Cantankerously Yours
“A Glorious Ride.” For Some.
By Wendell Abern
Dear Readers,
Last month, Jon Frangipane, the editor, publisher, distributor, naysayer, blue-pencil-wielder and slave-driver of Lighthouse Point magazine, announced that he intends to retire from the publishing world in order to pursue other interests.
For thirteen years, Jon has been my close friend, confidant, piano teacher; for eleven years, my editor and co-curmudgeon as facilitator of a writers’ group. My column has appeared in every issue of Lighthouse Point Magazine since its inception eleven and-a-half years ago … making me a first-hand witness to the miracles Jon has effected in transforming a twelve-page black and white “newsletter” into a superb four-color magazine that can hold its own on any newsstand in the world.
In the announcement of his departure, Jon called his experiences “a glorious ride.”
Which does not mean he made it glorious for me.
Jon called me after I’d submitted my first column to him, which was headlined, “Never play ‘Jeopardy’ With Your Grandchildren,” recounting my experiences as my eleven- and seven-year old grandchildren humiliated me by answering Alex Trebeck in milliseconds while I was pleading senility.
“I like the column,” Jon said, “but do you think you could cut it a bit?”
“Sure. How many words do you want my columns to have?”
“Oh, maybe a thousand.”
“And this is longer than that?”
“Only by 8500 words.”
I sat up half the night, rewriting the column completely while cursing my editor roundly, as any decent writer would do.
A few months later, Jon asked me for a picture of myself so he could run the photo next to my column. I sent him a head shot. He called me two days later.
“I can’t run this picture!” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a picture of Cary Grant!”
“So what? You and I are the only ones old enough to recognize him. I think it’ll look great next to my column.”
Jon was having none of it. Neither did my editor at “Around Wellington.” They both insisted Jon take a photo of me himself, which you see here. I took one look at it and said, “I want that retouched! Look at that lopsided grin! I look like a constipated Chia pet!”
“You look like a cantankerous curmudgeon, and the photo stays.”
I’ve never won that battle. In fact, Jon even doubled it in size when I wrote my first annual open letter to “People” Magazine, protesting the fact that I was not named one of the most beautiful people in the world. I suggested that if he were going to use photos to help me be named as beautiful, he should take a picture of my elephant-ear sized love handles instead.
Jon wrinkled his nose in disgust. “This is a family magazine,” he said.
I had known Jon through our writers’ group for perhaps a month before I discovered he was a professional pianist, composer and teacher. We went to hear him play one night and were so impressed we bought his CD. Four months later, as a birthday gift, my wife bought me ten lessons from Jon.
I practiced very hard before my first lesson with him. I’d learned only a few pieces, and I started with a Scott Joplin piece, played it through while Jon sat listening patiently. When I’d finished, he said, “That’s amazing!”
“Wow! Thank you!” I said, inordinately flattered.
“No,” Jon said, “what I meant by amazing is that you have somehow managed to add an extra beat into every measure of the piece.”
“Really? How did I do that?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think anyone has ever done that before.”
Jon then played the piece correctly, and I spent the next three months struggling with it, cursing Jon as vehemently as when I was cutting copy. At my next lesson with him, I said, “When I’m not rewriting something for you, I’m re-learning something because of you.”
“You’ll be a better person for it,” he said.
During Jon’s tenure as major-domo of this publication, I have railed against, pilloried and ridiculed anything or anyone that riles me. Or even aggravates me just a little bit. Since my column is entitled, “Cantankerously Yours,” I have always assumed I have license to denigrate anyone.
One day, in 2006, Jon called and said, “Can I ask a favor?”
“Certainly.”
“Um … no more articles on the medical profession for a little while?”
“Of course. All my doctors have to do is answer their phones and get to their appointments on time.”
“I’m getting calls,” Jon said. “From doctors.”
“Great! And they’re calling to apologize, right?”
“No apologies. Frustration. They feel you don’t know what they go through. It’s that last column you wrote. The one with the headline, ‘The doctor will be with you shortly.’ That seems to have been the final straw.”
“Jon, I wrote that because I spent an hour and-a-half in a reception room!”
“Okay. But still … can you lay off the medical profession for a while?”
I sighed, and decided, as a favor, to pick on the Veteran’s Administration instead. The VA was so deserving of my wrath, I haven’t written about the medical profession since.
No one will miss Jon as much as I will. Raconteur, writer, photographer, musician, avid tennis player, editor, publisher and great friend, I consider Jon the quintessential Renaissance man.
However, I advise none of you to ever ask him for directions. I made that mistake recently when I asked him where our party was being held, and how to get there.
He wrote back, “The lighthouse Point Yacht & Racquet Club. (Do not bring your racquet or yacht.) Get in your car, shut the door, insert key in ignition, step on gas, back out of space and head east.”
Then after lengthy directions peppered with snide remarks, he ended, “I suggest you start out the day before.”
Ah, Jon, what will I do without you?
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern