Some of my fondest memories of childhood involve time spent with my dad. Saturday mornings were my favorite, because it meant running errands with him--to the bank, to the auto parts, a stop at Grandpa and Grandma’s, and maybe even lunch at Sutter’s Bakery & Restaurant.

As you can imagine, these times were special to me, because it meant one-on-one time with my father. During our drives to these errands, he often recounted stories of his childhood and teenage years, stories that soaked into my mind and helped to shape my imagination.

As a teenager and young adult, my life became busy with school, friends, work, and extracurriculars, and consequently, errands with my father were not as common. But there was one errand we still did together: honey runs.

You’ll search the internet and the dictionary in vain, if you try to find the term honey run. It’s a term my father coined, and it means an excuse to take a drive together, to talk together, to share ideas, and maybe, if we remember, to buy a jar of local honey.

Honey runs typically took place at night, after Dad returned home from work and we had dinner.

“You want to go on a honey run with me?” he asks.

“Yep,” I say, as I get up to put on my shoes.

We get into his Ford Ranger, a white Scottish Terrier positioned on the console between us, and drive to Gagetown, just northwest of the village, where the beekeeper lives.

I relish these times with my dad, especially the summer honey runs with their golden Michigan sunsets.

I roll my window down and put my arm out the door, the warm evening breeze gliding over my hand. Fields laden with tall, green corn stalks raise their proud heads in the afterglow of the setting sun.

As Dad drives, we talk about our day, what went well, what we hope not to repeat tomorrow. We comment on the latest political news, talk about things of the Lord, point out deer we can see in the distance, and discuss the latest family news from down state, Florida, Tennessee, and Indiana.

My favorite conversations during honey runs were those where we talked about the things of tomorrow. Dad talked about ideas he had and what he hoped for, but more often he asked me about my own. Ideas about college and career. Dreams of travel and experiences, of a wife and family.

Sometimes, sitting across from someone at a table or in a living room can make intimate conversations difficult. You’re looking at the other person’s face and analyzing their reactions to what you are saying. It wasn’t that way with honey runs.

On a honey run, you are sitting side-by-side, looking out the window. Your words are directed at each other, but your eyes look out at the fields and houses passing by. I have never been inside a confessional booth and never will, but I imagine that it is, in a way, a similar experience to a honey run, except that honey run conversations are about hopes, not sins.

Before either of us knows it, we are at the beekeeper’s home, where we pull into his driveway and visit the self-serve honey stand by the road. Dad pulls a jar of honey out and puts the money into the little lock box, and we begin our drive home.

On honey runs, driving home rarely meant going directly back to the house. Often, we would drive up and down streets in the village, where we talked about the town and its history, of memories we have there, of people we miss seeing sitting on their porches.

"I remember riding bikes with my friends down there when it was Fort's Store," Dad says. "We would buy as much candy as we could."

"Can you see what's playing at the Cass next week?" I ask.

Dad looks over his shoulder at the theatre's poster and reads the name off. I make a mental note to go see it.

Sometimes, we would drive down River Road, the lazy Cass River below, meandering its way to the west.

The distant sound of horse hooves can be heard in the distance. Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop. The dim and eerie glow of an Amish buggy’s lantern grows brighter, but no less eerie as the sound of the horse’s canter draws closer. The buggy glides by, its driver raising his hand in a friendly “good evening” salute.

Eventually, we turn on to Shabbona Road and make our way toward the little, white house on Lightning Hill, a warm glow coming from the kitchen window above the sink. We park in the driveway and wrap up our conversation.

“Thanks for letting me talk about these things,” I say to Dad.

“Thanks for talking to me about them,” he replies. “I always enjoy hearing what’s on your mind, and I’m always here for you to talk to.”
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Honey runs are a thing of the past now that I live away from my family, but I can’t help but think that the world might be a better place if more fathers took their children on honey runs of their own.

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With the sun casting its final rays of day on the Las Vegas skyline behind her, Rhoda sits at her dining room table reminiscing about her eclectic life of 91 years.

