It was late in the day when I noticed that my blouse was inside out. Since getting dressed I had been in constant view of my husband, strolled the aisles of the Winn-Dixie, chatted with the cashier at the Dollar Tree and a half-dozen other RVers, yet no one said a word.
But the moment I realized my faux pax, I heard Ethel Michalak’s voice because, for sure, she would have said something.
Always sharply dressed, perfectly coiffed and freshly red-lipsticked, Ethel had long been the office manager at the Shelter Island Reporter when I started there in the late 90s. She would have immediately noticed my inside-outness, asked if I’d dressed in the dark again, then said “go fix yourself, honey.”
The Grande Dame of Island news
Though there were dozens of editors, reporters and other staff during Ethel’s reign at the Reporter’s Grand Avenue location in the Heights and later in the Center, she was the Grande Dame who ruled both roosts.
Not simply an office manager, she was the gatekeeper and bouncer. She was also your biggest fan, an honest critic, your Aunty Mame, your snarky girlfriend and a combination mom, medic and mediator, who could convey more with an arched eyebrow than the longest letter to the editor.
Ethel was brutally honest and she would tell you if you had food between your teeth, dragon breath or something on inside-out and on occasion, backwards, because yes, I did get dressed in the dark.
Didn’t matter what anyone needed, a safety pin, fire extinguisher, Chinese menu, better headline or tweezers for chin hairs and/or ticks, Ethel was your go-to person and she kept an eye on each one of us.
One time she asked me, “What’s wrong with your face?”
That’s kind of a loaded question, and to anyone else I would have answered, “Nothing. What’s wrong with your face?”
But it was Ethel so I said, ”I can’t help it. I was born this way.” She pulled out a mirror so I could see the hives popping up all over the place, then drove me to the doctor’s office and, despite an SRO waiting room, got me instant access by merely exchanging a silent nod with the doctor’s gatekeeper. (Apparently they have a club.)
It was Ethel who took the calls and diffused touchy situations on Thursday mornings when readers ranted about mistakes in ads or were angry about the editorial or that their ages were published in the police blotter. Yes, they expected that their names and “alleged” crimes would be there, but why did they have to put in how old they were, too?
“I know, I know, honey,” Ethel would say soothingly. “That’s like adding insult to injury.”
What’s wrong with you people!
Thinking about Ethel, who died in 2003, brings to mind many purely Ethel moments that make me smile just remembering them.
Like the time the publisher sent her an enormous bouquet of flowers. She was momentarily thrilled, teary-eyed even, then asked, “So where am I supposed to put this? Look at my desk. Don’t they think I do any work here? There’s no room for this.”
And it was Ethel who, hand over heart, screamed after someone dropped an office chair down the narrow, wooden staircase, “Don’t you EVER do that again in a house that has a mother in it!”
During the process of the move from the Heights to the Center, it was decided to replace the graphic artists’ stools, so the old ones were carried (not dropped!) downstairs and placed behind the building, awaiting transport to the dump.
“You’re throwing those out? What’s wrong with you people? They’re perfectly good! I’ll use them, put them in my car.”
Later she noticed that one of the swivel seats was loose and wobbled.
“What are you trying to do, kill me?” she asked. “I’m an old lady! You want me to fall and break a hip? Throw them out! What’s wrong with you people?”
Go outside inside out
I can hear Ethel saying those words as if she were right beside me and hadn’t left us nearly 20 years ago.
If there’s an advantage to dressing inside out, it’s that it made me pause, remember a special person, and smile. Maybe I’ll go outside inside out more often.
