Nancy Rommelmann

The Cost of Running Away

Early last year, my editor at the LA Weekly emailed one night to ask whether I was interested in reviewing Debra Gwartney's Live Through This, a memoir of her teenage daughters' running away. By the time my editor logged on the following morning, he had three emails from me, including one to his Facebook account, saying, "YES!"

It was a privilege to spend time with Debra and her girls. As I was leaving her apartment in Eugene, part of me wanted to say, "But can I stay the weekend so we can keep talking? I can sleep on the couch." Instead, I came home and wrote about Debra and her girls and the devastation that running away can bring.

Last month, I received an email from a friend about a local girl who was presumed missing. Without going into detail, I thought, I should write an Opinion piece about this for the Oregonian. But I dragged my feet. I was busy; I had the flu. My family had the flu.

Two weeks ago, the New York Times ran a series on teen runaways, focusing on kids in Oregon. I sent a link to the story to Debra, with the note that I was probably the 609th person to do so. In fact, she wrote back, I was the first, and when the heck were we going to get coffee, anyway?

I stopped dragging my feet earlier this week, and asked my editor at the Opinion pages whether he wanted a short piece from me about a runaway. This, though I realized I was probably a little late to the game, what with the NYT piece having run...

"Actually, your timing is perfect," he said, and that what I wrote would run as a companion piece to a long piece running this week, by a woman whose daughters had run away. I said, I bet I know who. Ah, he said, and did I know Debra's book is a finalist for the Oregon Book Award?

Debra's piece is "Good Guys, bad guys and running away." Mine is "Letter to a Teenage Runaway." Honored to be in such company.

Just Do(nate) It

For years, I donated to Doctors Without Borders. They have low administrative costs and it's hard to argue with the work they do. As owners of Ristretto Roasters, Din and I receive weekly letters asking for donations. We try to give to every school in the neighborhood, and this year, have made a donation to the Portland Mercury online charity auction [details upcoming], the proceeds of which go to Outside In, a terrific organization here in Portland helping homeless youth.

But I've been wanting to do something on a regular basis. As we watched, for the tenth time, the Saint Jude Children's Research Hospital commercial on TV the other night, I asked the family, "Saint Jude or _______ for a monthly donation?" They looked at the images of the cancer-stricken kids, and said, "Saint Jude." Saint Jude it is, $50 a month, coming directly out of the checking account. Not much, but a start.

Who are you donating to?

Happy Birthday!

Yes, it was my birthday on the 30th! And I had been wondering why, for the previous three weeks, the baristas at Ristretto had been saying, "So, Nancy, you have a birthday coming up!" How did they know, and more, why did they care? I don't mean that second part in a mean way, just...

On Wednesday the 28th, I received a call from our manager, who said, "We want to throw you a party." I told her, oh, that's silly, don't go to the trouble, and Din's been sick and was still feeling...

 "WE'VE BEEN PLANNING IT FOR A MONTH!" she said. Oh my god. "And you are not to bring anything!" she continued. We've got the booze and food and a deejay..."

I started to tear up. As it turned out, everybody -- my husband, my daughter, my friends, my father in North Carolina -- knew. I didn't know a thing. But I did what I was told: I dressed up, showed up, and had the best birthday I've had in years. The eleven Jell-O shots were tasty! I took no photos, but some folks did; I'll get those soon. Until then, I've cadged what's below from Byron Beck, of my sweet Tafv and me.

 

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl

My shining star

 

 

Tried to See "The September Issue"

The documentary about Vogue's Anna Wintour, with my own clothing designing daughter, who starts college at the Art Institute on Monday, but we walked into the wrong theater, and did not realize it until "Capitalism, A Love Story" started. It was too late to make the other show, so we stayed. It was a Michael Moore movie, by turns funny, spot-on, manipulated bull, full of bathos, and 30 minutes too long. Throwing in Katrina and FDR really bit, and did Wallace Shawn add anything to it? He did not. But! It was worth the price of admission alone for the inclusion of the video below

My Daughter Scanned Some Pictures from Her Childhood

Summer 2009

So far!

My beautiful mom and me, on the house porch, Menemsha

Din: Can we brush our hair first?
Nancy: Smile!

With my best friend from college, Liz Robbins, in Harvard Square

With me in Harvard Square, not looking as happy as with Liz

Necklace in Cambridge I really, really wanted, and went back to try on, twice, and tried to justify buying, several times, but at $1500... could not. [Note for all you jewelry makers out there: smoky quartz, with a chain of silver alloy with green gold plating. I'll pay you to make it!]

Happy Mothers Day

We Find Money on the Street

Din's sister Hillary was in town last week, and while conversing at the kitchen counter, Din mentioned he'd found a $50 bill the week before on the street, something he hadn't thought to mention.

"He used to find money all the time when he was a kid," said Hillary.

I asked Din how this could be; he said, because he looks.

I decided to try it. The next day, I found a dollar.

Yesterday, I found a five.

Which makes sense: With the exception of children, nearly everyone carries cash, and some of that cash is going to go missing.

I have not turned into the equivalent of the crazy lady on the beach with the metal detector; I'm simply paying attention.

Eyes open and good luck. Let me know what you find.