I first met Rhoda a couple of months ago at a get-together, where she mentioned that she was the originator of the famed magazine Seventeen.

What I knew of her story intrigued me, so I asked for an interview, which she kindly granted. The following is the story of Rhoda—a remarkable woman with an equally remarkable and distinctly American life.

The daughter of a Jewish immigrant father and an American mother, Rhoda Friedman was born and raised in Hackensack, New Jersey. Life in a small town was idyllic for her.

It was in 1939, however, that as a 15-year-old senior at Hackensack High School, tragedy struck her happy life. An explosion occurred at the local tire factory, where two men were killed, and her father was among the injured.

"My father was in a coma for nearly 5 months. Then I realized that he invested his money, but had very little savings. So, we had to turn our beautiful house into a two-family house. My mother had to sell all the things the pawn shop would buy.

“In the meantime, I was going to go to Wellesley [College]. We could never afford to go to Wellesley. This is the beginning of my life. I finally realized that I had to be an important part of the family.”

This realization took her to the guidance counselor at Hackensack High School, Ms. Bennet.

“I said, ‘Ms. Bennet, what do I do?’ She said, ‘We’ll get you a scholarship.’”

At that time, The Woman’s Club of New Jersey was looking for a female student to send to New York University. Ms. Bennet told her that the organization “would like someone to go to their school of business or the school of retailing…to a school a woman could find a career in”.

Rhoda remembers vividly the day she arrived to be interviewed by the Woman’s Club board and assembly. Upon her arrival, she found herself among several other girls. She would later find out that many of these girls were from prominent New Jersey families. Rhoda had a secret weapon, though: style.

“I was very crafty, so I made myself a very nice hat from the form of my mother’s hat, and added a brim, and a nice bow on it to match a black outfit I had that I wore to [synagogue] services. One of my friends loaned me a handkerchief, and one of my friends loaned me a handbag, and everyone wished me well.”

As she walked into the interview room, the ladies present turned their eyes to the stylish young woman from Hackensack.

“Where did you get that hat?” asked one of the interviewers.

“I made my hat,” came the reply.

“Don’t you buy hats?” another asked.

“I can’t afford to buy hats,” Rhoda replied.

She explained that she was in a unique situation for someone seeking a scholarship to the prestigious NYU. “I’m here because I need you, and maybe you’ll need me.”

Impressed and a bit taken aback by the confidence and directness of the young woman, the ladies invited her to lunch, saw to it that she arrived safely home, and the interview day was over.

Two days later, Rhoda was paged to Ms. Bennet’s office.

“Come right into my office, Rhoda!” she said, feigning displeasure. Then, with a wide grin, she spread her arms for a hug as she said, “You’re in!”

Rhoda’s entrance into New York University was a triumph, but her time there required hard work. She made money by working in her dormitory as a student matron, grading papers for professors, and other means. The college freshman also had an early taste of anti-Semitism at her new school.

Rhoda and her roommate became fast friends, but her roommate’s father, the president of a large railroad company, was not convinced sharing a room with a Jewish girl was a good idea. “[Her parents] came into my room and interviewed me—now that was being interviewed!” she said.

“The only people they had seen were the so-called ‘people with the horns’,” she said, referring to the oft repeated claim that Jews were demons in human flesh. Thankfully, their Jewish phobia soon melted away, and Rhoda became a friend.

In 1943, at the age of 19, Rhoda Friedman graduated and was awarded The Alumni Key, the honor bestowed upon the student with the best grades. She soon found out that her abilities and her mind were in high demand.

“I was invited to the chancellor’s house for lunch. At the lunch is the brightest student from med school, the brightest student from law school, the brightest student from education—you name the school, they picked the most outstanding student from there,” she said.

At the meeting were the “big whigs” from the university, businesses, and other sectors of society. “And then, out of the blue, is this big man with a stunning woman, who owned a store in Brooklyn. I had never been to Brooklyn!” she said. “And he owned a big department store I had never heard of. And they bid on you, and the money they bid went to the university!”

