Friday, November 26, 2010

The Jewish Santa of Philadelphia

This is apparently an oxymoron; it is also a true tale of a very unusual man. He was my mother's second husband, after the death of my father. I need to go back a bit -- I'll make every attempt to keep it brief.
My maternal grandmother, Jennie, (you met her in earlier blogs) had an extensive family in various parts of Europe. The Mednicki part of the family that came to Philadelphia changed their surname to Mednick. Boris Mednick was a photographer; Boris's brother lived in Belgium where he and his family were when the Nazi's arrived on the scene. Bernard, Boris's nephew, had a son and daughter; he and his wife took the children and ran for it. Bernard joined the resistance and hid his family in the countryside. That journey is a book on its own. Suffice it to say that they survived the war, losing too many close relatives. The Philadelphia family located him and brought Bernard, his wife and children (three at this juncture) to the States. They put them up in an apartment, and there they were. We lived in Brooklyn. My dad's parents had a great old house in Rockaway Beach where folks from the city would come for weekends or weeks in the summers. Under the house was a shop, a "candy store" as it was called back in the day. (Dad had worked the shop to send himself to college.) Word reached my parents that Bernard and his family were struggling. So he helped them come out to Rockaway for a summer, promising them a lot of hard work, cramped quarters behind the store, but a profit in cash and goods that would get through the winter.
And so it was. Dad even helped Bernard locate his nephew and two nieces whose parents were killed in the war, and they brought the youngsters to Rockaway. And Dad helped in the shop on weekends. My dad kept his promise. And Bernard, whom the family called "Frenchy," did pretty well, and remained a fond cousin of our family.
Four years after my father's death at fifty years old, and the death of Bernard's wife, Bernard came to visit my mom and subsequently they were married. They lived a number of years in the Brooklyn house and then sold it and moved to Philadelphia. Bernard was not very tall, but he was broad and had grown a full white beard. I don't know how it exactly happened, but he was asked by a local school I think to play Santa for the children. Now, why would an aging Jew decide to be Santa? I believe that, in great part, it was because he loved being the center of attention. He actually was an extra in some movies and did some print work as well. Well, playing Santa turned into an annual event, with other organizations joining in. He was given his very own Santa outfit, and soon was riding in parades.
We called him Bonpapa. He was my children's grandpa -- my kids never knew my dad. All the children thought it a hoot that he was Santa Claus. One summer, while he and mom were visiting with us in Beverly, Massachusetts, we went to spend some time on the beach at Lynch Park. Mom sat under an umbrella. Bonpapa had my sons dig a hole in the sand, large enough for him to sit at the edge with his feet in the hole which the boys filled with water to keep him cool. Bonpapa was reading a book; just sitting there with his feet in his little water well, wearing his bathing suit and sun glasses. Mom and I looked up to see a long queue of children very quietly and patiently waiting for "Santa" to see them. I called to him. Discovering the eager flock, he took a pencil from behind his ear and began to write down their Christmas lists as they one at a time related their wishes to him. I regret to say none of us had a camera. He was, as you see from included pictures, very convincing -- even in August, without any costume at all.
He was then the age I am now, which simply doesn't seem possible. He was not a religious man, but his Jewish identity was as important to him as his Belgian/French heritage. But being able to impress the kids at Christmas, to listen to their secret desires, to hear the cheers when he rode into town, to visit the hospitals where he personified all of their Christmas celebration -- well, this was not a contradiction.
When my mom passed away, Bonpapa walked out of our lives and stopped being Santa as well. But I dare say that there are several generations of Philadelphians who will not forget the "real" Santa who had a French accent and sang songs to them in Yiddish. Gotta love it!!
Enjoy the festive season and let your memories keep you warm.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Notes from the Ice Floe

I rather expect that the repugnant custom in times of distress of putting old folks out on a sheet of ice to die is no longer practiced. (Given the atrocities human beings still commit upon each other in greed and rage, it wouldn't be so much a surprise if senicide still exists.) Of course I'm using it as a metaphor. Because people of a certain age (a changeable number for sure, depending on who's talking) are often put on ice as it were. I've experienced it in the job (or jobless) market. Here, one can doctor one's resume and leave off all numbers. In the interview, one needs also to avoid discussing the ages of one's kids or mention grandkids. One also has to spend a good deal of energy to avoid looking anything over sixty. None of this easy. Wear gloves!

So where does it not matter, one's age? In the Arts, you say. Actors of a certain age, especially women, will tell you that unless you're already a star the rare role will be reserved for that performer who is a star. Directors, writers, musicians, visual artists -- if you have made it you're set. No one doubts your talents or your mental powers or your creative prowess. If, however, you're still striving or starting out be prepared to be perceived as old. With all the negative attributes relegated to old age. A number of years ago there was a foundation that gave fellowships to women over 55 years of age for proposals of creative projects. It was very competitive, of course. I entered often. And although I never won, it was a possibility. A great many artistic competitions are designated for "early career" artists. Why can't an "early career" begin a bit late? I went to the film festival when my screenplay was a finalist. It would have been difficult there to find a participant or staff member over the age of thirty. I was the anomaly.

I suppose there is a judgment factor: if you haven't made it by now you never will! So what does this made it mean? New York Times best seller list? Broadway production? Symphony Hall? Paintings selling for over-the-top prices? Universal name recognition? And why is it ever too late? Oh, and the other weird situation I've experienced: if I were, for example, a Broadway director and offered to direct at a community theater, it would be a coup. If I come in with a solid resume of experience in regionals, it is scary. If my plays were published by a traditional publisher, that's something. If published by an unknown quantity: not so much. HOWEVER, if you can find my books on Amazon -- aha! that's something else!

I am probably ranting which wasn't my intention. I am finding it difficult to find even folks of my own age who believe in limitless possibilities. And I know that time is indeed a factor. More so than ever. But in my silly head I keep hearing Stephen Sondheim in that fabulous radio interview on his 80th birthday: "In my mind I am sixteen and I have promise." Me, too.


Saturday, September 18, 2010

Got God???


It would have been much more simple if I'd just gone along with the way things were. My dad would insist that was the way it was meant to be. But I was the way I was meant to be as well. The best of our home were the holidays. The traditional foods, decorations, blessings -- I loved all of that. And then we'd walk the short way to the synagogue -- the orthodox synagogue where my father worshipped. Women didn't sit with the men; our seats were in the balconies that lined the sides and the rear of the sanctuary. I did not like this very much; not being a part of it. (If you know me or have been following my blog I imagine you'd expect me to feel that way.) Some of the women prayed; many whispered to each other. Most sat and listened without understanding the Hebrew service. I was also sent to Hebrew school after public school several days a week, where the teachers were ill prepared to educate girls. We were supposed to be home learning to prepare gefilte fish. The boys would reach 13 years old, celebrate their bar mitzvah, and join the congregation. There was no such ceremony for the girls in the orthodoxy. When I was almost 16 I begged my dad to permit me to stop going to the classes. The teachers really didn't know what to do with me at that point, and it was past time to "self-graduate." He laughed and scratched his head, as he always did when faced with a conundrum. We talked once about my discomfort with the synagogue. He reminded me that in "our Father's world" one can prayer anywhere. I chose the beach; the sea. That became, in more than one way, my sanctuary.

Our home was not orthodox. And somehow I received a much more liberal message than was sent. Or I wasn't listening to any but my own voice. I married a classmate from college who was, of course, not Jewish. My dad was not a happy man. He argued with the rabbi who would perform the ceremony for weeks before the wedding. He attended under duress. It was a small gathering. My dad died a month to the day after my wedding from a post-operational embolism. My mother insisted it was my fault; I had caused so much stress by marrying the guy I was in love with. That was a load to carry around.

Years later, with three kids and a great old house two blocks from the ocean, I accepted a job at the local temple (a conservative synagogue) teaching "Yiddishkeit" to the kindergarten children. Yiddishkeit is the culture of Judaism: the music, the calendar, the life. The part of my up-bringing that I loved the most. I taught at the temple for nine years. With my husband's christmas trees, and the easter bunnies, and a deeply growing spiritualism that would eventually sustain me. We were part of a community. Several actually: the folks from the university where my husband taught; the neighbors of many faiths; the people from the temple. When my first son and later my second son were ready to be bar mitzvah, I fought and won the battle to sit beside him, to be called to the Torah, -- all honors typically given only to men. We changed the congregation forever. Then our visionary rabbi was forced out of his job. His replacement fired me. By that time I was teaching classes at many levels, including a post-confirmation class on Sunday mornings. I called it "In Search of Questions;" we listened to and spoke with interesting folks in our community and then, after the guests would leave, we'd discuss the conversation. A young woman from the community was engaged to a Chinese/Irish young man. They came to share their struggles with the class. When they left, the students addressed what would happen if they brought home the equivalent of this young man. Hell-fire and damnation; parents in mourning; a fairly unanimous nightmare. My oldest son was in the class. The others insisted he say what would happen in his home. His answer was, "My mom would take a crash-course in Chinese cooking." This got back to the new rabbi and I lost my job.

Worse than that was being called into the Hebrew School a few months later to be told to remove my adopted, transracial, Jewish daughter from the school. "She doesn't belong here." She couldn't learn the Hebrew language; she didn't have to. I wanted her to have that community.
None of this was the teachings of any God I could ever believe in. I truly believe that God didn't enter into it at all. The people in authority there hadn't discovered God yet.

Through the years we celebrated the holidays our own way -- with joy, love, and sharing of both. We celebrated the Jewish holidays, forgoing the synagogue and taking our prayers and thanks to the sea instead. We celebrated Christmas Tree, and easter bunny and the solstice and the equinox. We celebrated the harvests and all the seasons. We gave thanks for all of it and for each other. I think my mom probably thought me a heathen; I never tried to explain to her what she was poised to reject. That God for me was the universe and the energy it created that answered the energy we created. All that is good in the universe and in people -- that's what we are always thankful for. And all faiths -- calling this great and beautiful force by various names -- at their essence want the same things: peace, love, acceptance.

All of this brought on by the advent of the holy days. Happy autumn equinox; happy turning of the wheel; happy, happy new year.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Ode to the Morning Mile

Sunday morning. A cooling breeze seems like advance notice that autumn will arrive in two weeks. I am inspired to get out this morning at 7:30 -- well, to be honest it wasn't the glorious sunshine or the lovely breeze. It was my bathroom scale giving me notice that I'd gained #@$%&**! pounds without even trying. So I took off toward the ocean intentionally leaving my iPod on the kitchen table. The sound of the sea mixing with the rustling of the leaves -- like a taffeta skirt -- well, that's perfect music.

I walked with the dog walkers; the dogs attempt to grab my ankle. The walkers nod a greeting. All the morning walkers without four legged companions, however, do not fail to say "good morning" or "hello" or the like. At any other time of day (except an occasional evening) no one who passes you on these streets will say "hey" to you. The younger exercisers run by; older exercisers hold hands, and stop along their way to peer at houses or literally smell the flowers. Nice. Older though I be, I try to keep pace with a memory of a 15 minute mile. I was in my 40's then. Earlier than that I'd run/jog. I wasn't awfully good at it -- the running thing. Oh, I did okay on a tread mill; on the street I'd look like Groucho Marx half way home. These days I am lucky to have a delightful walking partner a few evenings a week. Paulette and I keep a comfortable pace, and usually walk the prescribed 30 minutes -- often an hour. I believe I walk faster when I'm alone; perhaps I can't walk and talk at the same time. But it's great fun to talk with Paulette. And to laugh. A morning walk will have to be an "also" not an "instead of."

I pass Lynch Park; here there is lots of green and a playground for the kids; two beach areas; an amphi-theatre, and a round about walk with great views of the ocean.
But I'm heading for the lighthouse a bit further on. All of this is the best of the town I live in. I'd say "now," but really it is "again." We had a great old house here "back in the day." It required lots of love and we happily gave it all we could. We lived in it for 13 years; I had to sell it then. I moved my family to Brookline, MA where -- after a year and a half of difficulty -- I was hired to be the Artistic Director of a children's theater company. We lived in Brookline for six years in two different apartments. Then I moved to an attic in Jamaica Plain. At this point I was living alone. Huge adjustment. I was in J.P. for 9 years. I got very lucky and found a sweet apartment back in Beverly where we'd had our house. I lived there for 4 years; commuting to my job in Boston (the theater job had run its course). So that was a new experience, traveling with the commuters every day. In February of 2002, I moved to Fort Lee, NJ, and, after several really trying months, I got a job in Manhattan. I won't go into the circumstances of why and how I moved to New Jersey, or why and how I moved back to Beverly in the summer of 2006. Typing it here, all this moving around really sounds like the marathon it was. But Beverly holds a good deal of history for me and memories of the happy days raising my kids and creating/operating my own theatre company. And it is a coastal town with wonderful views of the ocean.

I walk back the same way I came. It's Labor Day weekend and folks who live close to the ocean are packing their cars to spend the weekend at other places close to the ocean. The various floatation devices being tossed into suvs are a dead give-away. A car with New Hampshire plates is unpacking enough equipment to camp out for a weekend, never mind the day. Grills, coolers, baskets, play stuff for the kids. Even a small tent. Maybe a party is in the works? I drive the route later on in the morning to see how many miles I walked and how fast. It turned out to be 3.6 miles round trip, and I walked it in a bit under 80 minutes. That translates to 22 minutes a mile. A bit slower than I'd like; I think a 20 minute mile is possible for me. So before the snows fly, and while the last of summer and the glorious New England autumn provides mornings like the one today, I'll throw myself out of the door in the a.m. and chase the 20 minute mile and perhaps a four mile route. It will be nice to be greeted each morning by perfect strangers; to see the sun bounce off the calm inlets; to feel new possibility with every mile; and to give less work to my overly enthusiastic bathroom scale. I never was a "morning person." Over the years, I had no choice but to get up earlier and earlier to arrive at various jobs on time. So perhaps I've become a morning person. Walking the walk on quiet streets, with air so fine and the sea so calming -- yes, I'll do this again.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Children of the Myth

In 1993, there was a reunion in Chicago. It was an important gathering of my maternal grandmother's family. She was Jennie Prizant and she had six younger brothers. They were all dynamic, vivacious, egocentric, and gorgeous. And gone from the planet by 1993. The reunion was of their off-spring and their off-spring. Important if the family, spread out from coast to coast, was to continue as an entity. There were three more reunions in the years after; I was able to get to two of them. The last one was in 2003. Many of the children of the original seven are gone. The next generation doesn't really keep in touch. At least not with me. Some maybe. It's sad in a way. All that energy.

As I write this, one of my favorite cousins -- probably my favorite -- is busy dying in California. There are so few people left with whom I share history -- the history of my life before marriage and kids and grandkids. Jerry is one of those people who takes with him when he leaves my ability to say -- "remember that?" about so many events that we were privy to. Gerald Prizant inherited the vivacity, the humor, the sense of theatre that his father and the rest of the previous Prizant generation were known for. Jerry would have been in his element as the radio announcer in "Good Morning, Vietnam." That kind of pizzazz. When I arrived at the 1993 reunion, Jerry was the first relative I saw. He spotted me when I was still 100 yards away and began a monologue that picked up a conversation we'd had years and years ago. Didn't miss a beat. I laughed so hard I was crying by the time I was close enough to hug the guy.

In an earlier blog -- The Legend of Jennie Prizant -- I gave a bit of the family picture. I'll try not to be redundant here. Now I hope I get the order right: Jennie, Chaim, Abe, Joe, Harry, Jules, Ed. Jerry's father was Jules; a complicated man. Jerry could do no right. To exert his independence, he joined the army. After that, he became a school teacher. Probably not an auspicious enough career for Jules. Jerry, however, was his own man.

The Prizant brothers were fabled. From their ability to party -- dancing, drinking, singing, performing for hours on end -- to their storied elegance. Their provenance was cloudy; their joie de vivre was everything. Most of them were judgmental and overly critical. They had the ambience of movie stars. How could their kids possibly compete?

Some of them slid into the genre easily. Most did not. Most had to really work at it. But these qualities are not easily learned, nor are they essential -- except to those who want to be "like dad." Joe's son, Nick, had the glamour and the same under-lay of adolescence. Two of his sisters exuded glamour. The third sister had the same kind of enthusiasm as our Jerry. Harry's sons, both extremely handsome, seemed to work hard at being like their dad. Harry was a charmer, and, in the absence of Chaim (who was an actor in Yiddish theatre) the leader of the pack. Ed could have been a film star. He worked in the industry as an electrician. He didn't have children. Abe was a dear man. He could party with the rest of them, but had an easy humility that gave his two sons and two daughters authenticity. Abe was a milkman -- cart and horse. Really.

By 1993 my mother, Jennie's only daughter, had passed away. My brothers and myself represented Jennie's arm of the family. I brought my son, Jamie, to the party. Jamie's an actor with much the look and aura of the original Prizants. He held up well.

In the summers of my last two high school years and early college years, my folks would send me to Chicago for a week to visit with Uncle Harry and his wife, Pepi (Pauline). My dad would take me to "Rose's Dress Shoppe" around the corner and buy me a couple of really sharp outfits, knowing that Uncle Harry and Uncle Jules (the two brothers still living in Chicago) belonged to country clubs. I loved going there. Harry and Pepi were very kind to me. Their son, Shelly, always spent time with me although six years older. He was my teenage crush. The last weekend was always spent with Uncle Jules and Aunt Jean. Much more subdued few days. If Jerry was home it was great. Mostly he wasn't. Away in the army. When he was present, long conversations ensued.

I don't know many of the grandchildren of these mythical men. Abe's granddaughter lives in the same town as I do and her family has become close family for myself and my daughter. I've met Jerry's kids a few times when I visited my oldest son who lives in the same city in California as they do. And at least one of Jerry's sister's kids has been in touch and has now married my daughter-in-law's brother. A small world gets even smaller.

Jerry has been ill for many years. Always positive; always working through it. Always with humor and that inimitable joie de vive left to us by the original seven. He and close family are in my prayers. And always, always, in my happy memories.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Heading Out

My mom began packing and unpacking suitcases when she reached a certain age. My older friends through the years were always traveling as well. My current friends (most of us are at the same place on the calendar) are continually "off again!" One can attribute this to having come into possession of time and money. But I do believe there's the hidden ingredient of escaping the Grim Reaper if one is never home! Depressing concept, but probably holds some truth. I personally would love to join these professional tourists. But I didn't achieve economic freedom, albeit I kept my family afloat. And, while our privileges were less impressive than my friends', I believe they remain equally memorable.

That having been said, my list of places to visit doesn't get much shorter. I do take advantage of every opportunity to head out. Like going to New York City in March for my birthday. Driving to Connecticut to see Jamie, my son, in ANNIE GET YOUR GUN at the Goodspeed. Combining a late Spring day with him on my way to another quick New York visit. Most recently, he was acting in a reading of a wonderful play in Washington DC. Since I have a dear friend in Bethesda, Maryland, I decided to head down to spend a couple of days with her and to see Jamie in the show. The trip was truly on the cheap. The added bonus was a day in DC. I had been to Washington as a little girl traveling with my family. I had been there again with my then husband and my older brother and his wife. (I wrote a play about that weekend!) When Jamie was at school in DC for a year, I would visit him, but didn't see much of the city.

On this trip, the temperatures were close to 100 degrees so I opted for indoor touristing. I visited the American Indian Museum (impressive!), the National Gallery (gorgeous!) and the Newseum (well done though expensive). The time spent trekking to the various buildings left me pretty much trashed, but the time inside the buildings made me want to return for more. I'm including a few of the pictures I took at the museums. Pretty much self explanatory.

I seem to want to run away from home rather often these days. Being unemployed sort of puts the kibosh on doing this on any grand scale. It feels sort of like being on a treadmill when one wants to get outside and run. So I squeeze escapes into my life whenever I can. I don't know if I, too, am trying to confuse Mr. Reaper; or if I'm cramming for finals; or if I'm just showing myself a helluva good time. I like the last explanation best.





Monday, July 12, 2010

Almost Death by Mushroom

Reminiscing with my friend Sharon. About a murderous mushroom.
So what happened was this: It was Spring, 1979; we'd come through our first winter at The Acting Place. I needed an escape -- a couple of days away. We were between things and my assistant, Ginny Williams, offered me her family summer cottage in York, Maine.
I love York, Maine. Sharon Ware, Ginny's good friend who'd been working with us, came along with me. My kids went to visit their dad for the few days (it was probably April vacation). Evening one: we ate at a nice restaurant in Ogunquit. We didn't have much money so we each had a bowl of soup, and each put a couple of rolls from the bread basket into our pocket books. The waitress collected the check and offered us paper bags -- for the rolls in our pocket books. We left laughing. We didn't know each other very well. Laughter is a great prologue to friendship. The next afternoon Ginny came up to York to take us out to dinner. We went to a very nice place -- I don't recall the name; a country inn sort of place. Half-way through dinner, I didn't feel very well. I hurried to the ladies' room and became violently ill. My friends joined me outside and rushed me back to the cottage. I was awfully sick and asked them to get help. My first (please! my last!) ride in an ambulance. They rushed me into emergency. A charming doctor with a charming accent gave me a shot; attached an intravenous thingy. The gals came in weeping and wailing. I remember (and they'll never forget) asking them -- "if I'm going to die, do you think I have time for a quickie?" The charming doctor returned and concurred that I had been poisoned by a mushroom. I didn't mention the quickie!

I'm not sure how long we were there at the hospital. I remember being back in Ginny's cottage, curling up on the bed. I woke up late in the morning. Couldn't deal with more than a cup of tea. Sharon wanted me to just sleep or at the very least, put my feet up and crash. I felt very weak but I'm not very good at "crashing." So we got into my car and I drove north to Freeport. We took our time; strolled a few outlets; pretended to steal a couple of lobster traps; and sang off-key all the way back to York. We returned to The Acting Place the next day -- excellent friends.

I did believe that I was dying; among the scariest episodes in my history. I gave up mushrooms forever. And we joked about the charming doctor long after. Several years later we were performing SHADOW BOX at The Place. My good friend, Paul Lingard,
had one of the leading roles. Paul was from the York area in Maine and his family was arriving for opening night. Ginny and I stepped out into the small lobby to greet Paul's relatives. Standing with them was a good family friend -- none other than Charming Doctor! Who woulda thunk?!!




Monday, May 24, 2010

"Mama's Little Baby Loves Rhubarb, Rhubarb......"

Lovely surprise! My son, Jamie, performing in Annie Get Your Gun at the Good Speed Opera House, came for a brief visit. We spent the day traveling back in time. I'm once again living in the city in which my kids grew up. So all the things I see daily are memories to them. We went to Wingaersheek Beach. Gorgeous day -- warm, light breeze; the tide slowly departing. Very few people there. And we strolled into his childhood and out again. Continuing the journey, we went to Woodman's in Essex for a chowder lunch. We walked after from antique shop to antique shop. We both really like that stuff.

In front of a tired looking 19th century house there was a sign: Rhubarb -- with an arrow pointing to an even older house in the backyard. On the side door of this house a sign read: Rhubarb in the refrigerator. Honor system! The rhubarb, stalks tied in easy-to-carry bundles were, indeed, in the refrigerator. We put the asked-for amount of money in a container (also inside the fridge) and walked out --delighted with the process and even more delighted with the prospect that we'd have stewed rhubarb for dessert. Jamie and I do love it and I haven't cooked it in way too long. We continued our stroll through the antique shops; I carried the bouquet of rhubarb.

And so, in the late afternoon, I washed and cut-up the vegetable -- oh, yes, it is a vegetable. But it has traditionally been used as a fruit in pies and cobblers. I set in on the stove to simmer, and after 10 minutes I added the 1/2 cup of sugar. I added the sugar from the sugar bowl in my cupboard, forgetting that it was NOT filled with sugar. It was filled with Splenda, which as you may know is much more sweet than sugar. Yuk!! It was not eatable! I really had to turn my mind back to recall how the sugar bowl got filled with Splenda. Of course it made little difference. The Yuk!! wound up in the disposal. We were very disappointed.

We are resourceful. Having so brief a visit there was no time for regrets. (a lesson to be translated into a life philosophy!). So we traveled back one more time to Putnam's Pantry -- the do-it-yourself sundae emporium, where we'd celebrated many a childhood birthday. And today, I have all the events of yesterday to add to my memory bank. Being undeniably resilient, I am now on a search for another cache of fresh rhubarb. It's become a thing! I've gotta get it right!


Sunday, May 16, 2010

Buttercups and Bluebirds

We had a small garden patch behind our house on East 10th Street in Brooklyn. When I was little, there were empty lots behind the houses on our side of the street. In the late 1950s when the lots went up for sale, my Dad went from house to house on our street trying to enlist the home owners to go in with him to buy the lots; to protect the properties. And the environment. The lots were like a park back then with trees and wild flowers. Our private little wilderness. No one would go along with my Dad and he couldn't afford it himself. So the lots became used car lots. Enough said.

We had lots of floral weeds where ever the grass grew in Brooklyn. The most populous were the Buttercups. Not like Dandelions; Buttercups were tiny and awfully sweet. We had a small front yard, and never thought of the Buttercups as unwelcome weeds. Suburban homeowners would be appalled. I thought of these flowers today walking past the large lawns in Beverly, MA where I'm living. There was a blanket of yellow across one of the green lawns. I couldn't trespass to see if they were Buttercups. I figured they couldn't be. I haven't seen any in probably 40 years.

Also among the missing in the world of nature as I knew it, are the Bluebirds. They were the birds we grew up with; frequent visitors to our garden and the berry bushes in the lots behind the houses. I'm delighted when the red birds arrive in the summer; and of course the robins. But Bluebirds are scarce where I'm living. There's actually a society that I've recently discovered that exists to re-populate the Bluebirds. I am thinking about buying the special bird house and bird feeder designed for the Bluebirds. I don't know if I can go so far as to purchase meal worms. I have to think about that one.

There was a children's book that I owned once-upon-a-time. It is called The Bluebird and it's a magical story from the play by Maeterlinck. It was a film with Shirley Temple in 1940; an animated film in 1970; and a not-very-good film with Elizabeth Taylor in 1976. I've never seen a stage production of the original play. The book was charming; I can't recall what happened to my copy. Time, I guess, can be blamed for its disappearance.

Somehow, a walk on a sunny Sunday passed houses and lawns and sand and sea sets one's mind spinning backwards. I haven't thought of Buttercups in the longest time. I do think about Bluebirds each Spring when they don't appear in my current patch of garden. Or the books. I suppose if I let myself get swept up in this memory game, I'd hear the sounds of the lots behind our house. And the voices of my playmates laughing and calling at play in those lots. And the next thing I'd know, I'd be hearing that familiar voice calling me home to supper.

Who'd have thought that a patch of yellow flowers could accomplish all of that?

Sunday, April 25, 2010

New Shop, Old Books and a Rose

A chilly Sunday; on and off April rain; sudden sunshine. And the unrivaled company of my youngest grandchild. Keira and her mom, Clea, like to poke in shops as I do. And both love bookstores as I do. Strolling through a rather deserted Marblehead, we noticed a used bookshop we hadn't seen before. A very small store; rather new looking and still with its new car smell. But a very nice collection of old books. I was immediately attracted to a copy of LOST PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL. I hadn't realized that plays had been lost. I snatched it right away. Clea was deep into the James Patterson paperbacks. I reminded her that some of the copies she was holding had been at the very least co-authored; the second name on the cover reveals that. The proprietor, quietly hidden in a corner, remarked that he hadn't realized what the second by-line meant. We began to chat.

My recent life has apparently become rather reclusive. At least, intellectually. The folks I interact with on a regular basis are not chatting me up about books and authors and genres. So this was a welcome encounter. It didn't matter that we didn't like reading the same books. I forgave him for not loving Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon series. The gentleman had moved to Marblehead two years earlier. I had guessed New York from his accent, but he was born and bred in Philadelphia. He wasn't too clear on why he was suffering the winters in Marblehead when he had a great love for southern California. I can see him there. We talked about writers and about how so many celebrities are buried in Jamaica Plain's Forest Hills cemetery. The book seller is in business for himself for the first time. He doesn't drive a car. He doesn't own a computer. (he hand-wrote my receipt and used a rubber stamp for the address of the shop). A gentleman from a different time. I am sure I am older than he, and I have embraced the progress of technology. He happily scoffs at it.

When the conversation moved toward my trip to Los Angeles last fall when my screenplay was a finalist in a film festival, he seemed so pleased to learn that I am a writer. (Even though he doesn't take to theatre.) Then he gave me a copy of his published volume of poetry. It's called The Unequivocality of a Rose. He autographed the inside cover. His name is Joel Netsky and his book is available on Amazon.com. His book is a story told through poems strung together and as a longer, poetic telling. It is at once reminicent of writings two centuries ago while resonating a new, almost futuristic sound.

Whoopee! she spoke with a book seller! Well, what this is really about is immediate connection. You've experienced that I'm certain. And one wants to talk for hours. But a little girl saw ice cream in her immediate future and her mom had her new collection of mystery and horror to read. And suddenly several browsers entered the shop. So we left.

There was, I felt, unfinished business. Yesterday I sent Joel a copy of my "self-published" book of poetry (well, it's Kinkos so doesn't exactly look like the real thing.) Just to keep the conversation going -- sort of. I think he'll stay put through the summer; the tourist (local and visiting) season is about to begin and Marblehead is a destination. But he'd be right to head to the south west before the snows fly again. The North Shore is cold and raw in winter, and folks are rarely seen strolling the streets poking into used book shops. But a rare and happy few moments on an otherwise unpredictable April afternoon; one might say - unequivical ......


Saturday, March 27, 2010

White Noise, Old Friends, & Dining with the Help!

It is a very curious thing: at home I am disturbed and distracted by the doggy daycare behind the building I live in. Add to that the racket that comes through the very low ceilings in my apartment -- slamming footsteps, vacuum cleaners at rather odd times (10:30pm?), washers and dryers that shake the walls of the living room, the howling beagle...... But right now I am in New York City where, even on the 36th floor in my son's flat, the jackhammers, sirens, honking of horns, all become white noise to me. I am rarely conscious of it and it certainly doesn't keep me awake. I grew up on a dead-end street in Brooklyn. A train went by frequently when I was very young. Then, after the war, it could be heard only a few times a day. Noise from the avenue across the lots behind our house -- must have been. I don't recall a disturbance. But there were clanging trolley cars and car traffic and screaming kids. On our street, there were delivery trucks arriving regularly. I suppose I absorbed the sound as city music. The sounds I hear from my current home are dissonant; noise pollution. Living two streets from the ocean -- I expected a different concert. I don't know why the racket in New York plays out like acceptable background to me. But it does.

I came to the city for a birthday get-away. Last year I went to Italy for six days. I couldn't replicate that trip since I've been unemployed for almost 11 months. But I had promised myself a trip of some kind to celebrate my birthday from then on. So I commandeered my son's charming apartment in mid-town Manhattan for 6 days. I traveled by train which was fine except that getting to Amtrak from where I live is a hassle with luggage. Though it is March, it was summertime in the city. Of course I was wearing my P-jacket (coming out of New England) and shlepping my suitcase the mile from Penn Station -- well, I was a bit warm by the time I arrived at the flat.

I saw a play that first evening; my son left me a ticket as a birthday gift. A good play -- NEXT FALL -- and so a good start of my holiday. The next day, a school chum bussed it in from Pennsylvania. We had a lovely lunch (her very kind treat), a long walk through the Metropolitan Museum of Art in search of a newly acquired Monet; tea and pastries at the Neue Gallerie Cafe Fledermaus. The latter is the German museum and the cafe serves Viennese desserts. Very elegant; felt for the hour as though we were in a foreign country. The waiters spoke Spanish instead of German, but no matter. The next day, Sunday, I went down to the Chelsea/Soho neighborhood to visit with a friend who had been at my little acting school -- The Acting Place, Inc. -- back in the day. We visited Chelsea Market, had lunch at a little French restaurant (again a very lovely treat for me), and then strolled the new High Line elevated promenade. We chatted a bit in my friend's delightful little penthouse apartment. On my way back, not ready to end the day, I went to see ALICE IN WONDERLAND at the movie theater. I love Lewis Carroll. I liked this film -- had it been called "ALICE RETURNS TO WONDERLAND" it would have been right on the mark. Another wonderful day. Visiting with friends who share history -- the best, truly. A classmate of my son bought me lunch at a great diner on rainy Monday. My Sunday friend, after reciting the weather report for Monday, said to me: "It's going to rain all day Monday. What can you do in New York in the rain?" So I told her: " The same things I'd do if it didn't rain -- except with an umbrella." So I bought an umbrella and walked and walked and walked. I love to wander around New York. Looking for yesterday perhaps. Do we search always for our lost youth? (Mine was Manny Luftglass, a kid in the Navy, and he was a heck of a kisser! Lost him over 50 years ago.)

On my birthday day, I visited the Museum of the City of New York. My dad and I used to go there together. I believe I wrote about this in an earlier blog. It is worth mentioning again. The exhibits are always fresh and enlightening and fun. On the third floor the toys and games are kept. Bits and pieces of my childhood. Yours, too, if you're as ancient as I am. They have my older brother's favorites: an erector set; Lincoln Logs; cast iron fire trucks, and on and on. But my favorites are the doll houses. All hand built. All magnificent. A number of years ago, my son, Jamie, built a doll house for me. He built my fantasy house. It took him six months. It was indeed a labor of love. And love it I do -- so much.

On my way back to my son's flat, I stopped at one of my best liked restaurants on 9th Avenue -- Basilica. It was a few minutes past three o'clock and I hadn't eaten all day. They were not open yet, but I was invited to sit down anyway. A waiter appeared and after looking at the menu, I told him what I wanted wasn't on the menu. He asked me what it was; I told him a simple pasta pomedora, a salad mista, a glass of red wine (well, the latter was certainly on the menu). They prepared the meal for me. The staff sat at a table across the way having their meal and took turns checking up on me. They put on some lovely music -- Andrea Bocelli -- and I was transported to the same time the year before, when I had the same birthday dinner in Florence, Italy. That evening I saw the play RED. I liked it very much; the performances (Alfred Molina) were brilliant. It is rare to see a new play, done well.


One more day. A visit with a friend I worked with when I lived in the neighborhood a few years ago. I went up to the office and saw some of the folks and then ate some Indian food with my Indian friend. I had meant to walk through the West Village or the Lower East Side, but I was suddenly tired. I went back to the apartment; chatted for an hour with my son's friend, then left to see the preview of the Twyla Tharpe ballet -- an homage to Frank Sinatra. (a college friend left a comp for me at the box office. Nice!) In the elevator on my way out I met a man who - it turned out - was from the same part of Brooklyn where I grew up. We chatted onto the street like a couple of old friends. It is rare for such an encounter to happen in Massachusetts -- unless you meet another New Yorker. If you smile at a stranger in Boston he/she will turn and run. If you smile at a stranger in New York, he/she will either say "What??!!" or " I know you? " or something else that acknowledges your existence.

So I thank all my friends in the city who treated me so well; my long-distance friends and Facebook friends who wished me so well; my son who shared his crib with me; and the blessed universe that has permitted me to reach this age with mind and body pretty much in tact. And now, like the March Hare, I will celebrate all the un-birthdays until the next actual one. We journey on.




Saturday, March 6, 2010

"Alone" - in search of a definition

You know more than you think you know,
just as you know less than you want to know.
............Oscar Wilde

Alone is not a word that is simple to define. Nor is the condition/state of being. Sure it is, you say; no one else is in the room. That's not what I mean; I suppose I'm taking an existentialist approach. i.e., one can be alone in a room full of people. Since I'm being obtuse I'll take the long way around to explain and tell you a story. Picture, if you will, a little girl -- five or six years old; blond hair, chestnut eyes. Not a waif; more of a presence. She lives in a big city with her family: parents, grandparents, older brother, baby brother. She is passionately in love with her family although she feels, oddly, that she is on loan to them; that she does not come from them. (She'll suffer later for both these emotions.) Her mother is distant, being very close to her own mother and subconsciously wanting to be the little girl of the family herself. Her older brother is "the prince;" the first born son with biblical impact. Her baby brother is the baby after all. So our little girl is vaguely apart from the family.

A huge occasion: the end of WW II. The entire city pulsates with joy. She runs across the empty lots behind her home to greet her brother returning early from summer camp. They hug and race back to the house. And before adults of the family turn the corner to greet them both, her brother swings, smacks her across the face and levels her. The parental response is
what did you do to deserve it? It begins with this and continues for the next 10+ years. Empty space is created around her; she steps back.

In all seasons, she runs to that house believing each time that it is truly home; safe haven. But there are challenges: the adult cousin of her father who corners her in the upstairs hallway and she has to fight him off; the stepbrother of her mother who attempts to bother her when she's sleeping on the living room sofa so he and his wife could have her bedroom while they visit. The mean kid from her religious school class who follows her home on the dark winter evenings and tries to assault her on the street. She goes to her parents who are ill-equipped to deal with any of this.
What did you do? She steps further back.

She hides somewhere in her head; in her fantasies; in her imagination. She lives in her love for dance, and movies, and poetry. Not a good enough dancer to make a career, she's told. That poetry is obviously not yours --
what did you do?? She steps back further still.

Racing ahead. She marries young believing that her husband will be her best friend. Her true partner. But he is looking to be taken care of; and to protect his own chosen isolation. They inevitably part.
What the hell did you do??

Don't hang up -- I know this reads like one huge kvetch! But really it's a street-map of sorts to understand a way of being. Our little girl, now a grown woman, creates camaraderie with her own children and within her artistic endeavors. When the children and the artistic endeavors move on, she steps back again and this time falls, like Alice down the rabbit hole, into a place that she doesn't recognize nor from which
can she seemingly escape. Having lived in too many different places to establish community; having an internal sense of isolation (growing out of the events above and more) that prevents her from pressing into clubs or groups, etc., she can indeed be defined as alone. No -- please do NOT believe that she is a victim. From that first day when she was five or six years old she rejected that role. You can be sure that falling down the rabbit hole was not an accident. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Alone is not necessarily a bad thing. Not the greatest condition either, to tell the truth. But at the bottom of the rabbit hole, if you recall the tale, Alice
goes among mad people. And probably doesn't inspire a sense of normalcy herself. "We're all mad here," says the Cheshire Cat. "I'm mad; you're mad." It's a fine madness; a sort of protection against the terminal loneliness that "alone" can cause. The moments of clarity when one realizes the lack of "remember that?" moments; "no one to call" moments; the absence of a daily witness to one's existence. But since our girl is filled with love of life; of being; creating; since our girl has dear friends in various parts of the world (though not available for a walk on the beach) who care so much that she's there -- since our girl is an eternal tourist and is surprised constantly by the small moments of each day -- she is one with the world. And if you asked our girl what the hardest thing is about being alone, she'd no doubt tell you that she misses almost most of all -- the dancing.

Monday, January 18, 2010

The Inner Eye of the Beholder

"The best mirror is an old friend."

.............Peter Nivio Zarlenga

It was lovely to begin the New Year in Northern California. The 60 degree weather was a delightful improvement over the 12 degree agony I'd left in New England. I had coffee each morning with the fat cat, Archer, and would walk a couple of miles in the residential neighborhood being amazed by palm trees and Dr. Seuss shrubbery. Soon after my return to the house, the family would begin to awaken, one by one. My son, my daughter-in-law, my teenage grandchildren -- I'd slide from role to role to role without realizing the adjustment. A few days into the visit my son drove me out to a town near Modesto, to visit with a dear friend from my college days. We were good buddies at school; both in the theatre department. Lloyd has had a substantial career in theatre and film. He's a brilliant talent as actor, director, writer. We had reconnected after -- what? -- 24 years -- and had been speaking through email, and mailing writing samples to each other since summer.

His charming companion of 12 plus years was as welcoming as he, and we toured the wonderful little house and property. We lunched at a great "Greek joint," as he called it, and visited a performing arts center in Modesto, designed by another classmate of ours. And we talked and talked, trying to catch up -- make up for 24 years of silence. It was amazing. We started school together 54 years ago. And we were grateful to look at each other and to say -- We're still here.

A whole rush of memories followed me back to my son's home, and more slip through my offending mind each day now back in Massachusetts. But equally remarkable is the strange, almost familiar feeling I walk around with. It is not mother, mother-in-law, grandmother. It is not friend, job applicant, teacher, etc. It is me; bare-naked soul, disconnected to anything or anyone except my own affections, my own space, the me-of-me. When I was teaching actors, we used an improvisation where two people were talking on stage, and one by one other characters would join the scene revealing a different relationship with the original actors. For example, two lovers are speaking; a girl arrives into the scene and turns out to be the granddaughter of one of the characters -- a change happens. And so on. That's what happens to us in our real day. For me, I am constantly struggling to own my identity as just me -- not the perennial mother, caretaker, grandmother, etc. Trying to find the balance -- remaining me and still able to contribute to the lives of those around me without losing me in the process.

A bit obtuse? I guess. I'd forgotten, you see, what it felt like to have someone speak to me as me -- not as the life-role I am playing. My friend does not know me as grandmother, mother, caretaker, etc. He sees Mickey; he speaks to Mickey. A wondrous thing!