The undefeated Jeep Wrangler has reigned for many years now (over a decade), once the Bronco left the scene some 25 years ago. Best known, unfortunately, for the vehicle in which O.J. Simpson outran the police in 1994, this iconic off-road truck is one its way back.

It appears that we have the “Bronco Underground” to thank for continuing to stick to their vow to bring the Bronco back. Working weekends on their own time, the crew never let up. In their free time, without any approval from the bosses at Ford, the group sketched and modeled a new and better Bronco than the 1960s original. They wrote business plans and begged for space in factories, all in an effort to convince management the Bronco could succeed once again.

This was no small undertaking in the wake of recessions, fluctuating fuel prices and changes in consumer taste. No question more and more Jeep Wrangler’s were flying out of the dealership, as other retro SUV’s took over. It remained difficult to convince the higher ups at Ford that taking a chance on somewhat of a niche vehicle could be a win.

As all big business operates, Ford needed to have a ‘broader’ strategy.’ This strategy could include putting the spotlight on other offerings, for instance, the F-150 truck.

Keeping at it on their own time, the Bronco Underground kept insistent. Introduced on July 13, the ‘new’ Bronco has a removable roof and doors, bucking horse emblem on its tailgate, a dashboard with mounts for cameras/phones, and rubberized floors with drain holes so the sure-to-be muddy interior can be cleaned.

Ford stopped production of the Bronco in 1996 and in 1999, the Underground group came up with a secret program to begin again. They planned to design a new, less boxy design. The program, led by Moray Callum in the Dearborn, Michigan studios, was code-named U260 (U for Utility and 2 for two-door, and 60 from a separate code name T6 for Ford’s small Ranger pickup).

The mechanical underpinnings were provided from the Ranger, to keep the costs down. The team developed both two-and-four-door versions, aiming the Bronco at younger buyers, keeping low pricing and minimalist design in mind. Painting the two-door version red, the team asked Jac Nassar to give it a look. He liked it immediately. The next step was introducing the idea to potential buyers.

Their marketing efforts were delayed due to the faulty Firestone tires episode. A massive recall and congressional investigation followed, leading to lawsuits and losses. Nassar was fired, budgets came under pressure and Ford killed the program.

All involved in the project were deeply disappointed. At that time then chief designer J. Mays stepped in and took another shot at the project. He asked his styling studio to design the Bronco of their dreams. Then in 2004, Ford introduced the silver Bronco concept at the Detroit Auto Show. It was a hit. Ford’s response to the popular Hummer, the proposed Bronco, however, had no platform to be built on. As a concept car, it had no real future. What its introduction confirmed, however, was that there was a market for a new Bronco.

What some execs at Ford knew, as did the Underground, though was that there was plenty of people out there who wanted a ‘true sport-utility vehicle.’ In 2006, designer Melvin Betancourt reworked the concept Bronco to fit the underpinnings of the Ranger sold overseas. He was successful in getting a Ford factory in South Africa making the Ranger to build a new Bronco on their assembly line. That new Bronco would be shipped to the U.S. Ford wasn’t buying it. Then came the 2009 recession, as big auto manufacturers came close to bankruptcy. All discussion about any new Bronco was forbidden.

The next bit of bad luck came when Ford realized it had to use the name Bronco or it would lose it. They came up with the idea to put the emblem on the Expedition to keep the trademark alive.

In 2015, Ford decided to bring back the Ranger pickup to America, GM small truck sales ramped up and new small trucks were being designed and sold. The next hurtle involved the need for another vehicle to be built beside the Ranger so that using the plant could be justified. Bingo, back came the idea of the Bronco.

After intensive consumer research, Ford wanted to make sure the name Bronco didn’t have a bad rap after the O.J. fiasco. Luckily, the subjects most associated with the word “Bronco” were wild and free. The name “Bronco” would stay.
Ford planned a big debut, but with the COVID pandemic decided instead to make it a televised debut on July 13.

