Martha, My Dear: A Friend in Deeds

By Rick Horowitz

Well, I was just stunned -- who wouldn't be? The last thing you're expecting when your life is sheer perfection is finding out that the very woman who inspired you to such unending, unbending excellence is something less than perfect herself.

Say it's not so, Martha! Don't let them de-con our icon!

Those nasty old stories in that nasty new book? Nothing but rumors, I'm sure. Our Martha Stewart is the real Martha Stewart, the one we know and love and model our lives after -- not that calculating, manipulative excuse for a human being we've been reading about. Our Martha Stewart doesn't hold grudges or throw tantrums. Our Martha Stewart doesn't curse at friends and terrorize spouses. Our Martha Stewart is above all that, just the way we are, thanks to her.

But now our Martha -- my Martha -- is hurting. Even a goddess feels pain. Even a legend bleeds when she's wounded. And after everything she's done to make my life so special, I figured it was time to reach out to her, to let her know I'm behind her in her time of turmoil.

Perhaps some flowers and a cheery note -- a simple, yet classic combination -- would do the trick.

For the flowers, I briefly considered a splendid display of colorful seasonals arrayed in a perfect likeness of Jerry Oppenheimer, the author who has so cruelly used her. A somewhat controversial choice, I realize, but one that would have shown Martha's ability to laugh at herself, to see the lighter side even in the worst of times. In a pinch, she could always tear the man petal from petal and use the leftover stems to weave a bird feeder.

But I decided to go in another direction entirely: I opted for the calming simplicity of roses. I ask you: Is there anything in life more satisfying than strolling along the curving paths you've cobbled end to end with used 9-volt batteries, past the acres and acres of rose bushes you've planted yourself with shovels from your backyard foundry, bushes you've nurtured with high-grade fertilizer still fresh from the hand-groomed Arabian stallions in your hand-built terra cotta stable behind the gazebo?

I think not.

So that took care of the flowers -- which left the cheery note. I was after something straightforward but upbeat, something inspiring without being maudlin. With Martha's face floating before me, the words came easily: "I have all your magazines. Here's more money."

The message was easy. The note itself was a bit of a problem. Not the note paper; I still had several pieces of my personalized, hand-embossed stationery made from recycled cash-register receipts and napkin shreds, decorated with woodcuts of pastoral family scenes. (Gravy stains gently extracted from those napkins, by the way, can make a wonderful dip for your summer vegetables.)

So the stationery was outstanding, and thoroughly appropriate, and the free-range squid in my front-lawn reflecting pool simply outdid themselves for ink. My postage stamp, needless to say, looked positively official; one would never have suspected I etched every line myself with nothing but a simple steak knife and a hand-blown magnifying glass.

The problem was the glue -- glue for the stamp and glue for the envelope. Normally I use sealing wax, of course, emblazoned with my exhaustively researched family crest. But then, normally my correspondence is hand-delivered within my own cozy neighborhood. Irony of ironies, I would have to trust this particular note, this most special of messages, to the sort of commercial postal service which frowns on such indulgences.

If sealing wax was forbidden, it would have to be glue -- but from where? How would Martha Stewart handle this? I asked myself. And then it came to me.

I may be spreading the fertilizer a little thinner this year. Martha will understand.

7/18/97