Remembering a Friend Who Can't Recall My Name
My creative friend Marty, a documentary filmmaker, always embraced my imperfections. I'm doing that for her now.
I'm stuck.
Reverse. Fast forward. Back again, watching video footage over and over on my laptop. A conversation with a Greek relative isn't flowing. I can't pinpoint what's missing. Let me call Marty. She'll get to the truth of my story.
But Marty disappeared.
Marty, where are you?!
As a documentary filmmaker, she used a film camera to tell stories of strong independent women. In a way, they represented her and family women of the Dust Bowl. Her grandmother, Miss Dora, stood less than five feet tall, and mowed the lawn with a push mower until she decided enough was enough at 95.
Marty added me to her sisterhood of journalists, filmmakers and professors when we met through Sylvia Carter, a food reporter for Newsday, in the 1980s. Like cowboys she dated as a teenager, Marty valued loyalty and friendship. We are a collection of personalities as different as Oklahoma onion burgers and baklava.
Marty turned my name into three syllables and an exclamation point. "Ar-e-lene!" I'd know that voice anywhere.
Marty turned my name into three syllables and an exclamation point. "Ar-e-lene!" I'd know that voice anywhere.
She didn't talk much about herself. In Oklahoma, people swerve towards politeness, listen well and avoid bragging. She never forgot what you told her. Every problem—real or imagined—could be solved with a chat, a glass of red wine and perspective.
"You're doing great. Keep going!"
"Ar-e-lene! That's wonderful. We'll celebrate. And we'll grab Pete to go with us!"
"Oh, who needs that aggravation! Move on! It won't mean anything two years from now."
I decided to finish my undergraduate degree.
"Sit up front," Marty advised."Send an email before class begins. Introduce yourself to the professor. Trust me. You will not go wrong. You don't want to be anonymous."
Marty wore her hair clipped short, bangle bracelets and chunky necklaces. I copied her favorite ensemble; a white tank top, white blouse over black pants.
She taught filmmaking at Sarah Lawrence, ate dim sum in Chinatown, accompanied friends at AA and Gamblers Anonymous meetings, took me to the opera, shopped for shoes in thrift stores.
Sylvia drove Marty and me in her faded Volvo as if we were in the car chase from "The French Connection." Cigarette in one hand, she swiveled to chat, honking and hitting the brakes when Marty required a refill of black coffee. I sat behind Sylvia, propelled backwards from blasts of wind from her open window, and fear.
Marty purchased FiestaWare, sometimes chipped; watches; blouses and even a tiny toy cap gun. Her husband's niece found a dusty alligator purse in a basement room where her films were stored in round metal cases.
Life as a Filmmaker
"A Lady Named Baybie" tells the story of a blind woman and her friend who rattled tin cups and sang hymns for money in front of Bloomingdale's in Manhattan. Filmed in velvety black and white, the women dined in a Chinese restaurant with their hands gracefully touching teacups and imagined what they would do if they were sighted.
"They lived a lonely life," Marty said in a rare recorded talk. "They had never met as many sighted people. We became good friends." The film took five years to complete. "I loved making this film. I went for the truth," she said.
Marty returned to Oklahoma for "Indians, Outlaws and Angie Debo," profiling Debo, a historian who exposed the U.S. government's conspiracy to steal mineral rich lands from native American tribes. The film is still taught in college courses. Both films aired on PBS.
Marty doesn't remember Angie Debo or Baybie.
Her oldest sister, Rena Jo Sandlin Fudge, called Jo, and Sylvia, share Marty's memories. Jo, 89, a businesswoman living in Oklahoma City, drives a mini Cooper faster than her race car driving son. Youngest sister, Dora Dell Sandlin Roberts, an attorney who defended inmates on Oklahoma's Death Row, died in 2018 at 78.
Hungry strangers passing through were served meals on FiestaWare plates at the Sandlin home, built on three acres of land before Oklahoma became a state in 1907
Hungry strangers passing through were served meals on FiestaWare plates at the Sandlin home, built on three acres of land before Oklahoma became a state in 1907. The sisters listened to the plaintive moos of the family cow during pitch black nights. Marty spent her 15 cents allowance at the movies, imagining a glamorous life outside of Holdenville.
