tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80041225931381804622024-02-19T07:17:20.213-05:00Mickey Coburn's BlogA Woman of an Uncertain Age invites you to join her on her journey to wherever and whatever happens next.Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-31865899760348605302015-02-01T15:26:00.000-05:002015-02-01T15:36:19.761-05:00A Brooklyn MinuteI see her now, walking up from Avenue I; walking slowly, her purse swinging at her side. She wears a pink, broadcloth suit with a black cr<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">e</span>pe de chine blouse. She has on her black straw picture hat - the one with the pink rose pinned to the front of the brim. There's even a black hanky fanning out of the breast pocket of her jacket. And gloves. She wears black kid gloves. Her shoes are suede - black suede with ankle straps and low platforms and thick heels - "Cuban heels." (the things we remember!)<br />
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Slowly. Self-consciously. Not concerned that people will comment on her appearance - although there might actually be a touch of that. But afraid that people will notice her awareness of her every breath, her sense that the next breath won't come, that gravity will snap and she will be hurtled into space. Afraid that people will notice her fear. <br />
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I was sitting on the steps of our house waiting for her. I always did that. And I remember running to meet her, to walk the last piece of her trip with her. She'd breathe easier and return to the security of communication. "Lost in a corn field --" that's how she described her recurring dream. Probably this recurring panic. A kind of claustrophobia. <br />
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When they say <i>we become our mothers - </i>I somehow thought it meant our looks, our actions; the tangible. I didn't look for her in my own unspeakable fear. Two life-times ago. At least. Now in this room. Dark already - a winter afternoon. Bundled in afghans against the cold. No wonder <b>I'm </b>such a frigging claustrophobic. No wonder I'm time traveling. Ah - my faithful - flawless solution: <i>I think I'll go to the movies!!</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-13702524099732504742014-11-17T12:27:00.000-05:002014-11-17T12:27:23.914-05:00The Absence of YesterdayWalking out in the heavy, cold rain this morning it suddenly occurred to me (?) that I haven't written or visited my blog in a long while. So after shaking off the wet, I sat down to take a look at the last entry. December 2013. That's shameful. Really. I read that entry. I wrote about people with whom I share history. I wrote about my friend, Gerd, who would phone me every Christmas from Germany. Not this year - not any more. Gerd passed away in April. Closer still - my once husband and friend of 58 years died in August. My old buddy, Al, is no longer at any of the addresses or phone numbers I have for him. No forwarding address. My college friend, Pat, has disappeared herself from me and other college mates. The list is getting sadly long. <br />
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One of my favorite films - American Dreamer - has a scene where Jo Beth Williams literally falls into her house, opens a telegram announcing her winning of an important contest and whispers - to the air - that she has won. Pauline Collins - as Shirley Valentine - speaks her intimate thoughts to her kitchen wall. And I become more and more familiar with this script. <br />
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The lesson being for me: reach out! If I can say "<i>Remember that??"</i> to someone who might actually share that memory - gotta do it now! <br />
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And you lovely person who's taken the time to read this - I'll bet we have a few <i>remember that?</i> moments to share. While we're staying "in the moment," bringing an old friend into that moment - well, you know what I mean.<br />
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Have a very happy holiday season with people whom you love and remembering the joys of yesterdays.<br />
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<br />Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-53926613456316755582013-12-31T12:31:00.000-05:002013-12-31T12:31:03.998-05:00December 31 2013<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is the last day of 2013. A bright, cold morning. The telephone rang at 7:30 a.m. I don't usually answer it at that hour if I don't recognize the caller - I don't have a voice before coffee. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I did - somehow knowing the "unknown caller." He's phoned me between Christmas and New Year's Day for 37 years. Once a year. He never forgets. A phone call is so intimate - more so since texting and email and social networks. His voice is honest and carries us across "the pond" and across the years. It's strange - not only because we haven't seen each other for 37 years, but because we were only together for two weeks. Really; one week in 1976 and one week in 1977. Our conversation is inquiry: how are you? what have you been doing? do you have snow this year? and so on. Five minutes - maybe six. And when we hang up I pour my coffee and sit with my warming cup showing myself a movie in my mind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is only my second posting this ending year. I've no explanation for it - perhaps I've been lacking words. The year did not lack happenings. I attended three funerals and there were tears. I attended my granddaughters' fabulous show in California and there was applause. I searched for employment and there was disappointment. I started a little on-line shop and there was promise. My daughter was taken ill and spent seven weeks in hospital; my little granddaughter stayed with me. Heartache and joy. Children teach us so much. My actor son was in the neighborhood performing - an autumn bonus for us all. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is time again to find the words. My words. There are unfinished plays and screenplays. There are empty days and absent friends. And there isn't time for self-pity or self-denial or any such hindrance or distress. Not at my age - or any age. So I absorb the warmth of the voice on the phone and go forward. I care about so many people with whom I share history. Best way to put it - we "get" each other. And our souls are eternally connected through love. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chances are - since you're reading this - you are one of those souls. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A bright, cold day. A fine day for renewal, reawakening, <i>satori.</i> I wish you the happiest new year. </span>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-29504633821797434162013-03-17T18:31:00.002-04:002013-03-17T18:31:41.956-04:00Some Things Don't ChangeMy eight year old granddaughter, Keira, experienced a lousy episode at a meeting of her Brownie Girl Scout Troop. She arrived with her older sister, was ignored by the other girls, and one of the group - staring at her - remarked, "some people don't belong here." Keira told her sister that she wanted to leave, that her tummy hurt. (this is Keira's 'tell' when she needs <i>to get out of Dodge</i>.) My older granddaughter took Keira home. Uncharacteristically, she did not tell the offending kid off. She rescued her sister. Keira, of course, doesn't want to go back to the Girl Scouts. Keira and her sister are biracial. All of the others there are Caucasian. <br />
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Lots of old hurts rise to the surface when something like this happens. Again. I remembered my daughter's confrontations growing up in a white community (and a white family). And I remembered when I experienced racial bigotry for the first time. I was a sophomore theatre major in college in Pittsburgh, PA. Half-way through the year I met a guy from another university close by. Richard was charming, blond, and nice to look at. We went out a few times; always in the company of his friends and their dates. Perry Jones was usually there, too, but alone. His girlfriend was back home in Jamaica. Perry was black. </div>
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A while after Richard and I had stopped dating, Perry phoned me. He wanted to go up to the Hill District to listen to jazz. He invited me to join him - as a friend. I'd been to the Hill the year before. A friend and I had gone to see Billie Holiday. No place better back then for great jazz than the Hill District. So of course I said yes. And because Perry was a terrific guy; very bright and witty and a real gentleman. </div>
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He met me in the lobby of the girls' dormitory. Everyone there stood around waiting to see whom this black man was waiting for. When I emerged from the elevator, there was a universal gasp. When we were on the street, I asked Perry what that was all about. "Welcome to my world," he laughed. We cabbed it to the club in the Hill District. It was fairly early in the evening; the club was far from busy. The head waiter refused to seat us. The scene was repeated in two more clubs. These were black clubs, you understand. Our roles were reversed. Neither of us had anticipated this kind of reception from the black community. We were ready to give up. It had begun to rain; so we agreed to duck into one more club. We were being very brave; folks seemed to be getting more mean and nasty with each encounter.</div>
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I remember that there was a wide bar on the left as we entered the club. The band was on top of the bar. When we walked in, the band leader stopped playing his trumpet, bent down and smiled at us. "Welcome to our club - bet you kids love jazz," he said. "Thanks," Perry replied. "Do you think they'll seat us? We've been barred from three clubs already." The band leader looked a bit surprised - well, we were both dressed like college kids on a date in the fifties - pretty conservative. Then it registered. He called the host over and told him "these young folks are my friends; you take good care of them." So we got a table; we each had a drink. We listened to the music for perhaps 45 minutes without conversation. Then we left. We both felt as though we'd been to war. Perry hadn't encountered anything like this in the two years he'd been in Pittsburgh. But he'd always been with the guys and never alone with a white girl. We stopped to thank the trumpet player on the bar; he was Louis Armstrong.</div>
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The scene in the dormitory repeated itself. By now I was pissed off; so I kissed Perry goodnight at the elevator. <i>Shocking!</i> The next day, the head of the drama department called me into his office to tell me he heard I'd been keeping <i>bad company</i>. This was the ultimate disappointment and I told him so. I'd heard about snotty New York restaurants not wanting to serve black Broadway stars. But it wouldn't have occurred to me that people working in theatre or any of the arts would be racist. </div>
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I went back to my dorm room and called my dad to tell him the entire saga. His response - being a Jewish immigrant from Poland - was pretty close to "welcome to my world." Perry phoned me that evening to say that he thought we'd better not attempt such an outing again. He wasn't up for the fight. I'm sure he had many others before and after our shared battle. Over the years I fought along side my daughter. I had hoped that the world would be a gentler place for my granddaughter. Not so much has changed. Keira will need to learn to be brave. And to seek out the great human beings like Mr. Armstrong. <br />
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Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-64131851826821044082012-12-28T20:30:00.000-05:002012-12-28T20:31:30.305-05:00AFTER ALL<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I was having tea by a lovely fire in Starbucks this
afternoon, and reading a terrific book my friend Lloyd had recommended.
