MY WIFE, BARBARA FOX

(Chapter 18 of my 2020 memoir, The First 85 . . .)

              Whenever my wife, Barbara Fox, and I go out to dinner with a couple we've recently become acquainted with, one of them will invariably ask us, "How did you guys meet?"  We happen to have an interesting answer; and since my role in it predates Barbara's, I usually relate the story.  Here's the condensed version, shorn of the elaboration and hyperbole that often accompanies the actual narrative.

             I went to high school in New York with a guy named Joe.  We knew each other but weren't particularly close.  He graduated a year ahead of me, and we lost touch completely.

             Ten years later – after college, the Navy, and law school, and during the early years of my first marriage – I landed back in New York as an associate in a law firm (Davies, Hardy & Schenck) where, lo and behold, Joe was one of the other associates.  But after a year or so, Joe left to pursue a career in real estate, and we once more lost touch.

             Fast forward to a Manhattan street corner almost two decades later.  My career is in full swing at Skadden, Arps, but my first wife and I have been separated for a few years.  On the street one day, who do I bump into but Joe, who has become a very successful real estate broker and now has a young wife and family.  It's the kind of chance New York encounter that happens from time to time, and generally nothing comes of it.  But we break the rule and make a lunch date.

            At lunch, Joe and I find ourselves reminiscing about the good old days at that first law firm.  It’s been years since either of us has seen a number of the men we knew (women lawyers were scarce back then).  Wouldn't it be fun to have a reunion?  It’s a thought frequently expressed by old acquaintances but almost never implemented.  Wonder of wonders, Joe decides to hold a cocktail party reunion in his new apartment.  He tracks down a number of  lost souls and sends out invitations.

             Late in the afternoon of reunion day, Joe's vivacious wife, Marjorie – who was well on her way to a prominent career as an interior designer – calls her younger sister on the phone.  The sister, who lives in New York, has recently concluded a long-term boyfriend relationship.  "You've got to get over here without delay," says Marjorie.  "Joe has invited a bunch of old farts for a reunion, and I'm about to be bored to death.  I need support."

             The sister grumbles but dutifully complies.  And so, while I'm sipping a beer in Joe's parlor, the door opens and in walks this vision – who, our dinner companions have guessed by now, is Barbara.  I sidle over to the Fox, and the rest is, as they say, history. . . .

             Each time I relate this tale, I’m struck by how many coincidences and other events outside my control had to occur in order for that fateful encounter to take place.  What are the odds of Joe Hilton and I starting our careers in the same law firm?  Of our bumping into each other two decades later on a street corner?  Of converting that chance encounter into a lunch?  Of Joe organizing a reunion?  Of Barbara and I both being unattached at the same time? . . . .  Even after 35 great years of marriage, I still consider the whole thing just sheer happenstance.

 * * *

             Before waxing eloquently on the considerable merits of this woman, let me provide a brief rundown of her life before we met in December 1982.

             Barbara Fox was born in Rocky Mount, NC and lived there through her high school years. She was very close to her parents, Al and Anita Fox, and to her older sister Marjorie (the party hostess noted above), and they had strong family ties in various other mid-Atlantic and southern cities.

             Barbara’s parents instilled in Barbara and Marjorie a strong work ethic. Al Fox owned and operated a successful furniture business that took up most of his time. In fact, following dinner with his family, he would often head back to the office to catch up on paperwork. Anita was the credit manager for the business  and integral to its success. Later, when Al sold the furniture business, Anita opened an antique store in downtown Rocky Mount; and after Anita passed away, Al ran it for a number of years.

             From all accounts, Barbara had a happy childhood and adolescence and made a great many friends. Encouraged by her mother after high school, she was anxious to try life up north. She matriculated at Centenary College, enjoying her two years in New Jersey, with frequent visits to NYC where Marjorie was an undergraduate. She then transferred to the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill NC – in large part because her boyfriend, David Dove, was attending nearby North Carolina State.

            David graduated in 1969, and they got married in September of that year. He was studying for his masters in aerospace engineering at MIT, so Barbara moved to Boston, where she attended and graduated from Boston University. While there, she worked for a while at MIT and then as a claims adjuster for an insurance company.