Their mother, Rena Jo Livingston, studied classical music in Europe before marrying attorney Hugh Sandlin in 1934. He served 20 years in the Oklahoma State Legislature and hated segregation.
Jo recalled, "This Black couple came up to the house and wondered if there was anything they could do. They were so hungry," she said. "My father said, 'We've got food. Come on in.'"
He offered a room and helped them purchase a home of their own. Years later, Marty and her husband would take in a neighbor's daughter when family issues dragged her down. Marty can't recall her name.
A Future Homemaker of America who rhapsodized over restaurant entrees, Marty was named after aunts Martha and Faye. Faye studied music education at Columbia University, returning west with tales of big city life.
Marty and Pete
Marty drove south to Dallas and enrolled in Southern Methodist University, writing for The Daily Campus and dating the handsomest son of the richest man in Texas. But he was no match for Lovell Lee Bowles, Jr. nicknamed Pete, Daily Campus sports editor and champion hog caller, born in Dallas, raised in Oklahoma.
Jo remembered, "It was just instant magic between the two. Pete had no money and they fell in love. Marty always said, 'The reason why I married Pete was because he promised to take me out of Texas and Oklahoma and move me to New York.'"
The Holdenville Daily News announced their wedding in 1963: "Mrs. Lovell Lee Bowles Jr. She was Miss Martha Faye Sandlin." Pete's father, a minister, conducted the ceremony.
"The reason why I married Pete was because he promised to take me out of Texas and Oklahoma and move me to New York."
After stops in Fort Worth and Vermont, they headed east to upstate New York. Pete reported for the Albany Times Union and Buffalo Evening News. Marty produced television news programs. Her mother mailed boxes of black eyed peas and okra for Pete.
Hired by Newsday in 1970, Pete brought his hog call, W.C. Fields impression and scrupulous reporting to the newspaper. Marty stepped out of the way for his career, Pete for hers.
Now New Yorkers with dachshunds and shelves of Sandlin FiestaWare, Marty hired a sword swallower she met in Times Square to entertain at their Queens apartment. I'd love to have seen that. When Marty drove, Pete would implore, "Slow down, Marty!" Unafraid of the mobsters and dubious politicians he covered, Pete feared telephone calls from a friend Marty loved (and he didn't) who talked for hours. He answered with a tentative hell-lo?
Marty never pointed out awards that cluttered her office. Neither did Pete. His niece discovered his two Pulitzers in a box in the basement.
Pete and Sylvia both retired in 2005 when Newsday offered buyouts to trim its staff.
Sylvia married and moved to North Carolina. She no longer drives.
Pete planned hiking trips with his buddies to Europe.
His heart went bad. Marty gave up teaching and shopping for medical appointments. On his last night in the hospital, they laughed so loudly that nurses quieted them. In April 2017, he was gone. Together, 55 years.
Pete had made good on his promise to take her from Holdenville to New York City.
Living in the Forgetting
I was afraid to bring up his name. Marty turned away. I handed her tissues. The forgetting came too fast.
I think of Jack Kerouac's "On the Road": Nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old.
Marty didn't know how to use her phone. She drove 40 miles an hour in wedge heels through highway traffic. She was lost in Brooklyn, driving with one headlight on, looking for Pete. She was there but she wasn't.
The last time I visited, we watched a soap opera with the sound off. I tied her robe and adjusted her eyeglasses.
"I'm directing a documentary." I tried. Maybe she'd come back. "Any advice?"
Her brain tugged at synapses.
"You're doing great. Keep going!"
We drank seltzer from paper cups. Marty toasted.
"Thank you, Sylvia!"
As I write, I look at tables, countertops and window sills covered with FiestaWare in my Manhattan apartment. Pete's niece asked if I'd like them. I don't have family dishes. Now I do. Chipped cups and plates remind me of how Marty embraced us with our imperfections. As for my film, I'll keep going. And then I'm off to Oklahoma.
