From Publishers Weekly
Schultz (Life Happens) gives a frank and adoring account of standing by her man, Sherrod Brown, in his run for U.S. Senate from Ohio. Ashtabula-bred Schultz and Democratic Congressman Brown, both middle-aged, longtime divorced single parents, married in 2004, and by the middle of the next year had decided he would quit his congressional seat and oppose two-term Republican Sen. Mike DeWine. While a supportive and loving wife, Schultz is also a feminist, devoted to her work as a journalist (she won the Pulitzer Prize in 2005); she reluctantly gave in to the pressure to take a sabbatical from her Cleveland Plain Dealer column during the course of the campaign. However, she became a valuable tool to her husband's success, from forcing his handlers to give the exhausted candidate time to recoup to trotting out her working-class family's hard-luck story when convenient. There are many funny moments (Brown was criticized for his unruly curls and his cheap suits), and DeWine's negative ads (led by Republican strategist Karl Rove) prompted Brown's team, in Hillary Clinton's words, to deck him with an ad of its own. (Schultz's own newspaper didn't endorse Brown.) Eventually, he won, and Schultz could happily return to her column. Her diary is upbeat, sometimes overly but affably composed. (July)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
From Booklist
In 2005, when her husband, Congressman Sherrod Brown, announced his intention to run for the U.S. Senate, Schultz, columnist for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, suddenly went from Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and commentator to relative obscurity as a politician's wife. When Brown announced his campaign—and attempt to be the first Democrat elected to the Senate from Ohio in 14 years—she was momentarily at a loss about what it would mean for her as she listened to criticism about her decision to keep her job and her name. Finally, on leave from her job as columnist, she settled into observing the campaign from the perspective of a political wife and writing about the experience of a relatively new marriage weathering a campaign. Schultz recounts the stresses and tensions of the campaign: a fund-raiser scheduled on their second anniversary, political operatives rifling through the family's garbage, coping with negative press and her husband's reactions, concerns that her presence would be viewed as her paper's endorsement of Brown's candidacy. A revealing and amusing look at campaigns from a wife's perspective. Bush, Vanessa
Book Description
The first time I heard it, I laughed.
Oh, come on, I thought. He didn’t just say that.
We were at a restaurant in southern Ohio, where a hundred or so Democrats and a handful of young campaign workers had gathered to hear my husband, Sherrod Brown, announce for the seventh time in two days why he was running for the United States Senate.
The party chairman of the county stood up at the lectern and in a loud, booming voice, introduced “Congressman Sherrod Brown–and his lovely wife.”
By Week 40 of the campaign, I had been introduced that way nearly a hundred times. I stopped counting once we hit the 50 marker. I knew I was not the point at these gatherings, and I was so proud of the man who was.
Also, I realized I was getting cranky about something I could not change. If I couldn’t rely on a sense of humor, I was in for one long year on the campaign trail.
Writing with her trademark warmth, wit, and common sense, Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Connie Schultz reveals the rigors, adrenaline joys, and absolute madness of a new marriage at midlife and campaigning with her husband, now the junior senator from Ohio. She describes the chain of events leading up to Sherrod’s decision to campaign for Senate (he would not run without his wife’s unequivocal support) in a state where no Democrat had won statewide office for twelve years. She writes about the moment her friends in the press became not so friendly; the constant campaign demands on her marriage and family life; a personal tragedy that came out of the blue. She gives us a candid behind-the-scenes look at the often ludicrous trials and tribulations of being an opinionated columnist, a political wife, and a newly married woman in her forties, and the rigors of political life: audacious bloggers, ruthless adversaries, campaign fatigue, political divas, the no-small-planes agreement, and staffers young enough to be her children suddenly directing her and her husband’s every move.
Filled with eye-opening revelations about the election process, . . . and His Lovely Wife illuminates through one woman’s story a marriage, our political system, our working lives, and our nation. Connie Schultz is outspoken, passionate, and very public about her opinions–in other words, every political consultant’s nightmare, and every reader’s dream.
Oh, come on, I thought. He didn’t just say that.
We were at a restaurant in southern Ohio, where a hundred or so Democrats and a handful of young campaign workers had gathered to hear my husband, Sherrod Brown, announce for the seventh time in two days why he was running for the United States Senate.
The party chairman of the county stood up at the lectern and in a loud, booming voice, introduced “Congressman Sherrod Brown–and his lovely wife.”
