The Maiden and The Maven: A Modern Fairy Tale
- 3 hours ago
- 8 min read
By Lydia Hope Wilen / New York City
& Stan Fischler / North Golan Heights, Israel
My neighbor and I wanted to start a newsletter for our building. Since this friend loves alliteration and wanted to use our building’s name that starts with an M”, I came up with Metropolitan Mavens. When I pitched it to the head of communications for the building, the woman told me that ‘maven’ was too ethnic. I told her, “So I guess we can also cross off “Two Jews with News.” It got a big laugh and that was the end of the pitch session.
Fast forward to days later, while I was writing my most recent article for the Insider, the word ‘maven’ must have been uppermost in my mind, because I described my autograph guy, Ray Regan, as a “dealer, collector and maven.” Yes, it’s a Yiddish word, but it has become part of everyday language like schlep, klutz, yenta, bupkis, schmooze, chutzpah, and let’s not forget tush (as in football’s tush push).
When Ray read my description of him, he sent me this email:
Great job! I love the mention too! "The Maven"... I've been a NY Rangers fan
my whole life, following a hockey writer known as the “Hockey Maven.” He’s still writing and I’m still following him. To think I've achieved "Maven" status alongside Stan Fischler.
When I read that name, I was flabbergasted. That doesn’t happen often. (When was the last time you were flabbergasted?)
I immediately went to my file cabinet and got out the six-decades-old article Stan wrote about me in the New York Journal-American, a prominent newspaper from 1937 to 1966.
I don’t remember how or where I met Stan, or the circumstances leading up to him writing that article. All I knew is that I thought it would be nice to reconnect with him. The first step in today’s world? I googled him and found podcasts, interviews, his story in a short documentary and a Wikipedia page filled with his accomplishments, and it didn’t even mention his journalistic time at the Journal-American where we first met in person.
I was looking to reconnect with a man who has had 100 books published, thousands of articles with his byline, won seven Emmy Awards, was inducted into the U.S. Hockey Hall of Fame as a hockey historian, plus New York State Hockey Hall of Fame; International Jewish Hockey Hall of Fame; voted by Mayor Giuliani "One Of 100 Distinguished NYC Historians," the winner of the award for "Subway Series" for Metro Channel. And, quoting my hockey-fan friend, “He’s a real LEGEND!”
It’s a good thing I don’t get intimidated. And why should I? I have bragging rights too. I’ve never been beaten at Boggle. Hey, yeah … the Hockey Maven and the Boggle Meister. Go for it, Lyd!
Lost and Profound
Despite all of his interviews on the internet, I couldn’t find an email address for Stan, but I did find one for Doug Whiteman, his friend and agent. On Feb. 4, I emailed Doug, asking if he would help me get in touch with Stan. And I sent a copy of the article Stan had written about me some 60 years earlier. (GULP!)
On Feb 5, Doug sent my email to Stan. On Feb. 6 Doug got this response:
Dear Doug: THANKS! Gotta chase down Lydia.
Then Doug responded with:
What a wild story regarding your friend from the past! Makes me think I should dig up an old pal or two of my own.
Second Draft of a First Encounter
From Stan on Feb. 7:
Dear Lydia: This is like the Marx Brothers in Monkey Business, funny but surreal.
And the accompanying pix and my story. How come I didn't call you for a date? Voice from offstage ("Now he tells me.")
I kinda liked my story -- and You were funnier than Fischler, which is why I didn't propose. However, if you do answer, I just might propose. Love, Stan (call me Mave)
And in the following email:
Dear Lydia: In its own little way, our ”reunion” has been an extraordinary event. Right up there in the extraordinary department is the fact that the moment I saw your name, I immediately thought "Hope" is your middle name and I didn’t even use it in the article. Where to begin? For starters, lemme point out that I live on a little kibbutz in the North Golan Heights.
Stan went on to tell me he was married for 48 years to Shirley Walton Fischler, then widowed in 2014. Five years later, in 2019, he moved to Israel to be with his son and his son’s family.
His “getting to know you” email ended with a Henny Youngman oldie:
Guy goes to the doctor and says, "Doc, my leg hurts, what should I do?" Doc shoots back: "LIMP!"
No groans here. Just appreciation for what would follow. Daily emails filled with fun, reminders of the comedic greats, incredible life experiences, membership in the exclusive Marxist Society (devotees of Marx Brothers films) and yes, romance, mostly in the form of song lyrics. Mave has a rare eidetic memory (more commonly known as a photographic memory) especially for comic bits, and of course hockey, also for songs. He’s known for having a song for every occasion.
’S Wonderful, ’S Marvelous!
According to my emails, this would be the start of Mave’s Spotify, or as he would call it, his Spot-a-Fly Playlist for me:
“You came to me from out of nowhere You’re getting to be a habit with me. Too close for comfort You do something to me. You make me feel so young. –And I thought about you.”
Surprising myself, I came up with this Lorenz Hart lyrical answer:
”Isn’t it romantic? Every note that’s sung is like a lover’s kiss.”