The director of advanced product marketing, Mark Grueber kept pushing for the Bronco, when ‘so many people doubted’ them. Now the ‘new’ Bronco is a reality and will be in dealerships in Spring 2021. Two and four door models and the Bronco Sport will be available.

As all icons, the Bronco is a vehicle all its own. The acronym GOAT (Go over any terrain), has stuck all these years, and 200 songs have been written about the Bronco. Who says the days of loving an automobile are over?

Olivia de Havilland, the last surviving star of Hollywood’s Golden Age of the 1930s and ‘40s, passed away over the weekend at the age of 104. Most of the headlines went something like this one in the New York Times:

“Olivia de Havilland, a Star of Gone With the Wind, Dies at 104”

If your knowledge of de Havilland’s work begins and ends with that four-hour Civil War epic, it’s your loss. As I found out for myself when I saw her in 1949’s “The Heiress,” her second Oscar-winning role, opposite Montgomery Clift.

De Havilland made dozens of films in her distinguished career and rocked the Hollywood studio system in the process. With her passing, Old Hollywood finally passes into the history books.

It’s ironic that in what are probably her best-known films, GWTW and The Heiress, she plays a plain, dowdy character. The woman was drop-dead gorgeous, and a fashion icon no less. Check out some of her glam publicity shots above and below. Check out the shot of her with legs draped over the chair: Who else could make smoking a cig and drinking a beer look this classy?

I had always thought that she was way, way too pretty to play the character of Melanie Wilkes in GWTW. Even styled as she obviously was to be “dressed down.”  The novel describes her character as hopelessly plain, mousy and unfashionable. But she was juxtaposed against Vivien Leigh’s mesmerizing Scarlett O’Hara, and no one can compete with that.

Still, de Havilland more than held her own and immortalized her reserved, “steel magnolia” character in the process. You could even argue that she was the real heroine of GWTW. And to think she was just 23 when she performed the role. She earned her first Oscar nomination, for Best Supporting Actress, but lost to the groundbreaking Hattie McDaniel from the same film.

Awhile back I caught “The Heiress” on Turner Classic, a film she made about a decade after GWTW, in which she also plays a Civil War-era Plain Jane. In this film, she is much more “uglied up” by the stylists.  Still, her radiance shines through as she grapples with a tour-de-force of hope, love, romance, and eventually heartache and bitterness. Watching her carry out her revenge on Clift’s scheming character was one of the most gratifying film climaxes I’ve seen.

I realized that instead of watching Gone With the Wind for about the 25th time, I probably should have been watching de Havilland’s catalogue of roles instead. Like undoubtedly many others born decades after Margaret Mitchell’s classic came to the silver screen, I had always defined her as Melanie and tucked her away in that little box.

If you ever get the chance to see The Heiress on TCM or somewhere else, you won’t regret it. I really hope one of those classic-movie channels does a retrospective tribute to de Havilland in the coming weeks. I want to see her in the role of the spellbinding beauty that she was.

Olivia, you were a class act. Rest in peace.

Planted in fear. Your roots now buried deep with years of toxic absorption. There has been growth because that is what happens with time. On the surface you have sprouted. You have expanded your branches and have formed leaves. But below the surface your roots multiple in search for something new.

The uptake of dysfunction and pain over the years has created deficiencies. The trunk of your existence is weathered. Your leaves left unpruned now bear weight on your branches. The tree needs to be stripped bare to see and appreciate the sacrifices it took to survive. To uncover the beauty in its imperfections.

The fear kept you small. It stole your energy. That same energy that was meant for your branches to stretch to new heights. Upward in strength as you reach for the sun, shining in your light. The flow that keeps you nourished on cloudy days. The flow that keeps you hydrated during a drought.