Music played; people chatted. And I was oddly not reading but
silently talking to myself. The year is almost over. A tough year.
Dark. Every blessing a mixed blessing. As in: I flew out to
California at the end of December to be with Alex on January 2nd - his 50th
birthday. I got terribly ill the night after arriving and so did everyone
else (except Isobel) within a day later. Awful 'bug.' Wasn't able to drive
out to see Lloyd. Or visit San Francisco. Gratefully, we were all
almost whole by Alex's birthday - we went to a deli restaurant (gifted by
Jamie) where we ate chicken soup. And thus the year began.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It was not my favorite year. Useless murders
across the world. Poverty - homelessness - disastrous storms. I
even include too much nastiness in the major election. And many personal
disappointments. Was laid off from my job in the fall for no credible
reason. Friends appeared and friends disappeared. My daughter's
health a terrible worry. And things of mine - mainly jewelry -
disappeared with troubling regularity. Nothing of any real monetary
value, but stuff I cared about nonetheless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">As for my work - well, I directed a show in
January/February at a public school in a North Shore town. Came off well
enough. Didn't progress much with my writing. We did have a
wonderful though private reading of my play, YELLOW ROSES, in my son's
apartment in Manhattan. Two remarkable Broadway actors; confirmed what we
already know: it's a damn good play. sigh.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Not all terrible. My eight year old
granddaughter and I went to New York City for my birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So amazing to see the world I grew up in through
her eyes. Alex, Patricia and their lovely family came in summer.
And, in the fall, Jamie came to Beverly to perform at North Shore Music
Theatre. No better company than my own kids. Well, hardly kids;
first-rate, brilliant folks in any case.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So that's the litany. Many people of my
generation that I know keep as busy as possible. Clubs, 'meet-ups,'
classes, travel, card parties, etc. etc. Good for body and mind. I
am on my own more than not. Maybe too much time to think. I read my
Buddhist books and cool my mind with Zen-like focus: just <i>being</i>. It is easier for me to achieve than I would have thought. At this juncture, I am glad to 'be.' Charles Aznavour sings a <i>wipe-me-out </i>song: I DIDN'T SEE THE TIME GO BY. We never do. Because it's a blink. A shooting star. When I'm off balance I begin to miss people long gone and people down the street; I begin to regret and have to play Edith Piaf recordings. I kick myself for what I did and didn't do. So to work it out I connect with my Zen lessons, and center myself. If that doesn't do the trick, I pour a glass of Cote de Rhone and bake bread.</span></div>
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<br />Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-33707746943569815682012-05-01T14:58:00.000-04:002012-05-01T14:58:01.574-04:00ISH: Almost, Not Quite, Maybe, et al.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ISH has become an entity. I don't know how the dictionary folks keep up with the idiomatic vocabulary we keep </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">inventing. However, I have begun to take -ISH personally. Lots of years directing plays with good success; lots of years writing in a variety of genre with good reviews; lots of years. So the only way I can explain directing a show that is a winner - with the audience, with the producers, with the actors, etc. - and then not be able to get another show with the same company -- ?! (No - I do NOT have bad breath!) To send written work out, to get positive feedback but also - "can't use at this time." You get the picture. Well, if that's not an ISH result, I don't know what is. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My once husband used to say that we were "aliens." A bit abstract, I think, but it was his interpretation that we thought differently; our values were different; our insight was different. I simplify it I suppose, but I believe that we were either not good enough or too good. We could be deceiving ourselves regarding the latter, but there have been enough applause over time, enough experience, enough humility and humble pie -- for us to know who we are and what we artistically achieve. It's sort of the same as being "over qualified." That's bunk, you know. Unless you hold a PHD and apply for a job cleaning black boards. (of course if you're starving to death and that's the only available job - well, it may not be appropriate but one is certainly qualified.) I applied for a directing job at a public school; I got the job and the end result was a terrific little show. But the hiring team was suspicious when I applied; they wanted to know why I would want to work there with my "background." I made an instant decision to not be ISH (or tell them I liked the money). I told them instead not to sell themselves short; that in the dead of winter in a community that does not have an abundance of theatre opportunity, directing kids in a public school setting is a good fit for one who's directed a children's theater company. Hopefully a politically correct response.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tend to be "politically incorrect." I don't mean that my behavior is pejorative. The definition I found: "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">connotes language, ideas, and behavior unconstrained by a perceived orthodoxy or by concerns about offending various groups of people for the sake of telling the truth." Sometimes it is politically incorrect to offer information that a person in authority would rather not learn from you. Sometimes it is politically incorrect to express an opinion, albeit informed, that a person in authority might interpret as a put-down. Being right and letting the other guy know that you're right is sometimes the wrong thing to do. <i>Usually</i> the wrong thing to do. Knowing you're good and insisting with one's behavior that the other guy recognize it, too, -- well, if that alerts his/her inadequacies --</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">you get the picture. I do stuff like that. A lot.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">So I have obviously been thinking out loud here. Have been speaking recently with other artists of various art forms; all of us have shared this kind of experience. Some folks rise above it (or seem to) when they become big stars in their professions. But often they are tripped up along the way by someone whose fear of being discovered as inadequate in his/her role over-rides the star's fame and talents. Or perhaps one loses one's edge by becoming old-ish or skit-ish. The only way around this is to move on or to create a solo act that depends only upon ones self. Giving up or giving in is not an option. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">That would be <i>fool-ish!</i></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span><br />Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-86175387504518672132012-04-01T10:26:00.000-04:002012-04-01T10:28:04.028-04:00Catch up!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">Went to my wee garden this morning to give my family of song birds their peanut butter suet. They love the stuff. The yellow lilies that always bloomed first are gone. No trace at all. Peculiar at best. The forsythia is happy; but there seems to be lots of planting to do this season. I can do that. It seems a long, long time since the autumn. The mild winter not withstanding. And standing outside in the cold sunshine I remembered my blog and that I've neglected it for awhile. Longer than that it seems; my last blog was in September. Last year. So I put on a pot of coffee and asked myself the question: "What happened to stop me in my tracks?" </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">October was a fine month: apple picking; guests for brunch; a trial membership at Studio 13 with ballet classes (really!) and Pilate's</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"> and Zumba. Ah -- but that was when my work schedule was cut from 5 days to 3 -- because, I was told, I'd been so efficient there wasn't enough work for me to do. I was in essence invited to leave; I told my boss I couldn't afford to quit so he was welcome to fire me if he was of a mind to do that. He didn't. But somehow I think I must have fallen into a funk. That's actually in the dictionary -- funk. It's defined as depression, agitation, fear, etc. etc. I prefer the music genre - funk. Anyway -- while I lost interest in reading (a pile of books wait for me) and avoided writing because I didn't want to kvetch -- I kept on keeping on. I also developed a recurrence of PMR which comes out of nowhere, makes it painful and often impossible to be mobile. It's treated with prednisone.