Sunday, December 7, 2008

A Whole Lot of Tra-la-la!

I've discovered the secret of life: a lot of hard work, a lot of sense of humor, a lot of joy, and a whole lot of tra-la-la! .....................Kay Thompson

What is it we long for during the winter holidays that makes us so sad and sentimental? Our childhood, I suppose. Though I don't know too many folks who'd spend one of three magical wishes to go back to their own kid-dom. When I was a kid, I longed for a story book childhood. I kept giving mine another chance, but felt cheated when it was over. So when I had my children, I made every attempt to create the childhood for them that I longed for and never had. I almost succeeded. The local kids tormented mine, and mine terrorized each other. (I knew about the former while it was happening, and interceded as I was able. I didn't learn about the latter until they had grown up. I wish they'd ratted on each other!) And although my marriage didn't last, I truly dedicated myself to giving my kids a world they could long to revisit again when they'd grown up. When I long for childhood at Christmas, I long for theirs.

For some reason that challenges the reasonable, my mom insisted on giving us Christmas morning even though we were Jewish. She said that her grandmother (who raised her) gave her Christmas morning so she wouldn't envy the non-Jewish children. So we'd march down the stairs to discover Santa's gifts every December twenty-fifth; and --reinforcing the paradox -- the gifts would be decorated in Chanukah paper. To distract himself, my dad would make films of the event; my brother Matt and I turned the movies into a video years later. Awfully boring -- really! Years and years of Christmas morning ritual. The only interesting thing about the movies, is seeing oneself change from year to year.

My first Christmas with Don, my husband, was out of a Victorian novel. We were married the previous March; I was expecting our first child. We had a hand-me-down dinette set, a wedding gift bedroom set, and whatever props Don could shlep home from the Pittsburgh Playhouse where we both worked. (when the prop furniture or drapes were needed for a show, a crew would show up and empty my apartment.) That Christmas eve we had no prop furniture. Several productions at the Playhouse took it all away. Don went out rather late in the evening to find a Christmas tree. We had no money. I don't really know how he expected to get a tree. But he came back with a sweet little tree (Charlie Brown would have been proud!) that a vender nearby had held out to him and said, "If you catch it, it's yours." He did, and it was. We were up most of the night turning popcorn into chains for the tree. At around 11:00pm, the door bell rang; it was either the postal service or UPS bringing a gift from my younger brother. (delivering gifts into the night doesn't happen any more!) We opened our gifts once the tree had enough popcorn to smell like a movie theatre. My brother Len had sent us chocolates and a bottle of brandy. We made short work of all of it. That was my first Christmas tree. And Don talked a lot that evening about the history of the yule tree and it's pagan roots and the countries that claim having created it.

We had wonderful Christmases with our children. We took Alex to Brooklyn to spend Christmas with my mom when Alex was perhaps turning 3 years old. Don didn't want to go; he liked having Christmas at home. My mom wanted us there and actually went out and bought an artificial tree and some decorations so Don would have his Christmas. On Christmas eve, while we decorated the tree, my mom sat in the kitchen and sulked. She felt uncomfortable having the tree in her home. (who asked her to????) She said something like, we don't celebrate Christmas! I generously did not remind her about all those years of the Jewish Santa! Anyway, we did up the tree, and in the morning little Alex had plenty of Santa gifts. We were about to gather for breakfast when my younger brother -- who had stepped outside for something -- came running in to tell us that our Zaidie, my late-father's orthodox Jewish father, was strolling up our street. Arriving unannounced! My mother went very pale. Don and Lenny picked up the tree, gifts and all, in a sheet and ran the whole alarming festivity into the basement -- clearing all away just as my mom opened the door for Zaidie. Lenny, Don and I were laughing so hard and my mom -- suddenly seeing the humor of it all -- began to laugh as well. Poor Zaidie thought he was among mad people.

The Christmases in our Corning Street house in Beverly were the best. We always gave the kids books of some kind; clothes that they needed (Don would wrap each sock of each pair separately so they'd have hours of opening to do!) We really couldn't afford to buy a "big gift." So we'd make gifts for the kids. Don being an artist made remarkable things. Of course we'd be up all night Christmas eve finishing the creations. We'd all decorate the tree together (a really beautiful artificial tree we named Irving; artificial to accommodate Jamie's asthma and my "green" instincts.) After we'd finally finish the gifts and the wrapping and crawl up to bed in the wee hours, I'd hear Don going back down to the living room -- every year he'd have to "fix the tree!" The efforts of we poor amateurs offended his artistic sensibilities.

The year that Don and I separated, Alex was so angry he wouldn't help us with the tree. Jamie, Clea and I put it together, and it came out perfectly up-side-down. Alex didn't want us to see him laugh, so kicked us out of the living room while he went in to redo Irving. When I moved to New Jersey I left Irving behind and decided that there was no reason for me to have a tree. No kids around. In fact, I divided the decorations among my three children. However, Jamie bought me a smaller but equally attractive tree, insisting that I needed to continue my pagan traditions. Ha! I suppose my dad would have called them heathen traditions. No matter. Irving the 2nd lives. Celebrating all holidays has become part of my world. It is, after all, celebrating all people and all of life.

This year there will be a glorious Eloise doll under Irving 2nd for glorious Keira, along with several books about Eloise by the brilliant Kay Thompson. Jamie will be here this weekend for an early celebration before returning to Iowa (oy!) with the Spamalot! tour. Next week I hope some folks will stop by for mulled wine and latkes to celebrate the Solstice, Chanukah, Yule, and the childhood we carry with us all through our lives.

Happy holidays to you, and abundant thanks for the gift of listening!





Tuesday, November 25, 2008

The Madness That Keeps Me Sane

'But I don’t want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.'Oh, you can’t help that,' said the Cat. 'We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.
''How do you know I’m mad?' said Alice.
'You must be,” said the Cat. 'or you wouldn’t have come here.'”
...............Lewis Carroll
“And Something's odd - within -That person that I was - And this One - do not feel the same - Could it be Madness - this?"...............Emily Dickenson
A person needs a little madness, or else they never dare cut the rope and be free." ...............Nikos Kazantzakis

It isn't one madness -- or is it? To start a theatre company and school when one has only $250 to one's name, three kids to support, a mortgage....surely madness. We made it through five remarkable years, training many actors in their craft; bringing good theatre to the burbs. Holding yard sales several times a year to meet my personal bills. Moving to Boston brought some difficult and terrifying personal loss. It also brought a challenge I met with acumen I didn't know I had and chutzpah that surprised me and opportunity I long to have again. I took on the Children's Theater which was at 40 percent attendance, no artistic direction, and floundering badly. When I left five years later, it was at 95 percent attendance, a budget five times more than when I'd arrived, receiving reviews from professional critics, and turning out young actors -- strong young people who could take on any world. This was my madness. My passion. It sometimes still is.

But I'm not writing here about theatre. I'm talking about passion. With some regret that I didn't continue to have the courage to pursue it. I drove once to Youngstown Ohio (of all places!) to direct Neil Simon's RUMORS (really!) at the Playhouse. A community theatre. I was there for five weeks having a remarkable time. Talented actors and staff. My days off; rehearsing at night; creating a terrific show. I had to have been mad. Youngstown Ohio? Fabulous.

We all have our own madness. We would be unplugged without. There would be no current running through us to light us up and electrify people we encountered. My oldest son pursued his passion to California where he still lives his dream. My actor son kept on keeping on for 20 years paying more than his share of dues to work in theatre. It is his life blood. No matter how difficult the journey, it is everything.

I am passionate about many things. Especially people. Not all people -- I'm not that much a humanist or that mad. My kids; nuts about them. My grandkids. Little Keira -- (Jamie says I'm in love with her; why not?) My extended family. Actors I work
with. Writers I've never met. Places. A courtyard in Monterey. The Brooklyn Bridge. The Marginal Way. Venice. Make your own list.

I'm not sure what brought this on. Maybe because I just closed a production of Noel Coward's HAY FEVER, and realized how much of me I left there. Maybe because Jamie was in town with SPAMALOT and we had some great talks. Maybe because Alex called the other day and we chatted as though no time had gone by. And it's almost the winter solstice and like many people, I get disgustingly nostalgic. Maybe because I've come to know that what I'm most passionate about is life and all that's good in it.

Happy Thanksgiving.


Sunday, November 9, 2008

A Week in November

Tuesday
I stood in line to vote today, unusual for Beverly where I live. Lines are not typical at the polls here. I spent the time thinking about the first time I voted. I had just graduated from college and JFK was running for President. (One had to be 21 to vote back then.) My father accompanied me when I registered to vote in the basement of P.S. 99 in Brooklyn. My father was so proud. He came to America when he was eleven years old. Being a citizen with the right to vote -- no -- the obligation to vote -- was so important to him. I had been told to bring my high school diploma. I couldn't find it, so I brought my college diploma which I had just brought home. A woman sitting at a bridge table at the school wouldn't accept the college diploma. Had to be a high school diploma. I had a choice: go home and find it, or take a literacy test. Yes. You had to be able to read to vote. Not a bad concept. (It was done away with because minorities who couldn't read believed it was put there to keep them from voting. It probably was. But if our country lived up to its reputation, everyone would be able to read by 18 years of age!) I took the test. A paragraph about the Statue of Liberty with five questions to answer. (My dad was howling with laughter.) My 19 year old granddaughter will vote today for the first time. When she registered, she gave her name and address. No one asked her if she can read the ballot. I am excited for her -- exercising her privilege to vote; being a franchised citizen of her country. I hope she's excited, too.


Wednesday
Thoroughly sleep deprived, I came into the office where I'm currently temping. Eight nice guys; two nice women one of whom is admin to the executive. And me. I was very happy, albeit the lack of sleep. I had been rooting for Hilary Clinton; when she lost to Barack Obama, I transferred my allegiance to him. I will not wax political, except to say that the office today was like a morgue. These folks work in government relations in the financial industry, and they were NOT happy with the outcome of the election. It was a very difficult day for me. I felt as though I were encamped with the Philistines. I also felt as though I were the enemy. I wouldn't entertain the idea of discussing the election with any of them. They have the script down pat. I only know what I know and it has nothing to do with the stock market. So I bungled through and then went to dress rehearsal for the production of HAY FEVER that I'm directing in Concord Mass. Happily, the dress rehearsal went very well. Good pace; all lines remembered; blocking clean; a couple of technical glitches but nothing to distract from the play. And although I got home dead late and it was bound to be another day of sleep deprivation on Thursday, I was content.


Thursday
The last morning commute from Beverly to Boston by car hopefully for a long, long time. It took me over two hours to get to work. Need to do it to have transportation to Concord in the evening. Tonight is an open dress rehearsal (local audience invited). Tomorrow night is the grand opening. The show is essentially out of my hands. That's pretty much the pattern of creation: you make it, and while you do it's yours. Then you release it into the universe (and the stage manager.) And it takes on a life of it's own or a life grafted to it by others. The commute is horrific. In order not to go screaming out into traffic, I think about the historic election. And I remember when John F. Kennedy presented the members of his cabinet at the Inaugural Ball, my dad and I watched on television. My dad wept; Arthur Goldberg and Abraham Ribicoff were the first Jews to be appointed to a presidential cabinet since Theodore Roosevelt's presidency. Progress is often slow; very slow. But I thought about the reverberation -- my three black grandchildren, and what this kind of progress might mean to their lives.

Friday
I stayed home from work today. I spent an unreasonable amount of money at Trader Joe's putting together the opening night basket I give to the cast and crew of Hay Fever tonight. I got a manicure. I wrote thank you notes to all the good folks who helped bring the production to this juncture. I am relieved that the show will open tonight, that essentially it now belongs to our Stage Manager, that I can attend as audience, that I can perhaps get home at reasonable hours and get some much needed sleep.

Saturday
HAY FEVER is a big success; I'm so happy for the cast. Come spring I will miss not having a play to direct. But for now, I have books to read, plays to write, Chanukah and Christmas to think about, friends to get caught up with, and a little buddy to share the autumn with. I hope you had a happy week, too.


Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Ah, the Apple Trees

Ah, the apple trees,
Blossoms in the breeze,
That we walked among,
Lying in the hay,
Games we used to play,
While the rounds were sung,
Only yesterday,
when the world was young.
..............Johnny Mercer

It has been a week of glorious autumn weather -- warm sun, cool breezes; dry, crisp air; breathtaking colors of foliage along the highways. It is an apology for the damp, cloudy summer. In the fall, we go apple picking along with throngs of other urban dwellers. When I was a kid, my dad would get Columbus Day off from work and we'd drive to Connecticut to a farm owned by a German couple. I don't remember their names. We'd spend the day picking blueberries. My mom didn't come with us, but she'd welcome the bounty and she'd put up blueberry jam. So when my own kids were little, we began our own tradition. We'd take them to the orchards on Columbus Day and we'd pick apples. When we got home, I'd bake apple pies, freezing a couple for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The others were our feast. Everyone would peel apples for me, and I'd make original pie crust. There were big apple trees in the orchards then, and my little boys would climb those trees. The best part of the experience! Don, my husband at the time, would take us in search of Northern Spy apples -- his grandma's favorite. We could find them while living in Pennsylvania. When we moved to
Massachusetts we had to settle for new varieties. I like the Macouns and the Cortlands for pie. They're bountiful here. When I lived in New Jersey several years ago, I discovered the Wine Sap apples. The best I've ever had in pie. Again living in Massachusetts, I seek out the Macoun apples -- there are no Wine Saps that I can find here.
The trees in the orchards now seem all to be dwarf trees. It's okay though, because I'm picking apples with Keira who is four years old.
She can reach the lowest branches. She loved apple picking this year. Happily she enjoys eating apples because she's not much for the pies. (she prefers cakes with flowers on them). I have to work on Columbus Day, but the Sunday before is perfect for pie baking. I don't have any apple peeler guys around; in spite of that there are three large pies in the freezer and one individual size pie. My daughter and I made short work of another small pie on baking day. There's also a tub of apple sauce -- I cut out the cores but leave the skin, adding only cinnamon. The sweetness of the apples is quite enough.
It is a weekend of memories; one of my long mental movies -- long enough to last me through the several hours of peeling and baking and cleaning up. I remembered the Columbus Days during the Acting Place years -- many of the actors from the Place would tag along to the orchard. I'd be baking pies into the night, with lots of music and laughter and probably a few bottles of wine thrown in. Now the baking time is rather quiet. My family and friends are scattered across the country. But it is a time unto itself; we are still memory-making. Keira was thrilled to be picking apples, and sitting under the trees at picnic tables eating them.

