A Few Last Minutes with Andy Rooney

While I was growing up, 60 Minutes was the centerpiece of a tradition in my house involving potato pancakes. Every Sunday, the hourly news magazine would air on CBS between 6 and 7 p.m.—it still does. And since my childhood home had a kitchen separate from our eating area and my mother didn't want to be stuck in the kitchen and miss something good on 60 Minutes, she would bring out her heavy electric skillet, plug it in at the kitchen table, and whip up a huge batch of potato pancakes while we'd watch Morley Safer, Ed Bradley, Harry Reasoner and Mike Wallace delve into some timely topic. Like a Pavlovian response, to this day when I hear the "tick-tick-tick" of that stopwatch during the opening credits of 60 Minutes, my mouth begins watering for the taste of fried potatoes and onions in oil, topped with a generous schmear of applesauce.

I just heard today that Andy Rooney, the pithy essayist who always had the last few minutes of the hour, is retiring from his regular spot on the show. He is 92 years old. When I posted the news item about his retirement on my Facebook page, a couple friends chimed in: Isn't he dead? I thought he was dead!

Rooney's last segment will be this Sunday, October 2. I've strayed from 60 Minutes over the past few years, probably because I've gotten caught up in my generation's need for everything to be in quick soundbytes. If it couldn't be said in 30 seconds, I didn't have the time to listen. But I recently pulled out my old cookbook and have reinstated my mother's Sunday night tradition of potato pancakes and 60 Minutes.

Something that should be old and stale—a news show that's been on the air since 1968—has become somewhat refreshingly new to me. I like the low production value of the "theme song," the starkness of the darkened black studio with one journalist sitting on a stool to introduce each segment. And it's not very often we see tough questions getting asked and a camera shot so close that we can see each bead of sweat and every skin pore. And in an age where most of us are satisfied to just get the sensational part of the story, it's a good reminder that sometimes stories take time to tell, and there is almost always more than one angle.

And after the in-depth nature of the show, at the very end, came Andy Rooney, the exclamatory punctuation to finish off the hour. I can still remember my mother's voice, her pancake flipper in her hand, an apron tied on to protect her clothes from the crackling oil on the griddle. She'd announced, "Shh! It's time for Andy Rooney!" and we'd all stop talking and listen. I'm not sure he has a face for television. He's a little like your curmudgeonly great-uncle with disheveled hair and eyebrows that never seemed to stop growing. But in all his essays, read from behind his desk and in front of his stacks of books, there was always a kernel of truth. There was the way he could take a common, everyday action and bring it to our attention in a different light. I remember one segment he devoted entirely to the proper way to eat an ice cream cone. It made me laugh. But to this day, I eat my cone Andy's way: licking around the bottom edge to avoid dripping, tipping the cone—never my head.

I'll be watching Andy this Sunday night. And I'll hold up my plate of potato pancakes schmeared with applesauce and I'll say, "Here's to you."

I'll Never Stop Saying Sorry

School has barely been in session for more than a few weeks, and we've already been hit by sickness. My poor family can hardly take that harsh transition from carefree summer days back into the daily grind of the school schedule. So there we were—me, hacking and coughing with the last traces of a virus, and my second oldest son, sore throat and stuffy head, missing the first spelling test of fifth grade.

By afternoon time, I had finished whatever menial chores I felt I "had" to finish, and somehow the Sorry game was pulled off the top shelf in our closet. I think the daily quota of SpongeBob had been filled, and it was time for something that didn't involve electronics.

I'd forgotten how much I love playing Sorry. It's a game I remember well from my childhood. My family enjoyed some friendly competition, and we had no misgivings about smacking down our opponent if the chance presented itself. So I think my son was a little surprised when, early in the game, I pulled a "Sorry!" card and gleefully replaced his piece—forcefully—with mine.

"Awww, that's a shame," I said in a cold, sinister voice. He just stared at me in shock.

I'm usually a pretty nurturing mother. I try not to hover, but my kids are probably pretty sheltered from most things. I guess this was a side of me he hadn't seen before. On a normal day, I'm a lioness who protects her little cubs. But put me in front of a board game, and suddenly I'm willing to eat my own young.

I beat him at the first game. I thought maybe he would cry at the defeat. That's what my younger kids do. When something doesn't go their way, they cry. Their lower lips stick out to the next county.

Not this kid.

"Rematch," he said, grabbing the deck of cards to shuffle. "And this time, you're goin' down."

That's my boy.

Guilt is that ever-present ingredient in all interactions mothers have with their children. I was feeling guilty for "letting" my kid get sick in the first place. Was he washing his hands enough? Eating healthy food? I was guilty that he was already missing school and would face make-up homework over the weekend.

And when was the last time he and I sat down to play a board game together? It had been too long.

More guilt.

I'm trying to let go of the guilt. But who am I kidding? I can't really let go of it. Maybe I'll learn to give it a quick embrace, then gently push it away. I have to choose not to beat myself up about each little failure throughout the day—for me, there are a lot of them. The "I'm sorrys" come fast and furious for not being enough, for not doing enough. I'm sorry that I don't take enough time with each child, treating them like a herd and not singling each one out to spend time to celebrate each one's special qualities.

I'll be saying Sorry! the rest of my life, I have the feeling. I guess it's what parents do. But darn it, some of those so-called failures can really turn out to be something wonderful. Because as it turns out, playing board games on a sick day with one special kid really rocks my world.