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" >Bad stuff for good moods. And I promised NOT to kvetch! Well, I did what I do when I have a wall to scale: I took on a second job doing something I love to do: I directed a show in a public school. From January to March. And while it was not always much fun, the result was positive and I'm coming out of the dark corner.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" >Spring is still fighting with winter for dominance. It's that way every year -- spring always wins! I'm still here. We take that for granted -- being here! At all ages we think that's a given. It's not; just open a newspaper. And today the birds are fighting over their version of PBJ; the sun is out; I'm reaching out to my friends through my blog. Reach back! We're still here!!<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><i>(3 granddaughters skip into Spring -by Alex)</i></span></span></div><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FF3W3m0fZLLrSqSPWq39TYxm9Sxn_LmT16M1H9X5Wi0-bxCqy9e6AxFBWu8bk7bAYzWc8ofl6Sn51E3p2D2oEPVkbwSQzfOUiOVjtEFqk0ILTxprjTOTo6xTSxNzVgK7UUcAhvRY8y7S/s1600/DSCF1632_2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FF3W3m0fZLLrSqSPWq39TYxm9Sxn_LmT16M1H9X5Wi0-bxCqy9e6AxFBWu8bk7bAYzWc8ofl6Sn51E3p2D2oEPVkbwSQzfOUiOVjtEFqk0ILTxprjTOTo6xTSxNzVgK7UUcAhvRY8y7S/s320/DSCF1632_2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726437389221942706" /></a>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-59135722761743319982011-09-29T20:45:00.001-04:002011-09-29T20:50:16.120-04:00Mommy's Holiday Loaf<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">My mom didn't know how to bake bread. Her mother, Jennie, learned how to bake from my dad's mother, Goldie. Since Jennie and Grandpa Pal lived with us for so many years and Jennie dominated most of the life including the kitchen, my mom was at a total loss after Jennie died. She wanted to bake bread. My dad taught her how. It was a sort of secret event in the kitchen; lots of whispering. I stayed out of the way. But ours was a small house so one could sit in the living room and not miss a word spoken in the kitchen. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">Once my mom figured it out, she practiced often. She got so good at it, she had to hide the warm loaves from dad and me. <i>An exercise in futility</i> as the saying goes. We'd walk home from the subway together when we were lucky enough to connect. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7YPQ_KKQ6G_l5Um3rQ5aR4uulDwomkqBtIFzfClYe9GeyZHM6ZvtxnV0aYA47yOnoxEtQZXRdmMe2khJs1SqiHE3Zp1Y4ff8FxsEPr7-JvqkMGST19OEdBwch6SDelGv4hip6gqKeuO5/s1600/Mina_Molly_Robin+1962.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7YPQ_KKQ6G_l5Um3rQ5aR4uulDwomkqBtIFzfClYe9GeyZHM6ZvtxnV0aYA47yOnoxEtQZXRdmMe2khJs1SqiHE3Zp1Y4ff8FxsEPr7-JvqkMGST19OEdBwch6SDelGv4hip6gqKeuO5/s320/Mina_Molly_Robin+1962.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657947719029952978" /></a>And those even luckier evenings, when we'd walk into the house to the surround of sweet yeast and the warm, -- well, we'd look at each other immediately sealing a contract. Silence! Now, if we were really, really lucky, mom would be out or napping. And if we were caught at the kitchen counter, our coats still on, breaking bread together -- my mother would feign anger. Ah, the rituals of life. And love.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">It was an exceptionally bleak winter our first year in Massachusetts. We were renting a house in Middleton. At that time, there were very few houses on route 62, and almost nothing in Middleton center. There was at one terrible snow storm that stranded my husband on route 1 for almost 24 hours. The electricity went out in the house. We had a fireplace but no wood. So I wrapped my little boys in blankets and burned the kitchen chairs in the fireplace. That winter I decided I needed to learn to bake bread. I remember the excitement of taking the loaves out of the oven! At this point in my marriage, I had taught myself to cook, to bake pies and cookies and such. But bread!! That has a mystique of it's own. I remember that it took a lot less time for the bread to disappear than it had to bake it. I also remember phoning my mom to tell her of my conquest. She understood the small triumph of it. She'd been there, too.