When I came home from work last night, there was a package for me. In it were five large Wine Sap apples sent to me by my niece, Amy. Amy lives in Media Pennsylvania where Wine Sap apples grow. She remembers the Thanksgiving pie which she enjoyed when she shared the holiday with us while I lived in Fort Lee. It was so touching a gift. The best memories are those we share. So is the best apple pie.
It is probably a conceit of mine, but it is encouraged. Jamie has told me he won't order apple pie anywhere. He's had the "real thing" and won't settle. He's due for a visit in early December; there's a pie in the freezer waiting for him.

THE WINTER THERE
When autumn came we went to see the trees
and let the small boys slide down hills
on burnished leaves. We smelled the winter there.
It stalked us from the pond, and we
were eating fallen apples when we saw
a cluster green and fresh with Christmas pine.
We trimmed them all with toys from many journeys
recalling each by name. The laughter caught
in wind and trees like billowed kites. The sky
filled up with snow. We fed the flame a log
and mellowed brandy in the half-filled glass
invoking words that once were warming there.

Across the seasons doors remain ajar.
Our visit done, we raced back to the car.

...........Mickey Coburn


























Tuesday, October 7, 2008

The End of Something

How queer everything is today! And yesterday things went on just as usual.
I wonder if I've been changed in the night?
Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning?
I almost think I can remember feeling a little different.
But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I?
Ah, that's the great puzzle!
--Chapter 2 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll

I made a huge mistake last Friday. I went to meet a little dog who was not Higgins. I have been talking myself out of all sorts of things lately, especially things that require change or, at the very least, motion or discomfort. So I said, okay -- come home with me. We'll make this work. I wrote a check (it was payday), and led this little shaved Bichon Frise to my car. He trembled a lot. His name was Lucky. All I was told of Lucky's story: he belonged to a man who had four dogs and a couple of cats. The man, who was aging, fell ill and went into a nursing home. The animals were put into the basement by his daughter who came by daily to put out some food. I don't know for how long. The man passed away, the daughter inherited the house, and got the word out (somehow?) that the animals would be put down. A rescue organization in its infancy with only cat experience found someone to foster two of the dogs. A Jack Russell without a known name, and Lucky. When we left it was clear that Lucky didn't want to leave the Jack Russell. The foster mom told me that she and her husband work, and that she'd been leaving the dogs in the small family room with some dry food and water for about 9 or 10 hours a day. She said they never messed or destroyed anything. I suppose the dogs kept each other good company.

Once in my car I became a bit unnerved. Well, there was this terrified dog next to me having a hissy-fit. I phoned Clea, my daughter and she and Keira (my four year old granddaughter) came with me and Lucky to Petco where I spent an inordinate amount of money. We took Lucky to my apartment, got his stuff set up, took him for a walk (which did not elicit any elimination). Then Lucky and I were on our own. There was some chatting, some petting, some basic getting-to-know-you stuff. All of which confirmed the fact that I know absolutely nothing about dogs!
Well, Lucky tolerated the crate for about 20 minutes. Okay, it was a new thing. So I put his little bed in my small bedroom, put him in it, and gently settled him down. He seemed to sleep; I managed some of that luxury for about 20 minutes. He had left the little bed and was sitting in front of the door. I thought he needed to go out, so I took him to my little back yard. No result except lots of cold night air. He didn't want to be in my room; I put the little bed near the door where he was hanging out waiting, I guess, to go home. At around 2:30 a.m. he came into my room crying and led me to the door. I put on my robe with coat over and we went for a walk up and down the street. No success. The night went on this way. When day was almost breaking I got up, put him in the yard while I got dressed, fed him breakfast which he didn't eat and we went for a long walk.

Saturday. All seemed fine during the days. He was very sweet and affectionate. My friend, Bobbie, who has lots of doggy experience came and clarified several things for me. Like scooting. In the meantime, I made several calls and finally got an appointment at the Danvers Veterinary Hospital; I wanted Lucky looked at to make sure he was okay. Bobbie's visit and the very kind doctor reassured me and gave me some insight into Lucky's behavior. The doctor also told me that Lucky was most likely a lot older than the six years told to me by the foster mom. His teeth are completely rotted and within a few months he should have dental surgery -- $600 worth. Clea and Keira came with me to the hospital. We had lunch together and all spent the day with Lucky. We left him in the crate for almost an hour to help him get used to it. Saturday night was not a good night -- lots of running around, coming into my room and barking; walking in the cold; going into the back yard. Okay, two nights without sleep. This old girl was beginning to hurt.

Sunday: we had our morning walk in time to see the sun rise over the ocean.

I took Lucky to my meeting and rehearsal in Concord. Of course, because he's small and cute, he was much fussed over. Clea and Keira joined me in the late afternoon and we walked again. Sunday night Mr. Hyde appeared with a vengeance. Lucky would seem to be sleeping, then run into my room, cry or bark and run back into the living room. I'd follow him in to find a mess on the living room rug. This went on all night. One trip to the yard was marginally successful, but didn't stop the antics. And somewhere toward morning I came to a few interesting facts about myself: I'm probably not a dog-person at all. I've lived alone for almost 20 years and have learned how. Holding a full-time job with a commute of 1 1/2 hours door-to-door twice a day, plus two to three nights a week and Sundays in Concord at rehearsals, -- well, this added pet feature was probably not the best idea. Plus commitments to my daughter and her family which precluded time with friends. And the economy I struggle with that was already over-taxed -- dog walkers?? dental surgery???

Monday: Clea came while I was at work and took care of the dog the entire day with a couple hours break in the middle of the day. I had left Lucky in the crate and she put him back in while she went to get Keira off her school bus. Had I been able to crate him at night without the howling and barking (the three other families in our condo-converted house would not have put up with that racket), the outcome might have been different. After much aggita, and my blood-pressure soaring most of the day, and lots of attitude from the woman who is creating this rescue group and the foster mom, I returned Lucky to his foster home. He was so happy to be with the Jack Russell -- the two of them were rolling around the floor when I left. I gave the woman the report from the vet and the heartworming and flea/tick medications ($85 worth of medicine) -- but it did not assuage the contempt she flashed at me at her back door. I went home feeling some guilt -- not for Lucky -- he'll be scooped up before the week is out. But for Keira and Clea who were so tickled to have a little dog to play with. I told Clea that she now understands the benefits of being a grandmother. She got it.

Of course Lucky needed at the very least a good week to make the adjustment. I had always told Clea that I would not adopt a dog until I could take a week off from work to devote to settling the dog in. I don't do well when I break promises to myself. I told myself all weekend -- maybe I'm too old for this huge commitment. This very big change in my life. Last night it occurred to me that maybe I'm not old enough. Maybe having a dog means having a companion when I'm not working anymore (fat chance!) and need the responsibility of a pet to keep me moving. Whatever the reason or the excuse, I'm very disappointed in myself. Worse, I'm very sad because I feel that this is the end of a dream called "Higgins." What did I think it would be like? What did I want it to be like? I can't answer that. Clea wants to get me a web-kin. That would probably serve me right!

She tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. -- Lewis Carroll: Alice chapter 1























Thursday, September 25, 2008

Hair

Jimmie cuts my hair when I'm working in Boston. I sneak over to the salon on my lunch break and am usually gone longer than I should be. Today I got a hair cut. The salon has begun to feature a line of products for curly hair and apparently the creators of the line came in to give the folks a two day workshop. The North Shore salon that I frequent specializes in the curly hair technique and these products. So we talked about curly hair, and how long it's taken for the profession and the fashion world to recognize its existence and its beauty.

Ah, the nightmare of hair! It was my nemesis. Very thick and kinky and my mom and grandmother, having survived their childhood with the same kind of hair, didn't know what to do about it. That was their story anyway. Frankly, I think my mom didn't want to help me with it. She had this "daughter" problem; she was able to be a mom to her sons, but she was a "professional daughter." Looking back on it, she dressed me funny and she just let my hair stand up like an electric shock. Gratefully, I didn't blame her at the time. When I first started school, my mom would stand me in the bathroom for an hour at least every morning to twist Shirley Temple curls into my hair. I'd have a headache by the end of it, and she'd have many broken combs. It was a lousy way to start a school day. Any day especially at five years old. At one point, she had it cut very short. That didn't help much. Braids worked fine when I was around nine or ten. But it was years before I could figure out how to deal with it. I wasn't always successful at conquering it. I got my hair straightened when I got married. The chemicals were not the super ones we have today, but it was better than "electric shock." When good chemicals appeared and hot curlers and blow dryers and the ability to have smooth hair, well - I'd had enough of the other way. Most beauticians couldn't deal with it either. So it would be short short lots of the time. In my late thirties I found a stylist who loved my curls. I had a few terrific years of wash and air dry. Now I'm back there again with the curly hair salon. The first one I went to made me look like Aunt Pitty-Pat in GONE WITH THE WIND. Calla Renee in Beverly, MA does an awesome job. But I also have a choice; I have hot curlers for a smooth day.

My son, Alex, inherited my hair. Pretty much he keeps it cut short. Except for a brief "Afro" period. My daughter had a more traumatic time with hers. My daughter is adopted and is part West Indian. She has "black" hair and always hated it although I tried to help her to love it. We had too many nights with combs and hairbrushes stuck in her hair -- once we made a late night run to our friend Kathy Sams, who was black and knew how to untangle a hair brush which would not have gone over very well at my daughter's school. I think the first time she loved her hair was when our friend Dennis, a brilliant hair stylist, straightened it for her. We thought she'd give herself whiplash flipping her head around. Now she has extensions, which look great and simplify her life. The youngest of her three children has "black hair" also. There are great products now and many options.

I think we all make too much fuss about hair. Years ago when he was in college, my actor son was in a musical playing Billy Idol. He went to Dennis to get his hair bleached out for the part. He almost got stoned every time he hit the street. Now that hair color would be tame. Males and females are seen on an ordinary day with hair of many colors NOT found in nature. And thanks to Kojak, guys who are losing their hair can shave their heads and be extremely sexy.

This summer my two blonde, curly haired California granddaughters came east with a perpetual bad hair day. I took them to the curly salon where they were treated like royalty and where their gorgeous curls were trimmed, washed, polished, and arranged in film star fashion. I was so pleased for them; this could never have happened when I was thirteen. A week or so later I received email photos of the girls at their mom's birthday party. Their hair had been blown out or ironed, and they looked like everyone else. sigh........ They have a choice, too.



Sunday, September 14, 2008

Sitting Around

I'm sitting here in my living room reading the latest Daniel Silva book. For years I had a crush on Chief Inspector Morse -- a character created by Colin Dexter. Dexter killed him off, and the actor who played him on Masterpiece Theatre, John Thaw, died soon after. I vowed not to fall in love with a guy in a book ever again. However, Silva's character, Gabriel Allon, is even edgier than Morse. He's an Israeli agent who is also an artist working as an art restorer as his cover. Anyway. I'm sitting here and the slowly setting sun has reached that place in its journey where it's shining into the room. Everything is glowing. It's the same room I've had for too many years. Different apartment, but the same room. It wants an inspired change. But the unexpected glow makes me look around: the pictures Jamie took on our trip to Venice; the photo Robert Fay took of me wearing a top hat in the Forest Hills cemetery one rainy January Sunday; the memorabilia on top of the old upright piano; the white wicker rocker I bought so Bonpapa would have a comfortable place to sit. I couldn't fit the rocker in my small Datsun and I had to carry it the two miles home. (Then walk back to the shop to get my car). The glorious doll house Jamie built for me; the glass case filled with my unintentional pear collection. A side board of vinyl records -- 50 years of collecting. And, the silly excuse for a sofa,
a bank of three theatre seats from the old Lucy Larcom Theatre -- at the time when it was a porno house called The Fine Arts Theatre. When it closed, my friend Al (who managed the Fine Arts at the time) brought me the seats as a momento. (I had wanted to rent the theatre for a year and produce plays and musicals and revues. ) My son, Alex, and I recovered the seats. (Right!) None of the furniture is comfortable to sit on. Well, the rocker is okay. But the room feels comfortable all the same. It's friendly. I like it. Bits and pieces of my life. I close my eyes and drift, remembering where I've been.

I'm sitting here in my son's apartment in mid-town Manhattan. I'm working on the blocking for a production of Noel Coward's HAY FEVER that I'm directing for the Concord Players this fall. It's early in the day - a remarkably clear, gorgeous summer day. The city is making it's typical jack hammer noises, a riot of traffic sounds, and the confusion of jazz emanating from my little iPod speaker. I permit distraction and walk around the almost bare apartment. Jamie's in the process of re-conceiving his home space. He's performing with the National Tour of Spamalot in a principal role, and traveling around the USA and in Canada learning so much about our country and about himself. He's come to know who he is and where he is in his life. So I'm alone here for a few days; seeing some good friends, a museum, a show, and walking the city of my youth. The bedroom has some art important to Jamie: sketches his father did of him as a child; art he's collected; books. I curl up on the bed. I close my eyes and drift, searching for where I am.

I'm sitting in my car in a rush hour traffic jam on route 128. Because I'm directing the play in Concord, and since my day job is in Boston, the only real way to get to rehearsal on time is to drive to Boston in the a.m. and from there to Concord after work. Right now I'm not driving anywhere. This great mass of automobiles moves an inch at a time like one metallic body. The cd I'm playing is a recording of HAY FEVER from eons ago with Dame Peggy Ashcroft in the lead. I'm listening for inspiration and for the correct pronunciation of the British language. It all falls away as we creep along, and I wonder if my life has become something of a traffic jam: grid lock and detours. I bless this blog because it's the writing that I'm able to do now. My poetry and my plays seem parked somewhere. I've been working through some health issues and haven't been able to spend the time I'd like to spend with friends. Most of them are retired and I'm working so shared time is hard to find. And even if there's not much readership for this blog, I am hopeful that it is visited from time to time. I can't make the comments option work so there isn't a way to get feedback. If you're out there, my email address is in my profile. Say hi. Ah well. One thing is for certain, I will go on; the traffic will move again. And so will I.
There are people I love as much as my own life, and so much I want to share, and say, and do.
Yesterday little Keira, her mom and I walked the beach with the tide miles out. Keira calls it "the big pool." I fear I'm becoming a sentimental old girl. Becoming is the important word. The traffic is moving again. I'm going to the theatre.