             The marriage didn’t work out. By 1972 they were divorced, and Barbara moved to New York City, where she had always wanted to live and work. Her first employment was at Town & Country magazine, her second at Doubleday, working with the editor of children’s books. She got restless, though, and wanted a job where she would be her own boss. As she later said in a professional interview, “I had fire in my belly, and I didn’t want to be constrained.”

            She decided to go into real estate – first working part-time with a commercial realtor, and then (on brother-in-law Joe Hilton’s advice) transferring into the residential sector. Her initial employment was basically answering the phone for Alice Mason, a major broker at the time, from whom she says she learned a great deal. When that proved to be tiresome, she went to work at Whitbread Nolan, where she became a successful broker. But the firm had some financial troubles; and when brokers Elizabeth Stribling and Connie Tyson left to form what became the successful Stribling firm, Barbara joined them as their first vice president.

             After a few years, Barbara left New York to be with a boyfriend, Harlan Kleiman, who had moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career in film-making. She worked with him out there but was unhappy in L.A. and missed New York. She had retained her Manhattan apartment for regular visits, as well as making intermittent trips to Rocky Mount. After a year, she left Harlan and came back to New York.

           While in Los Angeles, Barbara heard that Cross & Brown, a major New York commercial real estate firm, had started a fledgling residential division and was looking for someone to head it up. Through Joe Hilton, she was introduced to the C&B president, Richard Seeler. At 28 years old and with no administrative experience, Barbara created a business plan, sold herself, and took over as the head of a four-person firm. With Dick as her mentor, she was very successful at Cross & Brown – growing the residential firm to its ultimate size of 60 brokers.

             While this was happening, I came into the picture at the end of 1982.

 * * *

             When Barbara and I began dating in early 1983, both of us had already ended previous romantic relationships. Our focus on each other quickly became paramount. Although we lived apart in NYC, we spent a lot of time together that first winter and spring, including taking a ski trip to Massachusetts and enjoying a casino weekend in Atlantic City.

             Barbara had previously rented a house in Easthampton for the summer, so we drove out to enjoy it every weekend except for a few in August which we spent at my house on Fire Island. We had a wonderful time in Easthampton. One highlight: when I rented a piano, she decided to take up the drums, which she played surprisingly well. For our duets, I even changed the lyrics of Ellington’s famous tune to, “She’s beginning to get the beat . . . .”

             Having fallen in love, we wanted to continue spending weekend time together outside the city, so we rented a house that fall in Carmel, NY. It worked out, but Barbara was inclined to be nearer her family (who had a place in Wilton, CT), so we rented a house in nearby Westport. When the boiler there blew up, we moved to a rental in Weston.

             Barbara was so upbeat about life that just being around her roused my spirits immeasurably. At this time, although my law practice was still hectic, I no longer felt the pressure of the ‘70s when I was working on my two big books. Instead, I was writing essays on any subject that interested me, published in Legal Times each month (as noted in Chapter 14).

             About the time the 10th anniversary of the publication of Anatomy of a Merger neared, we were out jogging one day. In a burst of my new zeal to tackle any problem – I said, “You know, I think I’m ready now to revise Anatomy – bring it up to date on all the new developments during the past decade.”

           Barbara stopped jogging, looked fiercely at me, and said something like,  “You idiot! Just when you’ve got everything working fine, you’re talking about taking on a huge project that will screw everything up!”

           I grasped at once that her words were totally realistic, and I acted accordingly. Instead of the revised book, which would have been a monster task, I wrote a pamphlet about the decade’s changes – not too difficult to do – which received wide circulation. The woman saved me from the very hubris that she herself had aroused!

             The measured progress we were making toward an ultimate union was accelerated by two events in 1984. The first came on my 50th birthday. Without any involvement by me, Barbara and her sister moved the living room furniture in my apartment to the nearby quarters of my friend Bill Silver, brought in low tatami tables and a chef from Nippon restaurant, and turned it into a Japanese paradise for a memorable evening.

            The second 1984 event was a trip to Europe. Bill Silver and I, a couple of inveterate World War II buffs, went over to the Ardennes to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge. Then we joined Barbara for a few days in Paris, where I bought her a pair of sleek red leather pants. One sight of her in that outfit with the Eiffel Tower as backdrop clinched it for me.

           Barbara found a place for us to live together at 55 West 73rd Street – the first 2 floors of a townhouse co-op with six tenant-shareholders on the three floors above. Since neither of us had ever lived in a house like this, we worked out a deal to lease the premises with an option to buy the unit if we liked it.

            We finally got around to talking about marriage in the fall of ‘84.        I was all for it, but wasn’t in a hurry – I figured we could wait until the following June (“a popular month for marriage,” I argued), which would give me time to acclimate my sons to this change of life. But Barbara – a skilled student of negotiating leverage – refused to move into our new digs until we were married.

            A negotiation took place. If you want to know how it came out, just read the words of my dedication to her contained in the book Smart Negotiating:

           “To my wife, Barbara Fox, a world class negotiator. In fact, to this day, I still don’t know whether she was bluffing on the “now or never” position she took seven years ago over the issue of whether our wedding would be in January or in June. But if it was a bluff, I wasn’t willing to call it – which is surely one of the smartest negotiating decisions I’ve made in my life.”

           In reflecting on our courtship, I realize that my darling Barbara played me like a Stradivarius. She knew just how to handle her man – not exerting overt pressure but insuring enough good stuff came my way that I found myself inexorably drawn toward this delightful coupling.

             We had a small private wedding ceremony for family and a few close friends in a lovely suite at the Carlyle Hotel in NYC. Then we hosted a large reception back in our new (not yet furnished) townhouse apartment. After a honeymoon on St. Martin, we held a second reception in the apartment for other friends.

            We were married by a New York judge, Mike Dontzin. Both of us remember his reading from “On Marriage” by Kahlil Gibran, which goes as follows:

 “You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.

Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

“Love one another, but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone

though they quiver with the same music.

“Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.”

             We thought at the time that this was an exquisite way to put the matter and perfectly epitomized our personalities. We’ve been following that advice to splendid effect ever since.

             During the ceremony, I gushed about my wonderful wife-to-be and the special knack she had for handling me, which I illustrated by telling this story. At the last minute the prior Christmas Eve, I decided we ought to have a tree. So we went to a place where a few remaining evergreens were for sale. We picked out the best one, and I asked the attendant for one of those metal stands on which to mount the tree trunk. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’re all sold out of those.” I grimaced. “Well, how will I be able to make it stand up straight?” He thought for a minute and then suggested some two-by-four planks of wood he had, which could be sawed and hammered into a makeshift stand.

            I quickly realized, however, that as straightforward as it might have seemed to him, this task went well beyond my limited carpentry skills. “I can’t do that,” I confessed to Barbara sheepishly. Seeing the forlorn look on my face, she smiled, patted my cheek, and offered this condolence: “That’s all right – he can’t do a merger!”  And that, I told the wedding guests, was the moment I knew that only insanity could prevent me from marrying this woman.

            There was a grand piano in the suite, and after the service, I played and sang in Barbara’s honor two of our favorites – Two for the Road and Just the Way You Are. We toasted each other and the guests with caviar and champagne and were then transported back to the house for our reception, arriving five minutes before the first wedding guests.

 * * *

             On January 12, 2020, Barbara and I celebrated our 35th wedding anniversary. A lot has gone on in our lives since our marriage – most of it positive, such as the successful growth of Barbara’s business (detailed later in this chapter), and some distressing, as in the loss of our parents. I believe it’s safe to say that for each of us, this marriage has formed the bedrock of our lives, the fulfillment of our hopes and dreams. My task here is to give the reader some idea as to the countless contributions of my wonderful wife to our decades of happiness.

             A good place to start is acknowledging her central roles in the geography of our married life. For instance, those two bottom floors in the west side townhouse expanded over the years under Barbra’s stewardship into ownership of the entire building as we systematically bought out each of the six other shareholder/tenants. We spread out over the five floors – putting in a gym, and installing a huge, (but rarely-used) bathtub. My stuff resided everywhere. There was a lot of climbing and descending stairs, but we rationalized that this kept us in good physical shape. While I don’t recall the two of us spending any substantial reflective time in the garden, there was a lovely meditative quality to our own modest greenacre (and our cat frolicked there daily).

             It was a wonderful house to party in, and thanks to Barbara who was so skilled in putting these gatherings together, we enjoyed plenty of celebrations. There were a number of birthdays and anniversaries, including several marking other people’s occasions. A highlight was that remarkable 50th anniversary of my 6th grade graduating class (see Chapter 2). Each year we gave a party for the panelists (and their spouses) from my annual M&A seminars (see Chapter 13).

Some of these parties were quite large, spreading over the two lower floors and into the garden. Perhaps the biggest was the 60th birthday celebration Barbara threw for me in 1994. A friend of mine, visiting from the West Coast, came to the party, but claimed he never got to see me at the second floor spot where I was holding forth because the first floor (where he entered) was so packed with people.

             At the parties, Barbara handled everything. My principal contribution was musical. The second floor housed my Steinway B piano, a set of drums, a bass and a vibraphone – plus a lot of small rhythm instruments. We liked to get everyone singing and/or banging away on jazzy popular tunes.

             Weekends were a different matter. Unless we had a commitment in the city or elsewhere, we spent every weekend of the year at our home in Easton, CT. The circumstances of how we acquired this retreat have achieved legend status in our family.

             After a search in that general Westport area of Fairfield County, we came up with this odd coupling of a house in the nearby town of Easton – an 18th century structure, which had been taken down to the rafters and fireplace by the owner, who then proceeded to engraft a singularly-shaped modern edifice on top of them (with the original rafters fully visible). The house was surrounded by six lovely acres of land in a semi-rural community that had no business center but was  home to several working farms.

             When she first saw it, Barbara especially liked the kookiness of the house and designated me to negotiate with the owner. He was proud of what he’d fashioned and was asking a price that, while not exorbitant, was clearly more than was justified by the then current market. I tried various negotiating strategies to get him down on price but to no avail.

             After some days of this, I said to Barbara, “I’m heading up to Easton today to give this one final try. What are my negotiating instructions?” Without hesitation, she replied in no uncertain terms: “COME-BACK-WITH-THAT-HOUSE!!”

             It was crystal clear. I drove up there, made a few more vain attempts to secure a better price, and finally – following instructions – capitulated and accepted a deal at his price. Although it was early in our marriage, there was little question who was calling the marital shots on anything significant.

             Next to deciding on wedlock, this purchase turned out to be the best negotiating decision of our lives. Sure, we overpaid somewhat, but we quickly forgot about that and just fell in love with the place. We’d never have gotten it if I hadn’t thrown in the towel on price. Both Barbara and           I have used this as a persuasive argument to our buyer-clients who get a case of chintzy cold feet at the last minute and are about to pass up something they prize – a useful way of convincing them to walk that extra mile.*

             We view our house in Easton as a retreat from the turmoil of New York City. We drive up in two cars – Barbara plus seven dogs in one car, me with one cat and our commuting possessions in the other. We seldom invite friends or even relatives to visit us there, and we haven’t tried to make new friends in the town of Easton – all our socializing takes place in NYC, while the Easton house remains our private preserve. It’s our go-to place on weekends year-round as long as we don’t have some conflict that keeps us in the city or we’re not away on a trip. In addition to weekends we stay up there for a week over July 4th, Labor Day and Christmas/New Year, which is very relaxing – we just wish the weekends were longer.

             I play a fine Yamaha piano there (plus we have a set of drums and a vibraphone); the surrounding area is a rural photographer’s dream; and Barbara has assigned a snug room to me for writing. I have regular tennis partners, singles and doubles, in the nearby towns of Weston and Westport. Barbara is in her glory here with her dogs running around the fenced-in fields, tending her gardens (both vegetable and floral), and shopping for food, clothes and other stuff in the nearby towns. She cooks an excellent meal for us every Saturday night, and tasty French Toast or scrumptious scrambled eggs for Sunday breakfast.