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">Mom left us many things to remember. Her glorious "holiday loaf" is one of the these. A very large challah; three braided loafs stacked on top of each other. Raisins and almonds in the bread and blanched almonds decorating the top. It became her signature gift; whenever we went to someone's home for dinner or when we attended an event -- mom was asked to bring her "holiday loaf." It was the centerpiece at Thanksgiving and all the autumn holy days. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">She wrote out the recipe for me, but I don't remember attempting it in her lifetime. When she died, Bonpapa -- her then husband -- gave me a little book in which my mother wrote her thoughts and tucked away clippings and recipes and such. In the book was a yellowing article from the New York Times; it was a recipe for a Swedish Christmas bread called <i>Hoska.</i> I glanced down the recipe; grabbed the copy of my mom's "loaf" she'd written out for me -- and there it was. My mother's challah -- my mother's brilliant offering to every bar mitzvah, bris, holy day, etc. etc. etc., was actually a Swedish Christmas bread. I can't begin to tell you how I loved knowing this! Brava Mina Coburn! Truly a Renaissance woman!!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">I baked that bread yesterday to bring to my cousins for the Rosh Hashana dinner they so generously invite us to. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQvfqnwICdgvDkxqa5AN-PpHTnyuhFQxoOEjjIZ4qoMxFTUWjODn88qegnByTqBsowtjQPKKXenyvFbSKkjENWr-rJB4c_G6X5EjzFhaRFszEWC0t3zQe3AVzoCDlyTPFQtToylrhR_YU/s1600/305190_674220883911_13002162_35019363_1552611205_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQvfqnwICdgvDkxqa5AN-PpHTnyuhFQxoOEjjIZ4qoMxFTUWjODn88qegnByTqBsowtjQPKKXenyvFbSKkjENWr-rJB4c_G6X5EjzFhaRFszEWC0t3zQe3AVzoCDlyTPFQtToylrhR_YU/s320/305190_674220883911_13002162_35019363_1552611205_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657948194120066610" /></a> And I brought this story as well. This one's for you! Happy New Year!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-471675236646461372011-09-20T14:30:00.001-04:002011-09-20T14:48:21.806-04:00Hiding in Plain Sight<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">So I ran away from home again. Sometimes the only thing that works is a change of place. And when I am able to stay at my son's flat in mid-town Manhattan, a long weekend out-of-town is possible. I won't say that it's like "going home" because I don't live there anymore. My Brooklyn days are long behind me. But part of me remains there, so it's sort of like a re-connect. Having all of me in one place. That definition actually confuses me, too.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><b>THE RIDE:</b> I took the bus; can't beat $15 each way. It was 8:00 a.m., the bus wasn't crowded, and I imagined I'd be able to curl up. But a lady who was holding tight to her luggage sat beside me. She was hanging on to her baggage because she was afraid she'd miss her connection in NYC. I assured her that with a four and a half hours of travel ahead of us and over an hour's wait at Port Authority she might as well relax a bit. Eventually she did. She was a charming woman who had grown up in Williamsburg in a French/Italian family. Because of so many years in Williamsburg among the Chassidic Jews of those days, her Yiddish was expressive if not fluent. We laughed a lot. The best moment -: Anita (her name) told me that she had been staying with her grandson in Brookline, MA while his parents were away. Her grandson is 16 years old. He was buying an Apple computer and there was some kind of deal at the Apple Store with a credit card rebate of $300. She put the purchase on her charge card so they could receive the rebate. She told me that when the rebate came it was for $299. Well, that's only a dollar short but it disturbed her -- so she phoned the store. No one there could explain the discrepancy. She emailed Apple, Inc. No one there could explain it either. She (half-jokingly) declared that she'd have nothing more to do with Apple. Well, since my oldest son works for the company and our family is faithful to its operations, I was, of course, concerned. I told her I was quite sure that if I phoned my son to ask how we should proceed, he'd tell me to give Anita her dollar and he'd reimburse me. So I pulled out my wallet and gave Anita her dollar back. Hopefully, she is once again tight with Apple, Inc.