Not a birth picture, but at least a birthday suit -- Bonnie Schupp poses for her first portrait in early 1945. This picture graced the bunk of her father Alvin on a U.S. Navy ship taking him to Italy near the end of World War II.

 

 Remembering Bonnie

on her birthday

 Today is Bonnie Schupp's 79th birthday. Or it would have been, had pancreatic cancer not intervened nearly three years ago.

 In between our respective bouts with life-threatening illness, we would talk on our occasional walks together about how to celebrate turning 80. We fantasized a big, catered party, inviting all of our friends and family. There would be performances by musician friends, a chance for others to say a few words -- kind or, preferably, funny about us and our relationships with them. It would be a celebration not only of our lives, but our friends while we still were around to appreciate and thank them.

 (We also poked fun at ourselves. For years on her birthday, I'd joke about how I'd never been to bed with anybody that old before.)

We did have a party, just not in the way it was intended. She only reached the age of 76. But it was a celebration of her life -- which she wanted instead of a funeral -- as well as the friendships that enriched it.

Age was not -- is not -- relevant. Especially not when it comes to love. It grows and endures.

 Poetic perspective

A few days ago, taking steps to freshen Bonnie's Google account so that the Overloads of Cyberspace would not erase her digital life, I stumbled onto her first efforts in blogging from the early days of the 21st Century. The blog was called "Blooming Journeys" -- its intent largely to post about the world of education, from the viewpoint of a retired teacher. It was a forerunner to her infinitely wider approach to blogging and creativity in an online journal of sorts, which she renamed simply "Journeys."

And one of those early "Blooming" entries was about being born, and a poem written on the day it happened by her great aunt, Gleasie Leatherbury.

 Here's what Bonnie posted:

 

Note: My great Aunt Gleasie, before she died while in her 90's, gave me this poem she wrote on the day I was born, December 10, 1944.

 

Fifteen Days Before Christmas

 

"Twas fifteen days before Christmas on a Sabbath morn,

In the Norfolk General Hospital, a baby was born.

There were other babies too--ones I've never seen

But this one in particular is little Bonnie Jean.



She was tucked in her basket with the greatest of care

Without the slightest idea that Daddy was near.

He was -- and Granddaddy too --

Awaiting news of a baby in blue.



Thirty hours he waited in great suspense,

Till the doctors thought he'd have no sense.

So he bit his nails and paced the floor,

When suddenly a nurse appeared in the door.



Said she, "Mr. Schupp, your wife presents you with a fine baby girl."

But she realized his head was still in a whirl

When he still imagined she had said a boy,

because like a sailor, he simply shouted, "Ship ahoy!"



Now that all is over, and Mother and baby are doing well,

Daddy feels much better too, as everyone could tell.

He is not disappointed, and confidentially I think,

He is perfectly satisfied with a little girl in pink. 

Bonnie in 2009, posing with one of her photographs -- an image of "Baltimore Hons" that remains a visual landmark in the window of M&T Bank on 36th Street in the city's Hampden neighborhood.

 

 

Remembering Schaefer

Then-Mayor William Donald Schaefer holds tiny Lauren Schupp-Ettlin, in 1980.

(Photo by Bonnie J. Schupp)

Two awkward encounters
with a political giant

William Donald Schaefer, dead at 89

William Donald Schaefer, who dominated Baltimore and Maryland politics for most of his nearly half a century in public life, died Monday at the age of 89 – leaving behind a city reborn, or at least reinvented, through his leadership.

He served 12 years as a city councilman, 4 as council president and 15 years as mayor before reluctantly moving on to state government with two terms as governor and two more as Maryland’s comptroller – the latter taken on out of spite for his successor, Parris N. Glendening.

There’s plenty of adjectives that could be tossed around to describe Schaefer – petulant is a good one, and annoyed another. Impatient, too.

I hardly knew Schaefer. Oddly, my father-in-law Alvin Schupp spent more time near Schaefer – when they were high school classmates at Baltimore City College. The students were seated in alphabetical lines, and Schaefer was right in front of Schupp.

I’d like to say that from my 40-year Baltimore Sun newspaper career, I had some deep personal insight, but in fact our paths crossed only twice face to face. I didn’t cover City Hall, except in working an occasional story by telephone. Even then, I can’t remember talking to him over the phone – though I’m sure I must have a few times.

One actual encounter was on the job. Mayor Schaefer was preparing to announce the restoration of police foot patrols on the city’s east side. The Sun had found out about it, and I was sent to Northwest Baltimore – where Schaefer had a scheduled appearance at the old Baltimore Hebrew College – to ask how the city would pay for the extra manpower involved.

On the sidewalk, Schaefer was pissed at the evident leak. “How do you know about that?” he demanded, adding a few choice and profane comments about the newspaper. “Only three people know about that – me, the police commissioner and Benton (Charles Benton, the city finance director).” He climbed into the back seat of his city car, while I quickly phoned Schaefer’s comments to then-city editor Gil Watson.

“You can tell him Benton blabbed his guts out,” Watson told me. But Schaefer’s car was pulling away from the curb. I ran after it, shouting, “Benton did it. Benton blabbed his guts out.” The mayor probably never heard me, but it felt good to shout.

Our other encounter came at the old Baltimore Children’s Museum, then housed in a strange castle-like mansion just north of the city line. It was the fall of 1980, at a luncheon event that I was attending, along with my wife Bonnie and our infant daughter Lauren.

Schaefer was sitting a few tables away. Bonnie had her camera. It was easy – just ask the mayor to hold Lauren for a few seconds, for a picture. It was quick, just a few awkward seconds, Lauren in his hands and the camera’s click. A strange moment – this lifelong bachelor holding our daughter, a look of surprise on his face.

Schaefer, despite 47 years in elective office, was not a man happy to hold a baby. I can't recall another such picture of him.

We’re glad we have this one.

(For more on Schaefer, check out my online op-ed at the Baltimore Business Journal, and a nice essay by my friend Michael Olesker for the Jewish Times. The Baltimore Sun Web site also has the enormous coverage that graced the Tuesday print editions.)