             Barbara takes lessons on our court from a local tennis pro – her backhand has become superb, and we often rally with each other. I can’t get any of my old fogy friends to venture onto our court because (unlike the Har-Tru they favor) it’s a hard surface that they claim hurts their knees.          I have an outdoor hot tub that I enjoy using (except in the rain or on too cold winter days) – taking a harmonica out there to play while soaking – but Barbara won’t have anything to do with it.

             Although we don’t often entertain in CT, our house was the scene of a wonderful outdoor 75th birthday celebration Barbara organized for me. Back in NYC, she has overseen many parties in our home and also in public spaces, such as for my 80th birthday, for Tom’s NYC wedding reception, and upon publication of several of my books.

             Once we entered the 21st century, Barbara was anxious to sell our West Side townhouse and move to the East Side. But we needed to remain a certain number of years to resolve a potential tax problem related to its co-op status. The day the period ended (about a dozen years ago), Barbara swung into action, located the 180 East 79th Street penthouse (with its wraparound terrace for the dogs), supervised a gut renovation, and presented me with the finished product.

             Our two city dwellings couldn’t have been more disparate residences. The townhouse provided us with plenty of room to spread out but ranged over five floors, and we spent a lot of time on the staircase; by contrast, the penthouse is rather small, although all on one floor. The penthouse and its terrace offer good urban landscape views in all directions, while the townhouse, although it had a nice garden, was very insular view-wise.

             Then there’s the issue of the West Side vs. the East Side. I’ve been a fan of both areas, but Barbara was delighted to evacuate the West Side townhouse (where she chafed at playing a janitorial role that I eschewed) and move over to the East Side, where she feels she belongs. It’s nearer to her family and work, and she doesn’t have to take care of the plumbing.

          Truth be told, although I complained about moving, the years on the stairs had taken their toll; and considering the probability of reduced mobility in the years ahead, I acquiesced. After all, I liked the new building, its location and terrace. The airy non-claustrophobic feeling of Barbra’s renovation suited me fine. My only concern was a lack of space for all my stuff. Barbara rectified this a few years later by purchasing a small apartment on the ground floor for me to use as an office. I commute each day to my office by elevator!

             Barbara took total charge of our move, which as usual she handled quite ably. I’ll pass along just one anecdote. In the midst of the move, I had an alumni meeting at Skadden one Saturday which was scheduled to last until late afternoon but ended early. I telephoned Barbara to say I’d be back before she expected me. I can still recall her chilling reply: “Take your time coming home.”

            I immediately hailed a taxi and raced to the townhouse. There, outside my home-office, was a giant garbage receptacle (a sort of moderate-sized dumpster), which now contained many of my most precious items, such as the notes from my Contracts class the first year in law school. I quickly interjected myself into the proceedings, demanded removal of the dumpster, attached over my office door some of that yellow tape the police use to seal off crime scenes together with a giant “No Admittance” sign, and managed to save a few items that now safely reside in a spacious storage facility I rent monthly.

             On a typical week, our Monday through Thursday meals in NYC usually include one or two dinners out with friends, one meal cooked by our beloved housekeeper Gloria, and fine take-out fare on the other nights. Most Fridays, we head up to CT and dine on a roasted or barbecued chicken purchase. She cooks up a treat on Saturday in the Easton kitchen she prefers to the smaller NYC version.  After driving back to the city Sunday night, we usually order in – often Chinese food or pasta.

             I think a word is in order here regarding our dogs. I swear that the subject of canines never came up in my conversations with Barbara prior to marriage, let alone being singled out in our pre-nuptial agreement. But in recent years, Barbara has fallen in love with the critters. At present we have six full-time dogs (and one cat), at least five of which sleep between us on our king-size bed. I’m relegated to a small sliver at one edge, which requires me to sleep on my side since there’s no room for a full body profile. On weekends, a golden retriever that we’re co-parenting with our niece Alexis joins the other six in the car with Barbara to drive up to CT.