But what if you were to dig out you roots and replant them? What would that look like to you? And in this process you learn healthy ways for your roots to reach new depths allowing your soul to feel anchored. The replanted roots now covered and protected by radical love and acceptance. Roots that thrive with nutrients of self-love and healing. Abundant rays of gratitude shine upon you. And consistent watering from people that fully support you.

Fear kept you surviving. And sometimes turning turbulent weather survival is what it takes. And that is okay. But you are meant for more than survival. You are vital. You are life. You are an essential part of this ecosystem of humanity. Do not minimize the importance, power, and gifts that are ingrained in the inner barks of your soul.

As you grow new leaves, you are able to let go of the ones that no longer serve you. You do not need to hide. You do not need to pretend. Let the parts of your soul you kept from this world be exposed.

We lost our dear friend Bill on July 3rd. There were no goodbyes or farewells. He died peacefully in his sleep without warning. Unexpectedly. Shocking news all around.

We all hope to go that way, just go to sleep. No illness, hospitals, pain, suffering. But it takes a toll on those left behind.

He leaves a huge hole in our hearts that will never truly mend.

Perhaps I should start where our story began so you can understand why his loss is so unbearable to process.

We met on the bleachers of a baseball diamond in the spring of 1997. Our boys were on the same team. Both were in seventh grade.

Bill, Elizabeth and their son, Brian, had relocated to the northwest suburbs of Chicago from Boston. We had relocated from Atlanta.

Not knowing a soul in town, we became fast friends. Spring ball turned into fall ball and our families grew inseparable. Often we would go out for a meal after a game with Elizabeth’s parents in tow. One year we had the bright idea to bring a thermos of booze to a game to see who could concoct the best Bloody Mary. Don’t judge, fall ball was very laid back and no one noticed.

Bill and my husband played golf together for years every Saturday and whenever else they could sneak away.

Brian and our son Matt became lifelong friends and traveled to Europe together after graduating from college. They served as “Best Man” at each other’s weddings.

Now this is where it gets really interesting.

After our daughter Lena graduated from college, she began to date Brian. I am not making this up. She had known him since she was in fifth grade. They dated for six years and got married in 2014. Now our families are connected through friendship and marriage.

We began to celebrate holidays together. St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, Memorial Day, their legendary 4th of July Lobster Fest which was the party we looked forward to all year.

Labor Day, Thanksgiving, New Years (until we got too old to drive that late.) Graduations, milestones, birthdays.

For my husband’s sixtieth birthday, we all ventured to Alabama with their golf foursome to play the Robert Trent Jones courses in Birmingham, Montgomery and Mobile. While they golfed, Elizabeth and I explored historic sights, the Mardi Gras Museum and learned about Azalea Maids.

For my sixtieth, a big surprise, my husband rented a home in Saugatuck, Michigan for a long weekend with “the people.”  Thankfully, Bill suggested we all go to bed once the War Speeches commenced.

For Elizabeth’s sixtieth and Bill’s seventieth, we stayed in a La Jolla, California rental home for a long weekend of golf, lavish family meals on the patio with cake, wine and photo bombs.

It wasn’t all shits and giggles. Life never is. We lost our mothers, fathers, brothers, a sister, an aunt and a brother-in-law. Serious illness, job loss. Those moments that bring friends closer together just to survive and help you stay afloat.

A native of Rhode Island, Bill loved the New England Patriots, Boston Red Sox and later the Chicago Cubs. A lover of music, the theater, long walks, overnights in Chicago hotels and exploring quaint shops.

P.O.S.H. on State Street was a favorite and at the end of the evening, a stop at Eddie V’s for live music, dessert and a nightcap.

He designed a wine cellar in their home and carefully curated each bottle. I believe his collection numbers in the thousands. His knowledge of wine was envious.

He would peruse the shelves before each party and select just the right wines to accompany the meal. Bill always ordered the wine when dining out and brought the wine to our home when we hosted. His choice was always better than any sommelier in town.

As Director of Finance for Motorola, Bill traveled to five continents for both business and pleasure. Thailand and Italy were his favorites. Always a true Ambassador to every country he visited, he would make friendships with everyone from the CEO to the shoe shine attendant. He treated both equally. In fact, I believe he would treat the shoe shine attendant just a tad more respectfully. That was Bill.

Often on his worldly adventures he would find a subtle, cultural treasure and bring one back for me. He’d arrive at our home with a box under his arm wearing that mischievous smile. He would tell the story of this gift, how he found it, who he was with, what each country does with this and why he thought I would enjoy it.

My collection varies from a floral syrup pitcher from Poland. A hollow gourd and metal spoon for drinking mate tea from Argentina. A delicate, white soup bowl with a cherub lid from Rome and a pink and gold carnival mask from Venice. Our favorite, hands down, is the quaich from Scotland. It’s a small, decorative two-handled cup that we would all drink from every time we got together to commence the party.

I know. Isn’t Bill thoughtful? Who does this?

Bill was so humble. Never bragged about his success or the trimmings that accompanied it. He was overly generous to his extended family but never spoke a word. Mr. Anonymous. He preferred it that way. He was never negative or spoke unfavorably about anyone. I don’t believe he ever frowned.

He had a wicked sense of humor with that New England accent and eyes that genuinely smiled. He was always a gentleman. I could never swear in front of Bill because I didn’t want him to think poorly of me. He had that effect on people.

You wanted to be better around Bill.

Bill was the life of the party at our gatherings. Always a good sport, he would make Peep bunny-Twinkie race cars at Easter, try on funny hats in an antique shop in Bloomington, sport cat-eye giant glasses and if the mood hit him, his paper party hat from a Christmas cracker.

When Bill and Elizabeth traveled in the winter to warmer climates, they would usually stay on a golf course. Bill would sneak out in the evening and play a few holes in his back yard. We named this “Illegal Golf.” It morphed into “Bill Phelps Golf,” and finally, “Opportunity Golf.”

Try it sometime. Bill would love that.

This 4th of July weekend was going to be big.

Brian and Lena would be coming out from Chicago on July 3rd for the holiday weekend. They hadn’t seen each other since January. COVID-19 stepped in and they took extra caution because Lena is pregnant with a baby girl. Bill’s first granddaughter.

He was more excited than anyone to become a grandfather in August, less than two months away.

I’m confident Bill was just plain giddy Thursday night. He would have the bellini glasses set out, the wines carefully chosen for our subdued Lobster Fest on the 4th. His flag shorts would have been cleaned and pressed, the bocce court mowed and ready for our tournament.

The grass was left high because Lena loved to walk on it in her bare feet. He did that for her since there is not a lot of lush grass in the city. He went to bed all smiles and ready to begin a weekend of family celebrations.

He would wake up Friday morning ready to welcome Brian and Lena with gracious open arms. Always a gift-giver, he had a Swarovski stork to give them for the baby’s nursery.

But fate stepped in and he didn’t make it through the night.

What hurts me more than anything is he never got a chance to meet his granddaughter.

He didn’t get to know her, but she WILL know him.

We will tell tall tales of Bill throughout her life. He will be remembered in photographs, memories, stories, laughter and a few tears now and then. A place will always be set at the table for him to join us. We will toast him. He will be there.

A guardian angel is a gift, but for all of you I wish he could have waited a lot longer before he reported for duty.

Mary Ellen Vehlow

We all wish we could have had Bill around for many years to come. Now it’s up to us to honor him, celebrate him and be thankful we had him for as long as we did.

Not everyone gets a Bill.

Aren’t we the lucky ones.

In his obituary, Elizabeth wrote, “Bill was loved by all who knew him, and he will be sorely missed.”

Indeed he will.

Enjoy your long nap Bill. You earned it.

With love, always.

I am not a religious person.

The last time I set foot in a church was pre-COVID at the request of my 8 year old foster daughter. The time before that was a decade ago if not more. To be honest it made my skin crawl. I felt walled in. I sat in the pew and fidgeted.  I grimaced during the “shake hands with your neighbor” portion of the service. (Again, pre-COVID, when we didn’t know handshakes were actually deadly.)

I read the church bulletin and counted how many of each letters there were in the entire thing, over and over through the duration of the service. I was itching to get out of there and bitter that I was back in a church.

This wasn’t even a traditional church. It was a fairly liberal and unorthodox “spiritual center.” They played folk music as the sermon commenced and the believers dispersed to have donuts, coffee and small talk in the recreation room. (I don’t eat donuts, despise small talk and coffee makes my stomach turn if I have more than a cup a day. I am 75% convinced my daughter keeps asking to go back just for the donuts.)

I associate church with judgement and deep shame. I was told repeatedly throughout my adolescence that I was unworthy, dirty, broken and wrong by church-going people from the various Baptist/Radical evangelical/Traditional Christian/whatever churches my family frequented who felt my validity and existence as a queer person was up for debate. So I stopped going, because fuck that.

But more and more as we journey down this road of foster care I feel the need to believe in something. We have entered this world where broken is the norm. Where parents discard their children. Where abandoned children come to my home hurting and angry. Where we turn our lives upside down again and again for the sake of giving a child a safe place for a season when everyone else has said no.

This journey is breaking me down. I am realizing with every loss that it’s not about me or my infertile body. It’s not about my broken heart. It’s not about my marriage or our deep, delirious desire to have a forever family. We bring these kids into our home because someone has to. Every child deserves love, routine, stability, a hug and kiss goodnight and someone who gives a shit about their future. I think we all know this.

But it’s hard to keep that in mind when you are in the thick of it –  with all the hope and raw emotion and paperwork and therapy appointments and late nights and early mornings and special needs and stupid questions by those who don’t get it and hyper vigilance in your own mind and body because you don’t know what is going to happen next in your own home, life, future, etc – without assurance that this will be WORTH IT, in the end. I feel like I am losing my mind most days.

Hence, the need to believe in something.

The seasons change so quickly when you are in this world of foster care that it’s a little disorienting and you start to wonder where exactly things will end up, does anyone have a plan here? It’s maddening.

The concept of seasons has become comforting to me as we move kids in and out, as we say yes, as we search, as we grow, as we endure, as we rest (?? We don’t really rest to be honest.)

I am not a religious person (and I am more familiar with the Byrds Turn! Turn! Turn version of this sentiment) but this verse has always resonated with me.

Ecclesiastes 3:
There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:
2     a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3     a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
4     a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5     a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6     a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7     a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8     a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.
When I looked that passage up to copy it in I actually read down a few more verses and didn’t even realize how spot on the rest of it is. I am skeptical of “god” in the traditional sense but this speaks to me, god aside. Swap in Universe for “Old man in the sky” and I can get behind it.
What do workers gain from their toil? 10 I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. 11 He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet[a] no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. 12 I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. 13 That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil.

Satisfaction in the toil. That about sums up foster care right there.

Our family is in such season of mourning right now. I feel numb inside. I am grieving the baby and all the hope she represented for us. I feel as if I move in slow motion as I care for these two kids who are off to another adoptive home in mere months. I am angry. I am worried for my long-term kids with their angst and special needs and hurts. I am frustrated. It’s hard to find hope.

The small moments help with that if I can find them. We took our older kids to the beach this weekend while the younger girls visited their adoptive home, We joked around, we roughhoused and played, we talked, we had fun. There was a lightness in our interactions that I haven’t felt in awhile and it gave me a bit of hope. Our season of happiness, of healing, of laughter is coming. We have had it before and we will have it again, But first we have to ride this wave of grief, find satisfaction in the work left to be done and trust we will make it out to the other side. I don’t know what the future holds or if there is any grand plan or what that could even entail. But I can find satisfaction in the work in front of me right now and continue on for these kids.