Tuesday, August 5, 2008

JENNIE or The Legend of Jennie Prizant

At some point, truth - which is fact - becomes all blurry and vague and dissembles into bits and pieces. I don’t know exactly when that happens, but I do know that at that moment, truth – which is legend – is drawn out of the blur and the vagary – like sky-writing. The truth – which is legend – is not an embellishment. On the contrary, it is a paring down; it is the essence; it is the way it should have happened. It’s the screenplay. And no two people see the same movie. Or hear the same morning. Or love the same person. So I can only give you the Jennie I loved; the legend she wove for herself and gave to me. And that’s as close to her truth as we’re going to get.
My grandmother, Jennie Prizant, should have been an actress, a star. In her mind she was; misplaced aristocracy; someone special and unrecognized. At least once a month the phrase “…in a past life, I must have been...” would be heard. Her energy didn’t go unnoticed; men were nuts about her. Women either loved her or feared her, but no one ignored her. Her journey would make a heck of a movie. Born Genya Prizant in the Bessarabian city of Kishinev, and raised in Odessa, Russia, she was the oldest sibling of six brothers. Possibly, the family immigrated to Odessa because of the pogroms in Kishinev. She told me several times that her mother had another baby girl, too, but Rosie hadn’t survived. She told it sadly. She talked about the pogroms as well. She told me about running an errand for her mother and not being able to get home because of angry mobs creating havoc in the streets. She said she hid in a sewer and stayed there through the night into the next day because she was so frightened; she couldn’t tell how long she’d been there. Her mother came out the next day in panic looking for her, and walked up and down the streets calling her name. Genya heard her mother, and came out of the sewer. It was a vivid memory for her. She told it with humor actually – can you imagine such a stupid kid staying all night in the sewer!?

Jennie’s family history is somewhat vague. There’s no one left to confirm or deny the stories. I do know that her father Isop Prizant (the family called him Mordecai, but Jennie always referred to him by his secular name) was an artist. Grandma insisted that he studied at the Sorbonne in Paris. An improbable but not impossible fact. Years after, I spoke to a “Prizant” I looked up while visiting in Pittsburgh – he owned a carpet company there – and he said he recalled his father referring to a cousin who was an artist and who studied in France. There was no way to validate his information. No one in the family has any of Isop’s artwork – none that I’m aware of anyway. He earned his living as a house painter. But Grandma also insisted that he owned land. (Was he the bastard son of a Greek aristocrat? Jews did not own land in those days. Another improbability.) He came to the States in the early 1900’s with plans to relocate his family, and brought their oldest son, Chayim (Hyman), with him. Anti-Semitism was pretty much out of control in Roumania and Russia; so the emigration had serious basis. Chayim would have been about 12 years old when they arrived in New York. Isop died of a heart attack soon after coming to America. The relatives in New York put Chayim back on a ship to return him to his mother.

The story Jennie told was that Chayim jumped ship in England, having attached himself to a troupe of actors on board. Legend has it that he didn’t turn up again until maybe six years later, when he arrived unannounced in her mother’s garden. (The timing works with the history of Yiddish Arts Theatre and premieres occurring in Odessa at that time.) Always the actor, Jennie said he came up to his mother and asked – in excellent diction – “where may I find Madame Prizant?” Grandma insisted her mother fainted dead away. But that’s doubtless an embellishment. I can’t imagine that tough old broad fainting for any reason.

Marya Prizant was left with a newborn son, four grown sons and her daughter, Genya, when Isop died (not counting the vanished Chayim). To support the family, she apparently trained domestics and placed them in wealthy homes. My mother always wondered how her grandmother knew how to do the things she was teaching. Where did she learn this stuff? Perhaps she was trained and worked as a domestic herself. We can only speculate on all of that. From all she taught my mother, I am certain she knew her business. Marya supported her family and was intent on relocating them to America. Plan B was to send Genya to Marya’s sister, Esther, who was married to Alek Miller, and living in New York. Esther had a son, Frank, who was a few years older than Genya. A match was arranged, and Genya was sent to the States to marry her first cousin. She was probably 15 years old.

Genya was a stunning girl; tall for her time, blonde, with gray eyes, and very slim. She married Frank Miller and by her 17th birthday, she gave birth to her daughter. She named her Mae (for the month she was born), but the family called the baby Minela and she was actually dubbed Minnie all of her life. In later years, she called herself Mina. (When she was in her fifties, she sent for her birth certificate and found out her name was recorded as Mame. Probably Jennie’s foreign accent led to the incorrect spelling on the birth certificate. Minnie was really upset, however, and always felt as though she never had a name.)

Genya's grandparents in Odessa sent her a ticket to come home with the baby – their first great grandchild. Given the time it took to get there and back, the visit itself, which was almost a year long, the separation from her new husband was damaging. And, as it turned out, Aunt Esther was not a very nice lady. She convinced Frank that Genya was not coming back, and hooked him up with a much older woman who had money. So when Genya and Minela returned, home and husband no longer existed. Esther (so we were told) kicked them out, and Genya was on her own with a baby to support. She ostensibly went from sweatshop to sweatshop looking for a job with her child in her arms,. (The way she told this, I think Jennie had movies in her head, too! She insisted she’d wander in draped in a silk kimono, with her hair hanging loose over one shoulder.) The fact that she couldn’t sew a stitch and was lumbered with a baby would explain why no one wanted to hire her. Until she came to Harry Ginsburg’s factory.

Harry Ginsburg- our Grandpa Pal - was an interesting character in his own right. He was born in Russia and was one of twins. This was supposed to be bad luck as he told it, and so they kept his brother Max and sent him to America with an aunt. I rather suspect the bad luck was having two more mouths to feed instead of one. Harry grew up on the streets of the Lower East Side and told marvelously picturesque stories about his troubled childhood. He was called Fatso and was apparently very tough. He insisted that as a kid he played with the likes of Eddie Cantor and others who grew up to be big stars. His favorite story was how he and his companions would roll the drunks out of the bars on Sunday mornings and be paid by proprietors at so much a head! He was apprenticed into the men’s wear business and by the time Harry was 17 or 18 years old, he owned his own factory. He married very young and his wife died in childbirth. Left with his son, Ted, he married again hoping his new wife would be a mother to his child. I understand that he had many children with his second wife who was reputed to be quite a slob and not much of a wife or mother.

So Harry,11 years older than Jennie and unhappily married -- Harry who drank hard, smoked cigars, played cards, fancied himself a man’s man --took one look at Jennie and was besotted for the rest of his life. (My mom told me however, that Harry returned to visit his actual wife occasionally, made another baby and then left. Ah, men!) Not only did he teach her to sew and set her up with places to live and became a surrogate father to her child, he brought her family over. He bought them a house in Philadelphia on Norris Street (were other relatives in Philadelphia?) and brought Marya, and young son Morris (later known as Ed – this being the generation that assimilated), and three of the other brothers, Joe, Jules and Abe. Jennie’s brother Grisha (later called Harry) stayed behind to travel with an elderly aunt at a later date. Morris was at least four years older than Minnie. Harry Ginsburg paid the bills and gave the family a new start in the States. Marya readily accepted the considerable endowment, and then informed Jennie that she was not welcome in the house as long as she was in a clandestine relationship with the married Ginsburg. Harry’s wife wouldn't give him a divorce.

So for the next 15 plus years, until her mother’s death, Jennie would go with Harry, give up Harry and come home, then take off again. Sometimes she’d take Minnie with her. Most of the time, she left Minnie with Marya. There are photos of Jennie and Minnie in front of a grocery in Cleveland that Harry had bought for her.
That didn't last; Jennie missed her mother. Minnie was raised essentially by her grandmother with five uncles who – like brothers – tormented and teased her and protected her and loved her. There are photos of Minnie with her uncles and Frank Miller. This is our only way of knowing that Frank came to see Minnie. All the rest is blank. My mom often told me she preferred to stay with Marya. Jennie was volatile -- she beat Minnie up one night because Minnie was sleep walking. The child was six or seven.