            The practicalities of the matter are that I've got to live with this woman (who's otherwise flawless), so the only thing I’ll say about our animals is that they’re basically a decent bunch. I do my share of petting and awarding treats, I’ve managed to develop some promising relationships with several of them, and I genuinely mourn their inevitable passing.

             During our marriage, Barbara and I have taken a number of trips together, although these have diminished in recent years. In the old days, we visited England, France, Italy, Japan, Hong Kong, and various Caribbean resorts.        Our international trips since my retirement include South Africa, Italy, Paris, Mexico, Vancouver and the Caribbean. Domestically, we’ve hit Napa, Southern California, Hawaii, New Orleans, Taos/Santa Fe, Las Vegas, Little Rock, Rocky Mount NC, Charleston SC, Boston, Washington DC, Maine, Atlantic City and Princeton. We’ve skied out west in Montana, Colorado and Wyoming, but with the Deer Valley Rewa Resort in Park City, Utah as our favorite spot by far. I happen to think – and              I hope Barbara feels the same way, albeit missing her animals – that we’re at our best when away from the cares of NYC/Easton.

             Anyway, with all that real estate to our name and delightful travel junkets to look back on, when the time came to greet the new century at midnight, we were marooned in our car between Fairfield County destinations, exchanging hugs in a small parking area off the main road.

 * * *

             Career-wise, Barbara successfully built the residential business of Cross & Brown up to 60 brokers, as I previously mentioned. But as the decade of the ’80s was coming to a close, Met Life bought Cross & Brown, and corporate types replaced her mentors. The new relationship didn’t work out, and she was not unhappy to leave in 1988.

             Barbara had been spending a lot of time that year in North Carolina as her mother’s health declined.  Then, sadly, Anita Fox passed away. When Barbara returned to New York, I urged that she take a year off from work to refresh herself. But within a week – going stir crazy sitting around our house – she was back in gear with a new concept.

             Barbara reasoned that since everyone in her family owned businesses, it would be natural for her to have her own. It didn’t concern her that early 1989 was a terrible time in the Manhattan real estate market. Barbara was – and still is – a risk-taker. With some help from my ex-shipmate Jim Messing, she came up with a business plan for a new residential real estate brokerage firm of eight to ten people. Six brokers from Cross & Brown came along; and fortified by her own savings (plus modest financial help from her father and husband), Barbara opened the doors of Fox Residential Group in January 1989.

             Over the years since, Barbara has built her company into one of New York City’s finest boutique real estate brokerage firms with up to forty brokers. (It’s worth checking out her firm’s fine website, www.foxresidential.com.) She has become one of the most successful women  on the New York residential real estate scene.

             When asked a few years ago by an industry magazine what distinguished her from other successful women in her field, she replied: “Almost all the others are either first-class transactional brokers or top executives involved in firm management. What distinguishes me, I think, is that I try to excel at both of these pursuits. The firm I founded 27 years ago and actively manage today, Fox Residential Group, has grown from four to forty brokers, and I like to think of it as a successful extension of myself.”

             Then, when asked how her firm differs from other brokerage companies, she replied: “It’s what I call our customized concierge service. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying that other firms don’t treat their clients and customers well. It’s just that with us, it’s a passion. Right from the start, I knew this was what we needed to do to set us apart from the larger, more corporate firms. I’ve instilled in our brokers the determination to provide our buyers and sellers with solutions tailored to their individual needs, to whatever problem they might encounter throughout their transaction.”

             In addition to the success of her firm, Barbara has been a major force in the residential division of the Real Estate Board of New York (REBNY), the trade organization that oversees the industry. In addition to a term on the overall REBNY Board of Governors, she was a founding member of REBNY’S Residential Committee, a member of the Residential Board of Directors, and also of a number of other committees dealing with the education of brokers and the ethics of the profession. She has chaired for over a decade the REBNY Committee that plans and oversees the huge annual Residential Deal of the Year Charity and Awards Gala benefiting its Members-in-Need Fund.