By Week 40 of the campaign, I had been introduced that way nearly a hundred times. I stopped counting once we hit the 50 marker. I knew I was not the point at these gatherings, and I was so proud of the man who was.
Also, I realized I was getting cranky about something I could not change. If I couldn’t rely on a sense of humor, I was in for one long year on the campaign trail.
Writing with her trademark warmth, wit, and common sense, Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Connie Schultz reveals the rigors, adrenaline joys, and absolute madness of a new marriage at midlife and campaigning with her husband, now the junior senator from Ohio. She describes the chain of events leading up to Sherrod’s decision to campaign for Senate (he would not run without his wife’s unequivocal support) in a state where no Democrat had won statewide office for twelve years. She writes about the moment her friends in the press became not so friendly; the constant campaign demands on her marriage and family life; a personal tragedy that came out of the blue. She gives us a candid behind-the-scenes look at the often ludicrous trials and tribulations of being an opinionated columnist, a political wife, and a newly married woman in her forties, and the rigors of political life: audacious bloggers, ruthless adversaries, campaign fatigue, political divas, the no-small-planes agreement, and staffers young enough to be her children suddenly directing her and her husband’s every move.
Filled with eye-opening revelations about the election process, . . . and His Lovely Wife illuminates through one woman’s story a marriage, our political system, our working lives, and our nation. Connie Schultz is outspoken, passionate, and very public about her opinions–in other words, every political consultant’s nightmare, and every reader’s dream.
About the Author
Connie Schultz, a biweekly columnist for the Cleveland Plain Dealer/Creators Syndicate, won the Pulitzer Prize for Commentary in 2005. Her other awards include the Scripps-Howard National Journalism Award, the National Headliners Award, the James Batten Medal, and the Robert F. Kennedy Award for social-justice reporting. Her narrative series “The Burden of Innocence,” which chronicled the life of a man wrongly incarcerated for rape, was a Pulitzer Prize finalist. Connie Schultz is married to Ohio’s junior senator, Sherrod Brown, and has two children and two stepchildren.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Trash Talk
Two weeks after Sherrod decided to run for the Senate, I was hanging out at home with our dog, Gracie, when a white van pulled up in front of our house and slowed to a stop next to the bags of garbage piled at the end of our driveway.
It was trash day, and we were so new to this neighborhood that for a moment I thought maybe we’d moved to a place where they use vans instead of garbage trucks to pick up the trash. What did I know about the genteel far west side of Cleveland? I was fresh from two decades on the gritty east side, where no two homes looked alike and trash day meant dodging redesigned golf carts that zipped into the driveway and scooped up everything in sight faster than you could scream, “Wait, no, not the lawn furniture!”
This new neighborhood was way more sedate than that, if you didn’t count the roar of Weedwackers, leaf blowers, and ride ’em lawn mowers. Still, everything sure looked calm on our sapling-lined street. Everything matched, too, which is why for weeks Sherrod and I kept pulling into the wrong driveways when we came home from work. It felt like America as you might imagine it if nobody but the Pilgrims had been allowed to migrate.
My radar, though, kicked in when the two men in the van jumped out and I noticed that they were wearing suits. I don’t mean jumpsuits. I’m talking dress pants, suit coats, and ties. And each of them had just grabbed two bags of our garbage.
“Uh-oh, Gracie,” I said to our aging, half-deaf, nearly blind pug. “I think we’ve got a problem.”
Gracie had followed me from her bed under my desk to the CD player four steps away because she can never get enough of me, which really matters sometimes, like when you’ve just realized that two men in suits are trying to steal your trash and you suddenly feel very vulnerable, and very much alone.
The only reason I noticed them at all was that I was leaning over my CD player in front of the window to replay one of my favorite Bonnie Raitt songs, “Something to Talk About.” Normally, I wouldn’t feel the need to name the artist or the song, but if it weren’t for Bonnie Raitt I wouldn’t have been in front of the window. Even now, I feel a surge of gratitude toward Bonnie just thinking of how she helped me catch in the act two men in suits trying to steal our trash.
I’m repeating myself, I know, what with the men and the suits and the trash and all, but really, the first time you see something like that out your front window and not in a movie theater you feel the need to say it a few times to let it sink in.
“Gracie,” I yelled, “those two men in suits are trying to steal our trash!” I ran to the front door and threw it open.
Even with Gracie’s considerable disabilities, she could grasp the seriousness of the situation, probably because I started screaming, and I’ve been told, sometimes not so nicely, that I have a voice that carries.
“Hey! Hey! Drop that trash! Drop that trash!”
On cue, Gracie started barking so hard only one of her paws was touching the ground. That got their attention. The men in suits took one look at me and the beast, dropped the bags, ran to the white van, and tore off.
“You’re kidding,” Sherrod said when I finally reached him after calling his cell phone, his BlackBerry, his desk phone, and his scheduler.
“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”
“Oh, my God.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you get their license?”
“What?”
“Their license plate number? Did you get it?”
I wanted to say, “Oh, sure, I whipped out the binoculars we don’t own, focused the infrared ray we also don’t have, and nailed the suckers.”
Instead, I started to cry.
“Who would do this to us?” I blubbered. “Who would care about our trash?”
Sherrod hesitated, then sighed.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “Welcome to the campaign.”
I was the last person who wanted Sherrod to run for the Senate.
No kidding. Dead last.
Sometimes, when I was in Washington, I felt the need to explain that I am not the kind of political wife whose life revolves around her husband’s career, and usually the person on the receiving end of this information would look at me as if I’d just admitted I needed the Fork of Shame in a restaurant where everyone else was using chopsticks. This was when Sherrod was a congressman. When you are a woman married to an elected official in Washington you are always, first and foremost, a political wife, and you are expected to toe the company line in a town where the commerce is power and politics. In such a world, the standard public version of the political wife is sleek, silent, and supportive, as seen and unheard as a Victorian child.
So I had a problem. My voice carries, remember? I’ve also spent all of my adult life as a feminist and a journalist, most recently as a newspaper columnist, sounding off, speaking my mind, giving my opinions without waiting to be asked. I had been getting all kinds of incentives to draw attention to myself: a salary, health care benefits, my own mug shot at the top of the page twice a week. The thing is, if I can’t get others to notice me, they’ll never pay attention to what and who I care about, like hourly workers’ right to a living wage, innocent men holed up in prison, a law that requires every man to own at least one denim shirt. Okay, I made up that last one, but I can dream can’t I?
I don’t mean to suggest that a woman who is a feminist and a columnist accustomed to lugging around her own megaphone can’t fall in love with a congressman, and even marry him. In fact, I’m living proof that this is exactly what she can do, although an awful lot of people like to point out that we’re not your typical combo platter. They don’t mean to suggest we’re special. Most think we’re odd, if not overly optimistic. In any case, I’m a wife paid to give her opinion, so I’m your basic nightmare as a political wife, not to mention for any political consultant.
Not for Sherrod, though, which is one of the reasons I married him. He happens to love my opinions—most of them, anyway—and we tend to agree on most things, too. He is forever pushing me to speak my mind. He also shamelessly gushes on my behalf. Even total strangers tell me how proud he is of me. They know this because he often manages to work me into speeches about job-killing trade agreements and the doughnut hole in Medicare Part D. Now, that’s love.
When we married in April 2004, I knew that I was marrying a member of Congress, but I didn’t feel as if I was marrying a congressman. I fell in love with Sherrod, a smart, passionate, funny guy who claimed within weeks of meeting this longtime single mother that he knew he’d found the love of his life. The feeling was mutual, much to the shock of everyone I knew—especially me.
Like many women, I’d lived many lives by the time I met Sherrod. For eleven years I was a married, stay-at-home mom who wrote freelance stories at my kitchen table. Then, in the time it took me to say “But I want a career, too,” I became a single working mother, and I’d been doing that for another eleven years when Sherrod showed up. By then, I had figured out it was best to pave your own road to happiness, and mine took me to a place where, for the most part, I was fairly content.
I did have the occasional pang of loneliness. I recall a time when my daughter, Caitlin, who was nine at the time, couldn’t sleep. She asked if she could climb in with me. Now that she’s twenty, and I’m lucky if she’ll even make time for lunch with me, I’m so glad I never said no to those times when she believed just lying next to me would solve all her problems. She snuggled into bed with me that night, bringing our dog and two black cats with her, and was sound asleep in the time it took her to tell me she loved me. A long time later, I was still awake, lying flat on my back and thinking, “There are five beating hearts in this bed, and not one of them is a man’s.”
My dear friend Bill Lubinger once asked me, “Is it hardest to be alone when you have bad news?”
“No,” I said, “it’s harder when you’ve got good news.”
Overall, though, life was hectic but rich. My son, Andy, was already grown and pursuing love and his doctorate degree at The Ohio State University. (If I don’t include “The” in the university’s name, we’ll be noting my mistake in the paperback edition of this book. The things academia obsesses over.) I took care of my daughter, tended my friends, and held my mother’s hand as she took her last breaths. From that moment on, I also tried to be a good daughter to my grieving father, a retired factory worker who had always hated his job and most of his life and now he was mad at God, too, for taking Mom away so soon.
“Why does she have to go?” he asked me outside her hospital room two days before she died. “It was supposed to be me.”
How do you answer a question like that? For five years and running since then, I’d been trying.
So, by the time Sherrod sent me his first e-mail asking where in the world The Plain Dealer had found me, I’d done plenty of living and was glad of the adventure. For the record, I’d never laid eyes on Sherrod before, but I had read his book, Congress from the Inside. I had never shaken his hand or interviewed him or included so much as a paraphrased quote from him in any story I wrote. If I had, I wouldn’t have gone out with him. S...
Trash Talk
Two weeks after Sherrod decided to run for the Senate, I was hanging out at home with our dog, Gracie, when a white van pulled up in front of our house and slowed to a stop next to the bags of garbage piled at the end of our driveway.
It was trash day, and we were so new to this neighborhood that for a moment I thought maybe we’d moved to a place where they use vans instead of garbage trucks to pick up the trash. What did I know about the genteel far west side of Cleveland? I was fresh from two decades on the gritty east side, where no two homes looked alike and trash day meant dodging redesigned golf carts that zipped into the driveway and scooped up everything in sight faster than you could scream, “Wait, no, not the lawn furniture!”
This new neighborhood was way more sedate than that, if you didn’t count the roar of Weedwackers, leaf blowers, and ride ’em lawn mowers. Still, everything sure looked calm on our sapling-lined street. Everything matched, too, which is why for weeks Sherrod and I kept pulling into the wrong driveways when we came home from work. It felt like America as you might imagine it if nobody but the Pilgrims had been allowed to migrate.
My radar, though, kicked in when the two men in the van jumped out and I noticed that they were wearing suits. I don’t mean jumpsuits. I’m talking dress pants, suit coats, and ties. And each of them had just grabbed two bags of our garbage.
“Uh-oh, Gracie,” I said to our aging, half-deaf, nearly blind pug. “I think we’ve got a problem.”
Gracie had followed me from her bed under my desk to the CD player four steps away because she can never get enough of me, which really matters sometimes, like when you’ve just realized that two men in suits are trying to steal your trash and you suddenly feel very vulnerable, and very much alone.
The only reason I noticed them at all was that I was leaning over my CD player in front of the window to replay one of my favorite Bonnie Raitt songs, “Something to Talk About.” Normally, I wouldn’t feel the need to name the artist or the song, but if it weren’t for Bonnie Raitt I wouldn’t have been in front of the window. Even now, I feel a surge of gratitude toward Bonnie just thinking of how she helped me catch in the act two men in suits trying to steal our trash.
I’m repeating myself, I know, what with the men and the suits and the trash and all, but really, the first time you see something like that out your front window and not in a movie theater you feel the need to say it a few times to let it sink in.
“Gracie,” I yelled, “those two men in suits are trying to steal our trash!” I ran to the front door and threw it open.
Even with Gracie’s considerable disabilities, she could grasp the seriousness of the situation, probably because I started screaming, and I’ve been told, sometimes not so nicely, that I have a voice that carries.
“Hey! Hey! Drop that trash! Drop that trash!”
On cue, Gracie started barking so hard only one of her paws was touching the ground. That got their attention. The men in suits took one look at me and the beast, dropped the bags, ran to the white van, and tore off.
“You’re kidding,” Sherrod said when I finally reached him after calling his cell phone, his BlackBerry, his desk phone, and his scheduler.
“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”
“Oh, my God.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you get their license?”
“What?”
“Their license plate number? Did you get it?”
I wanted to say, “Oh, sure, I whipped out the binoculars we don’t own, focused the infrared ray we also don’t have, and nailed the suckers.”
Instead, I started to cry.
“Who would do this to us?” I blubbered. “Who would care about our trash?”
Sherrod hesitated, then sighed.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “Welcome to the campaign.”
I was the last person who wanted Sherrod to run for the Senate.
No kidding. Dead last.
