Love, Bill

When the Evanston writer Cornelia Maude Spelman tried to unlock the mystery of her mother’s melancholy, she turned to one of her parents’ long-ago college pals—William Maxwell, the famed fiction editor of The New Yorker—and found a new friend

On the Way

Sitting on a small campaign jet during Barack Obama’s 2004 race for the U.S. Senate, I found myself lost in thought. The candidate, dressed in a crisp white shirt and striped tie, sat a few feet in front of me and to the right. I was staring ahead without realizing that I was looking directly at Obama himself, until the aspiring U.S. senator interrupted my rambling thoughts: “Hey, Mendell, what are you looking at?” he asked with a puzzled look…

From the Outside In

I didn’t make it into the media pen, and I didn’t get to the party I was supposed to cover in time, so, at about 9:30 p.m., my election night coverage was looking pretty skimpy. Somehow, in all the crowds that were wandering around downtown, I managed to hook up with a few friends on Michigan Avenue, and we decided—wholeheartedly and foolishly—to cut to the center of the “overflow,” that is, the tens of thousands of people who were loitering on the eastern end of Grant Park looking at Jumbotrons and stepping on each other’s feet…