Don't Ya Know: A Video 44 Years in the Making

My husband and I made a video ad for a reading I'm doing of my novel, Don’t Ya Know. Once again, in the head to head spirit of the 44 years we’ve worked together, we reached the end of a project.

Let me tell you, it isn’t easy to be on a creative roll with one’s spouse. Issues arise, even in a one minute film edit. What we’ve learned to do is keep our mouths shut and take a break when the whole thing sucks.

That’s why this latest production took a bit more time than usual. The learning curve on these computer programs is rough when you only use them once a year. And we’re in our…well, we’re seniors, a group not known for long, IT retention.

“What did we do last year when this happened?”

This question threads our work which positions Michael at the large screen iMac with me speaking over his shoulder.

“Did you save it as a movie file?” I ask.

“I’m going for a Quicktime movie, right? That’s what we did last year, right?”

That much we recall, but QT looks different and iMovie requires an update. The reviews for the update say it’s worse. But we persist with many deep breaths and a few temper flare ups, mostly aimed at Apple. The glitch-filled draft loops by us and through us hundreds of times, maybe thousands over a week.

Consequently, the underscore of the trailer follows me through the day, and then hums through my dreams at night, until the Hallelujah Singers awaken my morning brain with a full throated chorus of "Carry Me Home." I brush my teeth to their harmony and caffeinate myself to the heartbeat of their drums. This will go on for an indefinite period. Perry Como sang in my head for months when we did the promos for Manhasset Stories, so I’m prepared.

Despite the song worms, there are wonderful moments in this work Michael and I do together. It’s teamwork that began in 1972 when we first met at Chemical Bank in Manhattan. Employees were not allowed to date. It was that simple. We kept our relationship a secret, though we worked a desk apart in a room full of desks. Our subordination solidified us.

We got married, moved to a great apartment on the East River, and painted a large canvas together, using tape to mask off the colors in our velour sofa. Posting the photo, shown below, took courage; but here's what we turned out, offering proof that love is blind. Note, however: the painting sits down there at the bottom in a collage of our early years. It's the 1970s in New York and that defines an entire era for us.

There’s another scene that plays in my mind’s eye. It took place in our first home in Georgia, shortly before we became parents. One night we worked together over an old electric typewriter perched on the fireplace stoop. We planned to write our story as a memoir, alternating chapters with each other's perspective. It was a one-night wonder.

Later on, I wrote a children’s story and Michael illustrated it. Then, I wrote a folk singer’s biography, and Michael read the copy three times before the editor saw it. Again, neither of these projects came to fruition, though each had plenty of drama - enough to leave us broken.

But we put ourselves back together and created another life. I wrote for a weekly newspaper, he set the type, and shoulder-to-shoulder, (with a team), we prepared the boards for the printer.

Stormy weather arrived again, figuratively and literally. It tore the life we’d made apart, and we worked night and day to clean up the damage for 20 years straight.

We slowed down when we retired a few years ago, and found ourselves comfortably back in the same old places, working together as we’ve always done.

Here's our latest effort, a book ad for a Long Island reading coming up. Michael is the one who made this minute happen. I was his assistant: