Tuesday, May 27, 2008

In Search of Higgins

Almost eighteen years ago, I met two little West Highland White Terriers and fell in love. Since my workday was always 7:00 am to 7:00 pm, and I was living in apartments that discouraged pets, I didn't pursue my desire to have a Westie of my own. Higgins became sort of my phantom dog; lots of birthday cards arrived with Higgins look-alikes on them. For years. I decided last year that it was way past time, that I need a little dog to keep me sane (???), that with my daughter in the same town to help out in an emergency, et cetera et cetera. Now the next step(s) should be fairly easy, wouldn't you think? Right.

Step One: I'd like to adopt an adult dog. Adopt -- because so many dogs are abandoned each year. Adult -- because they might be harder to place being all grown up. And because they might already be housebroken -- a really good thing since I've never had a dog of my own before. Also, I might actually be able to afford the fees. And there are so many resources: rescue organizations; shelters; friends of.....; a plethora of groups dedicated to enticing you to save a pet. Okay. I start the process. First, I visit the local Animal Rescue offices that rarely have small adult dogs, or if they do get one in -- he/she is gone quickly, so you have to phone daily (?) and then get over there immediately. Phew. Next, I fill out online applications (EVERYTHING is online!) for many (MANY) of the aforementioned. Some even request small deposit fees, to which I comply. (never hear from these folks again!) References -- absolutely. Now, almost all of these organizations want applicants who do not work (in order to be around 24/7 for the dog;) have lots of money (in order to afford the medical, grooming, etc., and rather large adoption fees -- I thought this was rescue?); have no small children in their lives (in order to avoid competing with the needs of the dog); and either have no other pets -- or if your desired dog comes from a puppy mill, then you must already have a socialized dog to help the new adoptee along. AND -- even though these groups are advertising available pets nationally, just about all of them will NOT permit adoption to out of state applicants even if one is willing to make the trip to fetch the dog. Of course most of the Westies I see online in need of homes are in Missouri or Louisiana or California. I remain positive. I even have my small backyard patch made secure so that Higgins won't be in danger of taking off, or of going out there to destroy my little garden only to encounter someone elses wayward pet. I would go directly to a pet store, but I'm warned often against them because most of those puppies come from puppy mills. (where a dog is kept caged for years at a time and used to produce babies.) Yes, there are respectable breeders, but remember I'm looking for an adult dog. sigh.....

I have not as yet found Higgins. No kidding.

Step Two: To simplify matters for myself -- I began a campaign to find a job in the town where I now reside. Eliminating a long commute would make it easier to tend to the needs of Higgins, make me more appealing to the "adoption agencies," and give me back three hours a day. Oh, I am soooo naive! Remember: I am, indeed, a woman of a certain age. I have, this past year, applied for at least a dozen positions to which my resume speaks volumes. Too many volumes, apparently. Being "over-qualified," or being "very experienced," is now a simile for being too old for their tastes. And -- just to digress for a minute -- they lie so badly! Why do they lie at all?? Today I had a call telling me I didn't get a job because "the owner of the company hired someone he's worked with before." This is a popular excuse. (sort of like --'I was absent because my grandmother died.' A former student of mine used that excuse so often I counted six grandmothers.) Which is as insulting as not getting a job because of age. (especially if one is told at the outset that the owner is not involved in the hiring process on any level.) And being always interviewed by someone in their twenties (sorry if I offend anyone in their twenties) who hasn't any experience interviewing applicants -- well, you get the picture.

So I guess I'm up to Step Three: Ha! I'm not sure what that is -- except perhaps, forging ahead. Continuing to commute while continuing to apply for North Shore jobs. Saving some money for adoption fees. Buying at least two lottery tickets a week - to invoke instant retirement. And telling the Universe that if a Westie named Higgins is looking for me, I'm waiting at home.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

The Great Train Fantasy

"The train is rolling down the track,
Listen to the wheels go clickety clack,

Over the bridge, around the bend,

Taking me for a ride."

The Train Song
by Phil Rosenthal

"Down by the station
early in the morning,
See the little puffer-bellies all in a row.
See the engine driver
pull his little lever...
Puff, puff, Toot, toot,
Off we go!"
Down by the Station by Will Hillenbrand


Maybe it's because I grew up listening to the sound of the trains at the end of our street. Lulling me to sleep at night the way the ocean's waves have always done. Maybe it's because my younger brother had a full Lionel Train layout in the basement of our house, and visiting it was entering another world. More than likely it's because when I was about 8 years old, my dad, mom, brother Matt and myself traveled from New York to California by train. You can get to California by train even now, but it's not the same trip. From New York, we rode the Union Pacific to Chicago -- that was a day trip. Then we transferred to the famous Southern Pacific. We had a family size compartment with a private lavatory and four sleeping berths. The dining room on the train had tables set with crisp, white cloths and lovely little lamps. There were chefs in the kitchen preparing meals to order. I remember best the breakfast of French Toast made with French bread. There was a domed observation car where you could view the scenery from all sides. The lounge car had little desks with real stationary in the drawers. And a piano that was played in the evenings by a musician. There was a barber shop on board; a valet compartment where ones shoes could be shined and ones clothes brushed and pressed. There was even a little shop that sold newspapers, magazines, candy, etc. A hotel on rails. My brother and I ran around the train for four days and never got bored.
We visited San Francisco for a couple of days and then took another brilliant train to Los Angeles: The Inland Lakes Railroad. It was only a day trip but elegant.
To return home, we again boarded the Southern Pacific. An unforgettable journey.
Many years later, I once more crossed the country by train. This time with my husband and our son, Alex. We went from Pittsburgh to San Jose, California. When we boarded the Southern Pacific in Chicago, it was like a ghost train. The cars with the barber shop, etc., were still there, but the compartments were boarded up. The piano sat dilapidated and out of tune. The dining rooms had paper cloths and the food was essentially frozen meals heated up. The sleeping compartments were still very nice and the stewards were helpful and friendly. But the real elegance of the trip was gone. Most folks didn't miss it because they never experienced the "way it was."

Maybe it's a genetic thing -- this love of trains. Alex was mad about trains growing up. For one of his birthdays when he was very young, we had a cake that was a train -- well, three cars of a train. It was really charming, and we had a difficult time cutting into it. He always wanted a train set of his own. He might still have one some day. In our old house in Beverly, we talked about having a train track suspended from the kitchen ceiling, then in and out of the sun room.

When my son Jamie and I traveled in Europe (a gift of a dear friend), we had the great fun of riding the Eurorail from Paris to Venice, then Venice to Vienna; from there to Munich and then Frankfort. We had window seats facing each other in first class compartments, and decided that these were Miss Marple trains. After that trip I decided that near the top of my bucket list would be a trip on the Orient Express. That has to be the most luxurious train still operating. I believe the Canadian Railroad has wonderful trips as well. But I fear that kind of train travel in the States is now just American Folklore.
Everyone is in too much of a hurry to travel long distance by train on a regular basis. But it's really an amazing way to see our country.

What brought all this on? Well, my three year old granddaughter, Keira, loves trains. All trains are Thomas to Keira. The Wenham Museum here on Boston's North Shore has a terrific display of model trains in beautiful layouts. Trains of all sizes (gauges). Keira delights in going there because she can play "conductor" and make the trains go and stop with the press of a finger. She also has had a wish to go to a place called Yakima (which is a real city in Washington State). Something that came about from a Disney TV show that she watches. For a few months now, I was frequently greeted with, "Gramma -- I want to go to Yakima." Making the trek to Washington State isn't easily accomplished. But the opportunity to take Keira on a real train ride and arrive in Yakima -- well - Keira, Clea (Keira's mom) and I took the Downeaster from Boston to Dover, NH, telling Keira that we were going to Yakima - (a huge deception, I know). Clea even found an on-line site selling t-shirts from everywhere including Yakima. So Keira came back sporting an Everyone Loves a Yakima Girl t-shirt. It was a delight really. Watching Keira board the huge Amtrak train. I chose Dover because it's a 1 hour and 15 minute ride -- just long enough for the little girl. Clea and I had never been there, so this was something of an adventure for us, too. We arrived at lunch time; strolled the downtown area. Ate at a very friendly restaurant. Then we spent an hour in an amazing second-hand bookstore. Keira LOVES bookstores. This one appeared to be rather small upon entering but then room after room after room appeared. We finally found the children's collection, and Keira made some very good choices. I had already been thinking about this entry and had tried for several days to find the lyrics to the song Down by the station without any luck. No one I asked remembered the lyrics and the internet didn't give them up. In the kid's section of the bookstore, the book by Will Hillenbrand just came to hand. Very synchronistic. We walked some more through the town, had ice cream, and boarded the train back to Boston just as the rains came. Not much of a Sunday? Almost to North Station, Keira curled up in her mom's lap and said, "Mommy, I like Yakima." There is, after that, nothing more to say.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

Good Ole Days Opus Two: Varenitchkas

We’ve talked before about my Brooklyn roots, and that I grew up in the house on East 10th Street. It wasn’t a very big house. There were three steps up to a wooden porch with three small pillars holding up its roof. A solid wooden door opened to a small vestibule with small white and black marble tiles on the floor. Another door with glass panes opened into the living room, which had three windows to the porch, a fireplace, and to the left of the fireplace, French doors to the dining room. Lots of doors to small spaces. From the living room a narrow hallway led back to the kitchen, and a few steps in front of you when you walked into the house was a stairway to the bedroom level. The kitchen of my childhood was old fashioned and had a back porch that was screened in. The basement had a coal stove, and Dad shoveled coal into it twice a day. On winter mornings we dressed in front of the lighted kitchen oven, because it took quite a while for the house to heat up. There was a side door that led either down to the cellar or up to the kitchen, and that’s where the milkman left the bottles. His arrival and the clanking of those bottles was our daily alarm clock. We had a small back yard that was a victory garden all through World War II. Beyond the back yard, were the lots. Brooklyn was famous for its “lots.” Big open spaces that eventually became used car lots or other atrocities. When we were kids, it was like a big park with lots of trees and harmless little creatures scurrying around and berry bushes and Blue Birds.

We’d sit out on the front porch in the evenings. Mom and Grandma would eat pistachio nuts. Grandpa Pal would smoke his cigar. Dad would walk to the “avenue” for Breyer’s ice cream and the Herald Tribune Seventh Sports Final. My brothers and I would catch fireflies. Or try to. The next morning, it was my job to sweep up the pistachio nut shells. Until after World War II, the street lights on our block were powered by gas; they were enchanting. Every evening this man carrying a ladder would come down the street and light the lamps. Now that’s charming! The milkman drove a cart pulled by a horse; so did the “I cash clothes” man. A very musical little truck/van came periodically to sharpen knives. In the summer, a truck would show up now and then with a “ride” on it; a small merry-go-round with horses similar to the ones we see in front of stores in today’s world. And always the Good Humor man came with Spring. Our Good Humor man was Frankie. He was our Good Humor man from the time
I was very little until I went off to college and the ice cream trucks stopped arriving. People visited each other on Sundays. Relatives, friends; mom would put a roast or other slow cooking-feed-the-masses meal in the oven every Sunday morning. And the company would come – never invited; always expected. I can hear you saying, "Jeez, she must be 103!" Only once in a while.
I don’t say that those were better days. Given the war and the Holocaust and the scary times that followed, those days were far from great. We had blackouts, and air raid drills, and ration books. Jennie was an air raid warden.
But there was something reassuring then that doesn’t exist now which seems odd to say since we were at war . Maybe because there were relatively fewer people so there were less crowds. Kids played in the street: Red light – Green light; Giant Steps; Johnny May I Cross Your River. We jumped rope, and played rhyming games with high bouncing balls called Spaldenes. The boys played stick ball; or games with marbles; and a game called territory that required a pen knife. (Only in a very small, not respectable part of Brooklyn would that game be dangerous.) I traveled alone on the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan for my dance classes every Saturday from the time I was 10 years old. We’ve lost something. And it’s missed as well as missing. I know this because so many of the souvenirs sold in New York City today, are reproductions of New York in the 1950’s and before. I’m not the only one recalling yesterday.

I have these scenarios in my head. My kids probably call them “the same old stories;” I always wanted to make them into movies. A friend suggested once that I tape them. Tell the stories since I couldn’t film them. I started to – I called them “The Talkies.” (cute?) Didn’t get very far. Not really sure who'd want to read about it. Life on East 10th Street wasn’t as colorful as Neil Simon’s trilogy of Brooklyn plays. Although some of the images are actually quite colorful. Some of the movies in my head are quite dangerous. (We’re talking World War II after all). And some are just endearing. Like the varenitchkas story.

The kitchen of the house was Grandma Jennie’s domain. The kitchen and the sewing room. One warm day – summer perhaps – Jennie made varenitchkas; sort of kreplach or ravioli or pierogi filled with pitted cherries, boiled, and then sprinkled with powdered sugar. Sometimes she’d brown them in the oven or fry them to make them crispy. I liked them boiled and soft and sweet. We lived on a dead end street as I’ve said, with train tracks at the bottom. During the war the usual freight trains gave way to transport trains, and mostly it was soldiers who were being transported. This very warm day, there was a traffic jam on the tracks and, during the delay, the soldiers came out of the cars and strolled up the hill to the fence. I remember running into the house to tell my mother and grandmother about this stunning event: all these boys lining the fence on the other side and smoking cigarettes and asking the gawking kids for water. Grandma tied an apron around my waist, filled a bowl with varenitchkas, gave me a wad of napkins and sent me back to offer the treat to the soldiers. Then she followed with a pitcher of ice water and a tray of glasses.

I see myself there – four or five years old, blonde curly hair, big eyed; awed by these gorgeous guys in uniform. (All guys in uniform were gorgeous during the war.) They reached through the wire fence to scoop the sweet dough from the bowl. I remember them all as blonde and tall and handsome. And Grandma – who was a sucker for a guy in uniform – flirting with them. They visited with us for more than an hour. I was sent back to the house to refill the pitcher, and returned to see the train pulling away. I broke into tears. I hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. I still see their perfect faces in my imperfect memory and wonder sometimes how many of them came back and if they ever recalled the brief delay on East 10th street in Brooklyn where they ate varenitchkas and drank cool water. Of course I want them to remember the little blonde girl who wept when they left without goodbye.

Benjie Zadok rode by on his bike one day yelling, "The President is dead! The President is dead!" I ran into the house to tell Mom and Grandma. They turned on the radio, and then they wept. Everyone wept. For days and days it seemed. Only the death of President Kennedy equalled that great sense of loss from Americans and from the world when FDR passed away. The war ended with two celebrations -- VE day and VJ day. And two of Grandma's nephews came home through New York City. She had big welcome home signs made and strung them up across the front of the house. Our close friend, Lt. Murray Blum, didn't come home. He was a merchant marine who died saving sailors whose ship had blown up. It wasn't until I was in college at 17 that I put all of this lived-through history into perspective. But, absurd as it seems, I grew up believing that my part in the war, my personal contribution was serving varenitchkas to beautiful boys on their way to war. Innocence is such a gift.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

When Everyday is Monday.....

Is this the life you dreamed for yourself?
…..A life where every day is Monday.
There used to be a weekend,
but now it’s always Monday……
coat on, coat off. Sweat in summer,
freeze in winter….
you’re old, you’re getting old
You sneeze, you have a cold.
No, that was last month. No, it’s now.
Which is now and which is then?
...you used to be a clever boy!
…..Clifford Odets
Rocket to the Moon


Once a week I’m a volunteer reader for the blind with an organization called RFBD – Reading for the Blind and Dyslexic. (http://www.rfbd.org/ You can do it, too. They have studios all over the country and there is no pre-requisite except the ability to read). This past week I read two acts of Rocket to the Moon by Clifford Odets – ergo the quote above. I walked around with those words on the edges of my mind all weekend, and finally went and bought a copy of the play.

Mondays. My brother, Matt, phoned me several times a week after he received the “golden handshake” from the company he had worked for since college days. This was unusual; he wasn’t in the habit of phoning me at all. It continued until he found his new direction. The first call set the tone: he was depressed. It was a Sunday evening. He told me he had always been depressed on Sunday evenings. “What’s that about?” he asked. “Memory recall from school days? Hated going to school the next day?” I asked. We settled on that for awhile. But, in a later conversation, I asked him if he was depressed because Monday was the beginning of the work-week and maybe he’d hated his job. He didn’t think he had. But what came after his forced retirement made Sunday nights a lot more pleasant. He took control of his life; he became a consultant. He traveled. He wrote a book. Could he have done this without being coerced? Probably. Would he have left the security of corporate America to strike out on his on? Probably not. The universe did him a scary, wonderful favor.

Mondays. Another close relative told me that she refused to associate with anyone who wasn’t doing what they really wanted to be doing. Well, tah! Not everyone can; that’s why so many New York restaurants employ actors-in-waiting! The economics of our culture make it difficult to stay alive, to keep our families in health and hearth and home, while pursuing our dreams. Some folks put it off until later – until “retirement.” My Dad did that: planning to teach and to travel when he took early retirement from the State at 52. He died at 50. Clearly, my adamant relative has never had to make the choice.

Mondays. Arthur Miller’s one-act play, Memory of Two Mondays, is based on his own struggle to make a living during the Depression of the 1930s, working in a warehouse. (Only play I’ve ever seen with a toilet - enclosed of course - right in the middle of the stage. Characters keep going in and out and flushing.) The play looks at a young man dreaming of going to college, while surrounded by folks stumbling about, dejected and without hope. Obviously, Miller made his way out using his exceptional talent and divine intervention.

Some people don’t know what they want to do. I think that’s worse than anything. They stand in their own way. If Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way doesn’t help them discover themselves, I am short on suggestions. Except to say – if you’re unhappy doing what you’re doing, try something else. Make the search an adventure. But often, one is not alone; there’s a dependent family. And risk. There can also be a plan. Have you ever seen the movie, The Rookie? It’s a baseball movie (I love baseball movies). In this one, Dennis Quaid is coach of a high school baseball team. He discovers that his dream to pitch in the majors has not died; nor has his talent. He has three children; and is blessed with a wife who cares that he have that dream. Very entertaining. Very inspiring. Not a Cinderfella story at all; no fairy god-mother makes it happen. He – with the support of his loved ones – makes it happen.

My son, Alex, had a dream as a kid to work for Apple Computer. His path to Apple was one step after the other. He didn’t have to dig ditches – thank you, Universe.
He got the education; he got the jobs that led to that job. He tested himself doing the work. (Living in California for 16 years, he won’t come east in winter unless someone dies.) My son, Jamie, had a dream to be an actor. His path was more convoluted – climbing in and out of the ditches; doing makeup at Bloomingdales between theatre jobs. Getting advanced degrees; learning new skills. After 20+ years of continuous work and perseverance, he has a major role in the USA tour of Spamalot. Both these guys have had their Mondays. But a whole week of them?? I don’t think so.

When I was fortunate to work full-time at what I truly loved, there were no Mondays. But that didn’t last; so to pay my bills I do the work that I can. Doing what I love fills every other gap. It was, I believe, George Eliot who wrote: It’s never too late to be what you might have been. Getting close doesn’t suck either. When all else fails, take another look at Shel Silverstein’s wonderful little book: The Missing Piece. Because even if it is too late to become what we might have been, maybe it’s the journey itself that will get us past an abundance of Mondays. If not, I cherish the three-day weekend.