Minnie adored her grandmother, albeit she was very strict and intolerant. But when Marya remarried (Minnie was a young teenager) and Mr. Schwartz’s young daughter, Rose, moved into the house, Minnie was forced to give up her room and transfer to smaller quarters. She was displaced and felt replaced in her grandmother’s affections. I don’t think she ever got over that. And albeit the yo-yo existence Jennie inflicted on her, Minnie stayed with her when Marya - in her fifties - died of a heart attack. Jennie had a nervous breakdown, and Minnie spent the next 10 years of her life taking care of her mother who was suicidal and probably manic-depressive. She also had a hysterectomy, so instant menopause no doubt had much to do with her symptoms. Jennie and Harry moved in together for keeps, and the three became a family.

Minnie, who never graduated from high school because of all the moving around and transferring back and forth between Jennie and Marya, wanted to be a fashion designer. Harry, pretty much wiped out by the stock market crash, still was able to support her ambitions; he worked as a finisher (stitcher) for a top-of-the-line men’s clothing manufacturer. But the demands of Jennie’s condition were such that Minnie was not able to complete her course of study. (I have her small portfolio). She went to work in the office of Joe Cooke, who, along with his wife Margaret, became life-long friends and a source of emotional support for Minnie.

When Jennie’s doctor (Dr. Basso) prescribed a summer at the beach, the family went to Rockaway Beach, New York, where Minnie was wooed by the son of the boarding house owner. The latter, Golda, was a dynamite businesswoman and a fabulous baker. She taught Jennie how to bake; the doctor – who probably was in love with her – taught Jennie how to swim. And how to drive a car. All this was therapeutic, and as Jennie began to heal, Minnie took advantage of what was probably her best chance to have her own life. She married Ben Coburn in June of 1935 in a wedding held in Howard’s Beach. She was twenty-six years old.

About seven years after Minnie and Ben were married, they bought a house in Brooklyn with Jennie and Harry. Jennie couldn't quite get past my dad to rule the house, but she ruled Minnie. When my younger brother was born, Jennie took over raising him until he was perhaps four years old and not fun anymore. She was always importing relatives to stay in the house - always in my room. Pal's daughter-in-law, Edith, came with her son Teddy and a German Police Dog named Rex. They stayed a year. Miryam Legris, daughter of Jennie's cousin, came from Paris for what was supposed to be an emigration but turned out to be a holiday paid for by Jennie and unwillingly my dad. Pal's niece, Annette Bull, came from London, and spent over a year in the house becoming a beloved addition to the family.

Jennie and Minnie were best friends all of Jennie’s life. I don’t think Jennie had any other real female friends. Minnie’s friends drifted away – Jennie took up too much space. When I was a kid and Jennie’s friends came over, I always
assumed that she was friends with the women and the husbands just tagged along. In retrospect, I know differently. Sonya Bloom was Avram Bloom’s wife, and Avram had been in love with Genya in Odessa when they were growing up. He never got over her entirely. So they all hung out together. Avram was a Yiddish poet, well known in literary circles and very talented. He had translated all of Edgar Allan Poe into Yiddish and without hesitation would break into verse. For a day job, he captained a tugboat up and down the Hudson River. Is this a movie, or what??? Sonya and Avram had gorgeous sons; I remember Hyman Bloom who dated one of Jennie’s nieces for a while. And Monty Bloom who was my earliest heartthrob. Murray Bloom was in the Merchant Marines in the Second World War and died a hero. Grandma helped Sonya and others form a chapter of an organization called The Pioneer Women and the chapter was named The Lt. Murray Bloom. (Eventually there was also a ship named after him.) The organization was part of the Zionist movement raising money to relocate Jewish refugees to what was then Palestine, and supporting the creation of a Jewish homeland. There were others. Lots of names I can’t quite remember although I see their faces clearly. Grandma called them “the mad Russians,” and they came to play cards: the men played Pinochle in the dining room, and the women played Poker on card tables in the living room; some played Canasta. Occasionally, the women came to play Mah-jongg; the men always played Pinochle. There was lots of food and lots of drink and cigars; and Jennie was the pivotal figure. They were there for all her life. When Jennie died in 1957 at the age of 66, they vanished. I never saw any of them again.

In an earlier blog, I wrote about my special times with Jennie. Forgive me if I repeat myself a bit. We went to the art cinema to see foreign films. She gave me Marlene Dietrich and Edith Piaf. And Russian and Yiddish songs. She loved to sing. She didn’t have much of a voice, but that didn’t stop her. I believe I mentioned the remarkable summer evenings when we'd walk the boardwalk in Brighten Beach until Jennie heard the Balalaikas from one of the little gazebos on the boardwalk. People gathered nightly to sing and dance and laugh together. I'd disappear while the real Jennie joined her landsmen, winning them over with her joie de vivre, her energy, her passion.

I don’t think Jennie was good alone. She liked society. But only if she was the central figure. Nothing else worked for her. She was close to Sarah Filler who was her brother Chayim's wife. She liked being with Sarah, because Sarah was an actress in Yiddish Theatre and kept Jennie in touch with that world. She cooked and baked vaguely admitting that Bubbe Golda had taught her how. She sewed clothes for my mother and me (bringing the work to Pal frequently because he could make it perfect.) She’d knit and crochet and make quilts. (I still have the Sunbonnet Babies quilt she made for me.) She and Minnie took up all kinds of crafts together. They made beaded purses and equally difficult projects. If Jennie was sitting with folks who began to steer a discussion in a direction she couldn't follow, she'd find a way to distract them. Many times, silly ways. For example, seated at the dining room table, Jennie might quietly take some cherries or grapes and drape them over her ears; then sit there until someone noticed and laughed and the distraction would be accomplished. Or she'd get up and put on some music and do a little dance that would cancel out whatever was going on without her. She drove a car (a Tin Lizzie) with a running board; on rainy days she’d drive my older brother and me to school, and all the kids in the neighborhood would jump onto the running board for the ride. The old Ford was put to pasture when one of her brothers helped her buy his used Lincoln. She drove that one for a long time. A couple of years before she died, she bought a white Chevy Bel-Air with red upholstery. She stitched up a wardrobe of red and white dresses to wear when she went cruising in it. Jennie cursed in several languages, so driving with her was educational. Whenever we’d drive out to Rockaway Beach, she’d slow up passing Floyd Bennett Airfield and give rides to hitchhiking military men. (When I was still little, I remember Jennie driving me out to Rockaway once to see Bubbe Golda. On the way back, she picked up two hitchhiking sailors and actually brought them home for something to eat and a good long chat. Then she drove them to the subway.)

But this great flirt was an awful prude with little respect for men. The only men she truly respected were the ones she couldn’t control and my dad was top of the list. They fought all of the time. Loudly and violently. I was too much influenced by Jennie’s opinions about men, and I’m sure that influence has never quite left me. When I was about 15 or 16 years old I met a boy named Ricky Smith. He was a tall, skinny kid; probably 18 or 19 years old. I had a big crush on him. He had gone away; something about horses someplace in the west. Upon his return, he got together. My folks were in Ithaca visiting my older brother at Cornell and my younger brother and I were under Jennie’s eagle eye. That night he gave me his “ring” to wear on a chain around my neck. His mom, who was pretty cool, took us to supper and gave me a ride home. Ricky walked me up to the front steps and kissed me goodnight. My grandmother stepped out of the shadows with great drama. Ricky got back in the car with his mom and took off. Jennie began a tirade, calling me every name she could think of: corva, whore and slut and tramp and anything else she thought was appropriate to a teenager who kissed a boy goodnight on the front steps while his mother watched from the car. I remember it so clearly. I walked past her into the house, and while she screamed I made my lunch for school the next day (a Swiss cheese sandwich – God, why do I remember that?) I turned to her and said, “ Are you done now, Grandma?” She just looked at me. I said, “Goodnight,” and I went up to bed. I spoke to my mom who gratefully returned the next day. Jennie had already gotten to her. But my mom was content that I had behaved the way I did. She said someday you’ll understand, blah-blah-blah. I don’t think I ever have understood. I’m sure there were facts about Jennie that my mom never told anyone. Ricky showed up a few days later for his ring. Grandma had done her best work. He wasn’t about to deal with that situation. I don’t remember caring very much; I think it was just sort of nice to have a cute guy give me his ring.

Jennie and Harry Ginsburg were finally married, probably around 1949 or 1950. Harry received news that his estranged wife had died. No one knew about the marriage in our house except my folks. Jennie was utterly devoted to Pal and drove to the train station to pick him up from work every day. She skimmed the fat off his soup and never sat down until he’d been served and was happy with his meal. The fact that he was not our biological grandfather was kept a total secret until after Jennie’s death in 1957, and even then. They moved out of the house on East 10th street into an apartment in lower Manhattan, a building constructed by Pal's union. Grandma made many friends there. Her special friend was the editor of the Jewish Forward; he was also the father of Lee J. Cobb. Jennie loved celebrity! The building was near the East Side Amphi-theatre where Joe Papp began his Shakespeare In The Park project in New York. This was my excuse for visiting Jennie as often as possible when, in her mid-sixties she was diagnosed with hardening of the arteries of the heart– as it was called back then. The procedures to clear out those arteries didn’t exist. Jennie was put on a strict diet and told that she had to change her life style; “take it easy.” This was not acceptable to Jennie. In the fall of 1957, several of her brothers were coming to visit her, knowing how ill she was. In preparation for their visit, Jennie cooked up a storm. Minnie traveled out to Grand Street to help her. After she left one day, Jennie decided to scrub her carpets. On her hands and knees. That night Minnie had to return to Grand Street, call an ambulance and travel with Jennie to the hospital. Jennie did not survive.

It was probably Minnie’s hope that the secret of Harry and Jennie would be buried with Jennie. However, I discovered the secret although my brothers didn’t know for years. The family loved to have skeletons rattling around in every closet. The week after Jennie died, my mother who was shattered and inconsolable, stayed up late looking at photographs. I sat with her having come home to Brooklyn from college in Pittsburgh. Wonderful old photos. One of them was of my grandmother, very young, standing behind a man seated in a chair. Remembering an old joke about old wedding photographs – “the man sits because he’s too tired to stand and the woman stands because she’s too sore to sit” – I was suddenly struck by the “typical” pose and teased my mom that it was obviously a wedding picture. I was kidding. Mom cried out – “who told you??” She was distressed and relieved at the same time. She was able to tell me the Frank Miller story. We sat up all night. We pulled the skeletons out of all the closets one by one.

Alek Miller, Frank Miller’s father, who came to visit and whom we’d visit in Philadelphia was an enigma. We had photos of him and portraits we took with him as a
family. My mother never told us that he was her grandfather. I loved him enough to name my first-born son for him and probably would have done even if I’d never unearthed the secret. I never met Frank Miller. My mother would make secretive phone calls to a hospital/nursing home in Coney Island to check up on his well being. How peculiar all this seems now but how typical back then. Alek Miller was murdered for a little diamond pinky ring he wore. He was awfully poor in his old age and lived in one room with a hot plate for a kitchen. But he wore a straw skimmer and a stickpin and a little diamond pinky ring and smelled of talc and used a walking stick. He was murdered for his sense of style and his dignity.

Pal outlived Jennie by many years. He lived with Minnie in the house on East 10th Street. He was retired by then and certainly not the large, strong man who fought the influenza epidemic by drinking whiskey (while playing cards) non-stop for a week. At the same time, he tended to the very young Minnie and (as she always told it) saved her life by giving her alcohol rubs and fresh water and juice to drink. If I remember correctly, Jennie was hospitalized with the illness. So at the end of his life, my mother took care of him. They shared a history. They shared Jennie.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Brooklyn: Once Upon A Time

If I close my eyes I can almost hear my mother
Callin', "Go find your brother
Daddy's home, and it's time for supper
Hurry on" ……
Where's it gone Oh, where's it gone …..
I built me a castle
With dragons and kings
And I'd ride off with them
As I stood by my window
And looked out on those Brooklyn roads……
Thought of going back
But all I'd see are stranger's faces
And all the scars that love erases
But as my mind walks through those places
I'm wonderin' What's come of them
Does some other young boy
Come home to my room
Does he dream what I did
As he stands by my window
And looks out on those Brooklyn roads

.....................................Neil Diamond

Oh, dear -- she's back to Brooklyn again. Honestly, there's a reason. A couple. A few. On NPR this morning, a sports writer was professing that black athletes made it possible for Barack Obama to approach the White House. He made an interesting case: from athletes to movie heroes to political figures to the presidency. And somehow -- well, it seemed obvious to me at the time -- I thought of Jackie Robinson and the Brooklyn Dodgers. And then I thought of Brooklyn. When it was our world.

Reason number two: My younger brother and his wife are coming to Boston next week and taking me to dinner. I know that sounds like a rather typical event. It isn't. I'm going to see my brother, and nobody died. This is huge! No funeral, no wedding, no bar mitzvah. Just dinner. Wow! And I'm not being facetious.

Reason number three: My buddy Sharon Louise and I saw Neil Diamond in the movies about 100 years ago. And we literally slid down our seats and almost wound up on the floor. It's Sharon's birthday, and I bought her a copy of the new CD I heard by Neil recently; just Neil and his guitar. The DJ was impressed by the artist's brilliance at the ripe old age of 67. Piffle!!! Listening to the wonderful CD, I recalled that Neil is a landsman of mine -- a pizan -- a Brooklyn boy.

Reason number four: On July 27th 2008, Walter O'Malley -- the owner of the Dodgers who moved the team to LA.-- will be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Those of us who remember those days, are no doubt wondering what makes him deserve such an honor. Not fame, but infamy is more appropriate.

So all of these synchronistic ingredients seemed to deserve another trip back. Although I've dragged you there before -- I promise you, we haven't scratched the surface. Because it's summer time, I think about Coney Island. I think about Steeplechase: Edward Tilyou's fabulous park at Coney Island. We loved it because it contained the best rides and if the weather was bad, we could still go there, be inside, and have lots of fun. It closed in 1964. I really believe that if Coney Island were brought back to its former glory, people would come from all over the world to be there. It would rival Disney. The Steeplechase Horse ride, the Parachute, -- Nathan's, Shatzkins Knishes, the arcades along Surf Avenue....... Coney Island also had (I think it's still there) the biggest roller coaster in the world called the Cyclone. I don't know if it still has that distinction. I rode the Cyclone once. I never rode it again. 'Nuf said.