             Barbara has received two of the highest honors her industry grants. One is the Henry Forster Award, the lifetime achievement award given to the most outstanding figure in residential real estate that year (1997). The other is the Kenneth R. Gerrety Humanitarian Award, given to REBNY members (commercial or residential) who provide exemplary service to their community. In Barbara’s case, it was for years of dedication to improving her industry through REBNY, as well as for her non-real estate extracurricular activities (notably her animal rescue work (described below).  The Gerrety award was presented before 2,000 attendees at REBNY’s annual banquet in 2015. Barbara was the only female in the group of six honored, and also the only honoree from the residential side of the real-estate business.

             Another noteworthy activity is Barbara’s animal rescue organization, WOOF DOG RESCUE, that she founded, runs and has been its principal funder for the past 15 years. Each year WOOF rescues up to 75 dogs and cats from being euthanized in the NYC shelter system.  Here’s what Barbara has to say about this.

             “A special feature of WOOF is that each animal is placed directly into a foster home to receive needed medical care, resocialization and training – and in many cases, love and security from the fear and anxiety to which these animals have been previously subjected. After rehab, WOOF finds them loving new homes.  Each animal we take has its own special needs. 

             “For example, Stevie, a precious young terrier mix, was with WOOF for over seven months, recovering from a nasty skin infection which had never been addressed before we took him into our care.  In addition to consulting all the New York City vets, we also contacted New Jersey and Long Island specialist vets to help Stevie recover. After many months and many relapses, Stevie is now doing incredibly well with the wonderful family that adopted him – but Woof is still helping the adopters work through his health issues. 

             “This kind of care requires many thousands of dollars – even for just this one dog – and most of them we later have one kind of problem or another. I’m proud of the fact that WOOF stands by each of the animals we rescue until they’re ready for prime time!”

 * * *

            I want to conclude this chapter on Barbara by enumerating some wonderful qualities of hers, plus a number of ways in which she endears herself to me.

 Here are the attributes:

•  Her outstanding qualities as a businessperson, entrepreneur, and leader of a commercial enterprise are awesome!

•  I’m also amazed by what she has done to benefit animals – not just those in our home but through her wonderful WOOF! Organization. The woman’s patience here is astounding.

•  Barbara has such a strong sense of family – always there for her kin, very much part of their lives, helpful, supportive, great with the kids.

•  Barbara is cool under fire – decisive, not afraid to act, dauntless in the face of adversity.

•  She looks great, takes good care of herself, is in fine shape, dresses well, and has boundless energy and enthusiasm.

•  With a terrific sense of humor, Barbara doesn’t just flash that million-dollar smile – she isn’t afraid to laugh out loud. So often we find ourselves laughing together at the same things.

•  She is a wonderful conversationalist in groups small or large. That includes talking, asking pertinent questions, and actually listening to others. While I wouldn’t say she’s humble, her considerable self-confidence is low-key, with no bluster or braggadocio.

•  She is consistent. There are few mixed messages emanating from her – you know where she stands.

•  She has good judgment that keeps her (and me) heading in the right direction.

•  She’s expert at handling our family’s interactions with tradespeople, displaying an easy camaraderie but taking a hard line when necessary. 

Here are the ways that she gets to me: 

• She’s my best friend – we love to be together, we laugh a lot, we confide in each other, she’s my supportive audience.

• She knows how to give me space (as Gibran advised at our wedding), which I need so badly at times.

• She’s great to travel with. We have such fun when the pressure is off. And she’s an irresistible dancer.

• She’s always in my corner – enjoys my writing, music and photography, gives me lots of positive impact, although not hesitant to speak up when she believes something of mine falls short.

• She handles her many business and social relationships with both men and women in flawless fashion.

• When she feels I can be helpful, she seeks out my judgment on matters or negotiating advice or writing facility.

• We share attitudes toward money, so it has never become a big issue between us.

•  She’s the best hostess for parties big and small.

•  I relish her Saturday night home-cooked meals.

•  (In the same vein as that My Fair Lady song, I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face), I adore the sound of Barbara’s voice.

 And that’s all I’m going to say right now about the love of my life!