyone entered into a room softened by candlelight and jazz. White tables with pink and black and silver balloons … and the tree. Topped with a huge photo of the bride and groom, it stood full center; amid masses of silver bows were dozens and dozens of family photographs.

“How beautiful! How clever!” everyone exclaimed, and in one fell swoop I was in.

********

The following evening, we lined up outside of the ceremony room of the catering hall, and the men were handed yarmulkes. The guests were seated, and the rabbi, a cantor with a resounding tenor, walked down the aisle singing a psalm in Hebrew.

The bridal procession followed: Casey – the best man, and a son of my closest friend, Sue -- then Max’s father and me, Max, a host of attendants, and, finally, Lauren and her parents.

We four parents stood under the white canopy – the chupa – with the rabbi, facing Max and Lauren.

“The chupa represents the home Max and Lauren are creating,” said the rabbi, “The parents stand in the corners for love and support. May this new home be blessed by God with love, prosperity, and many children.”

He sang again and read psalms of joy, and poured the wine for Max and Lauren – “For sweetness in your life together.” He lifted up the napkin in which a glass had been placed.

“We break this glass to remind us, even in times of great happiness, such as now, that there are, in all lives, times of sorrow. It is now we remember those we have loved who are no longer with us.” He spoke the names of Lauren’s deceased grandparents, and then he said, “and Harlan Detlefsen.”

Max smashed the glass under his foot – and my son, who is now also known as Mordecai ben Ron in the Katuba, the register of generations – was married.

“The rightness of it all,” John said later. “The beauty was in the rightness of it all.”

********

At the end of the reception, the band played Sly Stone’s “We Are Family.”

We danced – our children, ourselves, our family, our friends. The joy was palpable, and I knew: He performed his first miracle at the wedding in Cana, and he’s still at it.

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