My sincerest thanks to Judy Farley O’Brien (“Vigil,” Oct. 10). For the last week, my life has been consumed by the illness of my mom. As I read your chronicle of your dad’s illness, I was mesmerized by the similarities of our experiences. From the pain, the hospitals, the young doctors and even younger nurses, from “nobody wanting to handle his case,” to the feeling of hopelessness.
Thank you for taking me away from my pain for just a moment. I’ll cry again and again before I fall asleep tonight, but please know that your words offered comfort and solace to me this evening. I’m very grateful.
Legertha T. Butler-Walton, Matteson
Big-bang theory
Reading CSO percussionist Patricia Dash’s comment (“Heavy Metal,” Oct. 3) that playing the cymbal can be a mix of “99 percent patience and 1 percent terror” reminded me of the moment of truth told of another cymbal player in the 1930s.
A friend who had played at that time in a symphony orchestra in Syracuse, N.Y., related to me that their cymbal player frequently lost his place and accordingly often struck his cymbals at most inappropriate times. At the final rehearsal before an important concert, the conductor warned him that he would be fired if he missed a critical cymbal crash during their concert performance. This was a threat to be taken seriously in the depths of the Depression.
The cymbal player correctly counted the empty measures before his moment of glory. He struck his cymbals, one of which hung on a stand before him, with such force that the hanging cymbal came loose from its stand, sailed through the air, and landed on its edge on the stage before the orchestra. It then rolled around in smaller and smaller circles, finally coming to rest with a final clatter.
The orchestra attempted to carry on to the end of the score, but it was too much, and one by one they laid down their instruments and joined in the hysterical laughter of the audience. The unfortunate percussionist took his music from his stand, left the stage and was never seen again.
Howard Kittel, Naperville
Husbands and wives
Thank you for printing “Why Husbands Hate Sundays” (Oct. 3).
I discussed the article with several friends. I also sent a copy to my daughter in Texas. Amazingly, each of us came away with a different perspective.
Donna Campbell, Wilmette
Regina Barreca’s story illustrates just how little difference there now exists between the Tribune and cheap tabloids like The National Enquirer.
The story was not informative, interesting or funny, but the headline was provocative and intended to play on a popular contemporary press technique of male-husband bashing. I am a husband who happens to enjoy Sundays, married life, women and, up until today, reading your paper.
My Sunday was very enjoyable until I read this piece of journalistic trash. To title and write an article on why husbands hate Sundays (this would seem to imply at least a majority of us) based on a conversation with one married male friend and references to “Butterfield 8” and “Sons and Lovers” is absurd and not worthy of space in your publication.
Although I try not to take all this difference-between-the-sexes stuff too seriously, I feel it is important to say it is extremely divisive, makes many people feel bad, is a rotten way to sell papers and has made me seriously consider canceling my subscription to your paper.
David S. Noffs, Elmhurst
I enjoyed the excerpt in the Chicago Tribune Magazine from the book “Perfect Husbands.” The Tribune printed the sentence “They can get up and property nurse a hangover so that they are ready to each nachos. . . .” I am sure that the word “each” should be “eat.”
Is this an error of the Tribune?
Leonard J. Nemerovski, Wilmette
Ed. note: Yes. We’re embarrassed.