The “big man” was the owner of A.I Namm & Son Department Store, and he won the “intellectual auction”, beating out Hearn’s, Gimbels, and other big name department stores. He then offered Rhoda a sizable salary, one she couldn’t refuse; and Rhoda Friedman became the newest member of the Namms Department Store empire.

In the meantime, New York Mayor Fiorella H. La Guardia came calling. “Rhoda, I need you,” he said. “You got spirit, you got looks. I want you. Do you have nice warm clothes? You’re going riding in an open car with me. We’ll go to Brooklyn, go to the Bronx. We’re going to rallies for the men in service.” Mayor La Guardia took the wide-eyed 19-year-old to factories where she would give speeches—sales pitches for war bonds.

“I worked for Mayor La Guardia for about two years,” she said. “Then I get a call from Bert Nevins, and he sounds like La Guardia. I said, “Mayor, are you trying to pull something? What do you want from me now?” After assuring her it was not the former Mayor of New York, but Bert Nevins, one of the country’s publicity and marketing geniuses, he arranged to meet Rhoda at The Plaza Hotel.

“In walks a pudgy, little guy smoking a cigar. He says, ‘You’re hired.’” Unaware of what she had just been hired to do, Rhoda questioned him. Nevins wanted a woman who was aware of current Hollywood fashions and trends who could make the fashion industry known. Rhoda was introduced to major fashion, business, and other female contacts in her new position as Bert Nevins’ “new icon”.

On one fateful day, Nevins informed Rhoda they would be going to a very important meeting. “ It’s one of the biggest publishers in the world,” he said. “Behave yourself. Don’t come up with any big ideas. Just sit there. I’ve gotta figure out what it is they want.”

At 9 a.m. on the day of the meeting, Rhoda walked into the board room, briefcase in hand. Inside the case was a phone book, which she sat on to make her small frame look taller. The meeting soon began and the chairman informed those in attendance that they were all in trouble with their client.

Soon, a tall man entered the room. Rhoda would later learn that his name was Walter Annenberg, and he was not a happy client. His publications, which were primarily concerned with the lives of movie stars, were not doing well.

“How are we going to increase circulation? How?” he asked angrily.

The 22-year-old raised her hand, defying her boss’ orders. “First of all, all your publication names are too much alike,” she said.

“What?!” he snapped.

“Secondly,” she continued, “I was reading in The New York Times last night–”

She was cut off by the angry voice of the publishing giant. “I don’t care who reads what in The New York Times!”

“Sir, please,” she said. “I was reading last night, and I found out in a small squib that Booth Tarkington’s book, "Seventeen", is public domain today; and I advise us to call the legal department and pick it up right now. You can take Stardust magazine or any other magazine you have, and turn it into a whole new world for people that are teenagers.”

“In my office!” he shouted at her.

Once inside the office, he calmed down. “Tell me about this idea you have,” he said.

“You know,” began Rhoda, “I’ve had an idea for a long time, and today it’s right.”

“Tell me how this should be developed,” the tycoon said. “We’ll meet, we’ll work it out. You just gave birth to a magazine.”

The year was 1944. A year or so after that, one of the country’s biggest manufacturers of clothes came to Rhoda with an offer she couldn’t refuse. She would have a radio show, and other resources available to her by which she would reach the American teenager.

Rhoda worked for the company, hosting “The Teen Timer’s Club” on The Bluet Network, while continuing to work with Walter Annenberg as a contractor.

You won’t find much when you Google Rhoda’s name. She was largely a behind-the-scenes component of the entities she worked for. “I sold ideas for money,” she said, referring to the fact that her name never appeared on the mastheads or histories of Seventeen.

In 1947, Rhoda married her husband, Ray—a union that lasted until his death 65 years later. The couple had two daughters who are highly respected in their fields.

Today, Rhoda is an active nonagenarian. When she’s not walking her dog, attending Bible study, or helping around her synagogue, you can find her working with the Anti-Defamation League, serving on the properties committee of her community, or helping a friend in need.
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“Each day,” she said, “I try to find something good to appreciate and look forward to.”

(Originally published November 3, 2014)