Sometimes, when I was in Washington, I felt the need to explain that I am not the kind of political wife whose life revolves around her husband’s career, and usually the person on the receiving end of this information would look at me as if I’d just admitted I needed the Fork of Shame in a restaurant where everyone else was using chopsticks. This was when Sherrod was a congressman. When you are a woman married to an elected official in Washington you are always, first and foremost, a political wife, and you are expected to toe the company line in a town where the commerce is power and politics. In such a world, the standard public version of the political wife is sleek, silent, and supportive, as seen and unheard as a Victorian child.
So I had a problem. My voice carries, remember? I’ve also spent all of my adult life as a feminist and a journalist, most recently as a newspaper columnist, sounding off, speaking my mind, giving my opinions without waiting to be asked. I had been getting all kinds of incentives to draw attention to myself: a salary, health care benefits, my own mug shot at the top of the page twice a week. The thing is, if I can’t get others to notice me, they’ll never pay attention to what and who I care about, like hourly workers’ right to a living wage, innocent men holed up in prison, a law that requires every man to own at least one denim shirt. Okay, I made up that last one, but I can dream can’t I?
I don’t mean to suggest that a woman who is a feminist and a columnist accustomed to lugging around her own megaphone can’t fall in love with a congressman, and even marry him. In fact, I’m living proof that this is exactly what she can do, although an awful lot of people like to point out that we’re not your typical combo platter. They don’t mean to suggest we’re special. Most think we’re odd, if not overly optimistic. In any case, I’m a wife paid to give her opinion, so I’m your basic nightmare as a political wife, not to mention for any political consultant.
Not for Sherrod, though, which is one of the reasons I married him. He happens to love my opinions—most of them, anyway—and we tend to agree on most things, too. He is forever pushing me to speak my mind. He also shamelessly gushes on my behalf. Even total strangers tell me how proud he is of me. They know this because he often manages to work me into speeches about job-killing trade agreements and the doughnut hole in Medicare Part D. Now, that’s love.
When we married in April 2004, I knew that I was marrying a member of Congress, but I didn’t feel as if I was marrying a congressman. I fell in love with Sherrod, a smart, passionate, funny guy who claimed within weeks of meeting this longtime single mother that he knew he’d found the love of his life. The feeling was mutual, much to the shock of everyone I knew—especially me.
Like many women, I’d lived many lives by the time I met Sherrod. For eleven years I was a married, stay-at-home mom who wrote freelance stories at my kitchen table. Then, in the time it took me to say “But I want a career, too,” I became a single working mother, and I’d been doing that for another eleven years when Sherrod showed up. By then, I had figured out it was best to pave your own road to happiness, and mine took me to a place where, for the most part, I was fairly content.
I did have the occasional pang of loneliness. I recall a time when my daughter, Caitlin, who was nine at the time, couldn’t sleep. She asked if she could climb in with me. Now that she’s twenty, and I’m lucky if she’ll even make time for lunch with me, I’m so glad I never said no to those times when she believed just lying next to me would solve all her problems. She snuggled into bed with me that night, bringing our dog and two black cats with her, and was sound asleep in the time it took her to tell me she loved me. A long time later, I was still awake, lying flat on my back and thinking, “There are five beating hearts in this bed, and not one of them is a man’s.”
My dear friend Bill Lubinger once asked me, “Is it hardest to be alone when you have bad news?”
“No,” I said, “it’s harder when you’ve got good news.”
Overall, though, life was hectic but rich. My son, Andy, was already grown and pursuing love and his doctorate degree at The Ohio State University. (If I don’t include “The” in the university’s name, we’ll be noting my mistake in the paperback edition of this book. The things academia obsesses over.) I took care of my daughter, tended my friends, and held my mother’s hand as she took her last breaths. From that moment on, I also tried to be a good daughter to my grieving father, a retired factory worker who had always hated his job and most of his life and now he was mad at God, too, for taking Mom away so soon.
“Why does she have to go?” he asked me outside her hospital room two days before she died. “It was supposed to be me.”
How do you answer a question like that? For five years and running since then, I’d been trying.
So, by the time Sherrod sent me his first e-mail asking where in the world The Plain Dealer had found me, I’d done plenty of living and was glad of the adventure. For the record, I’d never laid eyes on Sherrod before, but I had read his book, Congress from the Inside. I had never shaken his hand or interviewed him or included so much as a paraphrased quote from him in any story I wrote. If I had, I wouldn’t have gone out with him. S...