On New Year's morning, my Dad would wake me up. We'd bundle up and drive to Coney Island. We'd have hot dogs and knishes for breakfast with hot coffee or tea, and we'd take our feast to the boardwalk. The "Brownies --" a club that went swimming on New Year's Day -- would be diving into the freezing Atlantic Ocean, and Dad would laugh and laugh at the madness. I wonder now if he wished he had the courage to do that himself. Maybe he did do that, growing up in Rockaway Beach; maybe he was revisiting his youth. Coney Island was mine.
Brooklyn was about neighborhoods. My neighborhood was really my street. East 10th Street between Avenue I and Avenue H -- partitioned by the trains at the end of our block. Coney Island Avenue ran
parallel to East 10th Street; street cars/trolley cars ran on Coney Island Avenue from Prospect Park to Brighton Beach. Several blocks in the opposite direction was Ocean Parkway. Back in the day, Ocean Parkway had the road for autos of course, but also a bicycle path, an equestrian path, and a promenade lined with benches. One could rent a horse at Prospect Park stables and ride along Ocean Parkway. All that has changed. It's now the Prospect Expressway or something similarly unfortunate. My street was part of Flatbush. It was in essence a village. For example: we didn't have supermarkets. We had Seymour's Grocery Store around the corner. My mom could phone and they'd deliver. My mom would give the delivery boy a sack of deposit bottles for his tip. On the "Avenue," (that was Avenue J for us), there was Stern's Bakery for bread, the fish market, the deli with barrels of pickles out front ("a nickel for a pickle"), the butcher, the pharmacy, and so forth. I remember doing the shopping for my mom, going to the Avenue with my list, stopping in two, three or more shops, and schlepping it all home in a European shopping bag. It was very much like Europe back then. But of course most of the inhabitants were immigrants -- from every where. My friends and I would meet on the Avenue. At the "frozen custard stand." That's what today's soft serve was originally called. They also served the famous Charlotte Russe: a cylindrical cardboard container with a slice of pound cake in the bottom, fresh whipped cream filling to the top, and a maraschino cherry to complete the sin. The bottom of the cup could be pushed up, making it easier to get to all of the cream and the cake (if one cared about the cake). We remember with our senses -- the smells, the tastes, the sounds, the textures of so many little things that make up our lives. On my one big trip abroad, my son and I were in Paris and, walking past a bakery, I saw these cookies that looked exactly the same as the cookies we bought at Stern's bakery. Could it be possible?? Stern's was called a French Bakery. I went in and bought one cookie. It was the same cookie! I almost wept. It was like finding a lost friend. (how silly?) I bought a whole box. We could never eat it all; it didn't matter.

Our village had a downtown neighborhood with lovely shops and department stores - Abraham and Strauss; and the huge Paramount theatre. Built in 1928 by Paramount Studios, the theatre had 4,124 seats. It was closed in 1962 -- the same year the gorgeous Roxy theatre in Manhattan was torn down. The Paramount now serves as a gymnasium for Long Island University -- a rather unusual transformation. The original Wurlizer organ is still in place and still maintained and played for college basketball games. I went to the Paramount as a young teenager with my girlfriends to see Johnny Ray. All the girls completely lost it -- screaming and carrying on. I couldn't deal. Well, I couldn't even hear Johnny sing. I went to the phone to call my Dad, to ask him how to get home. He laughed! He told me to go across the street to Juniors Restaurant, to get a table, to order the Triplet sandwich plate for him (three neat rolls with corned beef on one, chopped liver on one, and pastrami on the third). I ordered two Triplet plates and my Dad showed up in twenty minutes. I was never a candidate for pop concerts! We also had the Brooklyn Academy of Music, which continues to be a cultural force in Brooklyn. Great beaches; restaurants; schools. I went to Midwood High School which stood/stands next to Brooklyn College.
The writer, Erich Segal, graduated from Midwood. So did Woody Allen. Actually, lots of famous people came out of Brooklyn: actors, writers, Nobel prize winners, astronauts, politicians. Midwood High was also famous for a student-run musical event called SING! which was started by Bella Tillis, a music teacher at Midwood, in 1947. I never joined SING! when I was a student. The music teacher at P.S.99 used to walk through the auditorium at assembly, listen to us singing, and tap out the ones she said had to be "whisperers" because we didn't sing well enough. As the music teacher, one would think Mrs. Lefrack might have taught us how to sing. But I brought that voice in my head to high school and never participated in the production.
(A film was made about Sing! a number of years ago.)

My daughter (who is an ardent Red Sox fan) won't forgive me if I don't mention baseball. Well, you can't talk about old Brooklyn without the Dodgers. They were called the Superbas, later the Trolley Dodgers, and in 1913 -- the Dodgers. Then the Robins. In 1931, the Brooklyn Dodgers once again. It was possible in the 1950's to go to Ebbets Field, get a ticket, see a game. It was affordable enough for my brother and me to go, see a game, eat hot dogs, drink cokes, -- all with pocket money. One year, for Mother's Day, my brother Matt bought tickets to a game to take my mom. We all went, but mom was NOT very happy. Baseball was not her glass of tea! Folks dressed up to go to the games. Well, folks dressed nicely to go anywhere in public. If you watch classic baseball on the tv, you'll see what I mean. I always make a fuss about why it was more fun to go to a game back in the day. There was no "instant replay" to confuse you; and a great announcer called the game. So you knew exactly what was happening even if you were in the cheap seats. The Dodgers won the World Series in 1955. I was in downtown Brooklyn with my classmates from Midwood -- we were putting our school newspaper to bed. Suddenly, a huge explosion resounded for miles. And everything stopped.

Buses stopped in the middle of the streets and everyone including the drivers ran out screaming and cheering. Subway trains stopped and had to be coaxed into stations so the passengers could get off. People abandoned their cars to run out and join the party that enveloped the borough. I don't remember how I got home from there. I know it wasn't simple. When I hear the names of the players it's like hearing the names of family long gone: Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges, Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Carl Furillo, Duke Snyder, Don Newcombe, Carl Erskine, Clem Labine, Sandy Koufax.....many more, of course. The Dodgers left Brooklyn for LA in 1957. Brooklyn has never really recovered. It was unthinkable; a death in the family. In Pittsburgh, 1958 or 1959, I walked into our campus hangout -- a benign bar nick-named The Greeks (because the fraternity boys were always there). I was with my roommate, Margie Parker. Sitting at a booth with another guy was Sandy Koufax. I didn't faint. I walked up to him (unusual for me) and said in my best little girl voice -- "Hi Mr. Koufax. I'm from Brooklyn; and I'm a fan." Sandy invited us to join them. They bought a round of drinks and we talked. He took my number and the next time the team was in Pittsburgh, someone called with a message that two tickets were waiting at the Forbes Field -- the Pirates stadium at the time. A very special guy, Mr. Koufax.

I can't take you back with me. To play stick ball, potsy, jacks; to sit on the stoop; to go to the Candy Store -- sometimes called the luncheonette -- for an ice cream cone or, better still, a Mello Roll. The ice cream was in the shape of a cylinder, and placed in a suitably shaped cone. The trick was to unroll the ice cream from its paper wrapper without dropping it on the ground. I always dropped it on the ground. I hated Mello Rolls. But ice cream sodas -- yes! -- and a malted milk; sundaes to die for; sitting at the soda fountain. There should still be soda fountains!

I don't remember when it was -- not that long ago -- a woman asked me where I came from originally. I told her Brooklyn. She said in all sincerity, "What a great place to be from!" I don't think that had ever consciously occurred to me until she said that. Yes. Yes, indeed.

Shooting ducks in Coney Island

Mickey on the right; Manny shooting; Ros and Larry