Miles Apart, But Heart To Heart
Both of us have active, busy lives (as Mave would say: “Busy as a one-armed paper hanger – with an itch.”) Since there’s a six-hour time difference between us, my evening emails get to him on his following morning, and his emails get to me when I boot up my computer the next morning. Seems to me I’ve been getting out of bed earlier these days. Hmmm…
Hoping for the GWG (Game-Winning Goal)
Rather than having Stan read this for prepublication approval, I’m taking a chance by taking a page out of his songbook, ending with this Johnny Mercerish message sent lovingly to Mave after he reads this published piece about us:
“And I hope you’re satisfied you rascal, you!”
I thought that would be a nice ending to the story, and each of us would continue getting and sending funny and romantic emails each morning. That is, until the morning of February 28.
Mave’s email that was waiting for me said:
WE’RE AT WAR. I’LL WRITE WHEN I CAN.
Here, Stan picks up the story from North Golan Heights, Israel:
On the kibbutz, when missiles are heading in our direction, we get an almost instantaneous, automated warning through a highly advanced, integrated system known as Tzeva Adom (Red Alert). That's when we go to the safe room.
Missiles Are Heading In Our Direction...
Before I continue, you should know that right before I started this, Lydia gave me permission– actually, she gave me orders–to share my circumstances, observations, concerns, song/film/comedy references and feelings. Think of it this way, instead of "Dear Diary," it's "Dear Lydia," starting with a missive I sent her on March 3.
Not that I want to delve into the day-by-day or night-by-night interludes, but yesterday was a corker. Ariel, my 20-year-old grandson and I were planning to sleep in the safe room. It used to be my granddaughter's bedroom. The trouble is, the "safe" room has a number of features, the most prominent of which is that it's damn unsafe.
So, Ariel was already sleeping when I entered and couldn't find the light switch in the pure blackness. I wound up reviving Hellzapoppin’. And then, with Ariel still sleeping, I had to replay the male role of the Flying Wallendas, bouncing off walls that suddenly emerged out of sheer space. After 10 minutes of subdued frenzy, I found what I was looking for, the Johnson & Johnson shelf with much-needed bandages.
By now, Lyd, you should have an explanation for my AWOL and why my absence could have become more permanent if Ariel hadn't stopped the bleeding from my head before the ambulance posse arrived.
I'm thinking of You – thinking of me – followed by a paid political announcement.
The war here is serious and getting more serious. Hezbollah in Lebanon–very close to us. Awakened us in the safe room, firing missiles at us and a few other things. Didn't hit our kibbutz, as far as I know, but it did not help future sleeping. I've been told that the Lebanese government, on loan from Duck Soup, has been ordered, as Jack Benny would say, "NOW CUT THAT OUT!"
March 5: Just after I said, "good night," the air raid sirens went off and four of us huddled until the All Clear. No damage here. Likely Hezbollah in nearby Lebanon. The Brits and the French forgot how the USA saved their asses in WW II. Better stop; too pissed for words.
March 6: A very long day and still not over. Having done an hour-long hockey podcast and then dinner and checking the news and a possible air raid siren alert, I'm like the guy who rode off madly in all directions.
Frankly, my Sweet Lydia, the Maven's Gloom Dodger Machine has been overwhelmed today with bad news. Hezbollah is shooting way too many missiles and other crap our way. On top of that, I just learned that four or five days worth of my hockey stories did not get through to Hockey News for reasons not even mentioning. And, your last letter, Lyd, which I wanted to print, somehow skipped town.
March 9: Nowadays I work on a minute-to-minute life; last night we were twice awakened by separate air-raid sirens. No damage; another warning via phone buzzing and, again, no damage. Apart from the night sirens and other alerts, as the song goes, "I'm Doin' Alright."
The main plot is called STAYIN’ ALIVE! We have failed to neutralize Hezbollah in Lebanon–hence, the missiles–and air raid sirens–were enough to twice awaken us and cause a march to the safe-room. A major challenge is trying to keep my sunny side up while also trying to be patient about my wounds healing.
What matters, despite all the tsouris, is that you and I have formed a neat link, emotional, humorous and loving. Again, the Larry Hart song, "Isn't It Romantic?"
Life is very challenging. I do the man's morning prayer (Modeh Ani). It's a 12-word prayer of gratitude for the restoration of the soul, thanking God for life, mercy, and faithfulness.
A note to Lydia: You know, I've NEVER held back my growing affection for you. Suddenly, I had the choice of letting it all hang out in this article, but I'm choosing to keep it between us. Let the readers be lucky enough to find romance for themselves.
Lydia Hope Wilen began her professional career as a comedy writer on Personality, a celebrity-driven game show. Her greatest gig was her extremely successful collaboration with her late sister Joany as nonfiction bestselling authors (18 books), which led to the sisters becoming popular TV personalities. They continued as journalists (NY Daily News Sunday full-page feature, Celebrity Surveys for Cosmopolitan Magazine, cover stories for Parade Magazine) and got the opportunity to write and talent coordinate a Nickelodeon series hosted by Leonard Nimoy. The Wilens had an unusually versatile writing range from Reading Rainbow episodes, to off-color comedy skits for Dr. Ruth Westheimer’s TV show, Sexually Speaking, plus three optioned screenplays. And that's just for starters . . .