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><b>GETTING THERE: </b>It's always a delight to walk into my son's flat. No clutter; simple, tasteful, artful. And a balcony that -- on the 36th floor -- looks out across the city. I had no sooner put down my suitcase when my phone rang. My daughter calling to tell me she was in hospital. Her primary doctor (who would have saved everyone lots of grief if she'd phoned my daughter's cardiologist before putting her into the hospital) tends to over-react. Of course, at that moment, we didn't know that this was over-<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJihY4M_wtlHjhmkNICZxF_7MVptokvO-EP_3dPAD8ZV_rEQhpVh25sCfNgAjjw5UgddIO_2l6_M3nyt12zudylQfQiN0CsMALmIOKpIFjfp1zUJ_rbhw_iGB0NFgUWnrhkLfULk-rAw97/s1600/cheese_area.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJihY4M_wtlHjhmkNICZxF_7MVptokvO-EP_3dPAD8ZV_rEQhpVh25sCfNgAjjw5UgddIO_2l6_M3nyt12zudylQfQiN0CsMALmIOKpIFjfp1zUJ_rbhw_iGB0NFgUWnrhkLfULk-rAw97/s200/cheese_area.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654514600335073106" /></a>reacting. My seven year old granddaughter was covered for care; the 16 year old grandson is just as happy to flap around with his school friends. So we decided to wait until Saturday -- the next day -- to decide if I should head on back. I was, however, distressed and suddenly at sixes and sevens. So I took myself for a nice long walk. Gorgeous day; lots of sun and a cool breeze. Before I realized it I was standing in front of Zabar's -- like a homing-pigeon! I had walked from 42nd and 10thavenue to 80th and Broadway. OMG!! Well, I didn't feel worse for wear so I cruised Zabar's and bought a package of slightly yesterday's bialys. Starting home, however, my legs were a wee bit wobbly -- so I went into a movie theatre and bought a ticket for whatever was about to be screened. Terrible film -- <i>I DON'T KNOW HOW SHE DOES IT --</i> in which case I dozed a bit, and walked on back to my son's place with no ill effects. It was an early night.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><b>SATURDAY: </b> I spoke with my daughter early. Her cardiologist had yet to appear; she didn't know if she'd be home by Sunday. My cousin was taking care of little Keira. So to be safe, I decided I'd best go home on Sunday instead of Monday as I'd planned. Would have to put the stroll on the boardwalk in Coney Island on hold. No big deal. I went to Port Authority, where only two workers were behind the Greyhound counter. And several dozen customers lined up. An hour and a half later I finally had bought my transferred ticket. Over coffee at Starbucks I got my iPod Touch on line and sent off notes to my cousin et al and caught up on the news. I had a ticket to see the matinee of FOLLIES and a date with my college chum, MaryJo, for dinner. I was having a terrible time getting back to <i>me </i>-- my hair was standing on end; I wasn't sure my red wedgie sandals worked with my brown linen slacks; or that I should have bought my dream jacket for this trip. A very soft black leather jacket at a very excellent bargain price -- well, I decided not to justify it; just wear it. I thought I'd miss the show, it took me so long to decide that there wasn't another thing I could do to make myself look okay. So I walked to the elevator reminding myself that I'm at that age when women are invisible. Today that was an excellent thing! Got on the empty elevator. It stopped a few floors down, and a tall, white haired man with a very young face got on. He was dressed for his run. When he saw me, he pulled out his iPod earphones, smiled hugely and said -- " You look WONDERFUL!" I thanked him and tried not to cry. I didn't question it either. I had 20 minutes to get to the theatre, and I don't walk quickly in my red wedgie sandals. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><b>GRAND FINALE: </b>The show is brilliant -- if you're anywhere near NYC do see it. One show-stopper after another. Fabulous cast; amazing <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZPJItYP4wM8eCe-IIALhbukoqe6U_FhnboRWHMWkRH2qTIEawFkTj8Qbr1-xseNB0VEp0QcNH1GsooeXmkh2cQW3Utx-ziQx5yoVqK7_2bL35nbI0YTYzEHKzMmdBfZNABiUrPQCDoch/s1600/images.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 149px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZPJItYP4wM8eCe-IIALhbukoqe6U_FhnboRWHMWkRH2qTIEawFkTj8Qbr1-xseNB0VEp0QcNH1GsooeXmkh2cQW3Utx-ziQx5yoVqK7_2bL35nbI0YTYzEHKzMmdBfZNABiUrPQCDoch/s200/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654514837274499314" /></a>voices; and it not being Boston, folks sitting behind me at the theatre chatted with me during intermission. (that has never happened to me in all my years in Boston). I phoned my daughter on my way to meet MaryJo. She was waiting for her ride home from the hospital. Her cardiologist said there was no reason for her to be there. Sigh...... Glad she was okay. I ordered a large gin and tonic and I was okay too. MaryJo and I have been friends since 1959. No friend like an old friend. We laughed a lot -- at ourselves mostly. We ate at our favorite restaurant - Basilica -- and planned our next get together in the city. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><b>THE WEIRD RIDE HOME: </b>The bus left late on Sunday morning because they didn't have a driver. (???) When she arrived, she was very discombobulated. She had a problem starting the bus, working the doors, etc. She also didn't know the route. It took almost an hour and a half for her to get us out of the city. She kept calling home-base for assistance. Once on the road she seemed better. Although she stopped several times at the side of the highway. Twice to walk outside and mutter; once to go to the john at the back of the bus. And she talked to herself the entire way. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">It was a lovely day in Beverly where I live. I had some breakfast (3:00 in the afternoon) and then went for another long walk. The silence was stunning after being in the city. I walked to the beach, the best attribute of Beverly and then strolled for an hour or so. It isn't easy to run away from home; to hide when everyone knows where you are; to stay connected with whom you are. But I won't give up; I'll take off again when the opportunity presents and head for NYC. Because I bring back with me, if not the girl I used to be, my New York state of mind. That sense of myself that knows that - even at my age - I'll look damn good in a soft, black leather jacket</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK2-E2kgXy6Xf_j_o4_KgRsYBhy9dzSU0adubFqw1Ru3Bahu3Z4lT1O1sY7plYwQN_GfpQRfrdVc5PXPjFuYdKOs_Xc2WKh0OJNS14yY6dK-A8GeC9i3dhoRlVqiz7pfMkLm-78b6dXhbO/s1600/IMG_7578.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK2-E2kgXy6Xf_j_o4_KgRsYBhy9dzSU0adubFqw1Ru3Bahu3Z4lT1O1sY7plYwQN_GfpQRfrdVc5PXPjFuYdKOs_Xc2WKh0OJNS14yY6dK-A8GeC9i3dhoRlVqiz7pfMkLm-78b6dXhbO/s320/IMG_7578.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654515211478136994" /></a>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-31531217640897518522011-08-01T15:39:00.003-04:002011-08-01T15:50:40.944-04:00"NAY, HER FOOT SPEAKS!" (Wm Shakespeare)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFoQ-40aYKWcj9QkLC5cUQTpVkTvP0sGhXpnYGkSrYR5DfameYx7YAxrp0lGoVoY2vJBbLD5rtrwr2fmLxlY5PNMpGpbqjRd9lg02bzc9-3A_Fm91B-9QTibA9m3jF3ldP1G1lihm8Wiq/s1600/baby-feet.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFoQ-40aYKWcj9QkLC5cUQTpVkTvP0sGhXpnYGkSrYR5DfameYx7YAxrp0lGoVoY2vJBbLD5rtrwr2fmLxlY5PNMpGpbqjRd9lg02bzc9-3A_Fm91B-9QTibA9m3jF3ldP1G1lihm8Wiq/s200/baby-feet.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635974781507774162" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A silly topic, this. But consider it for a moment: when you are very little, you don't think about the appearance of your body parts. You don't look at your little fingers or your little toes and declare that they are ugly. You are simply delighted that they work -- that you can pick things up and put things down and walk or run or kick. Well, when you're old, it's pretty much the same thing.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div><br /></div></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Somewhere in between, things fall apart. Other voices interfere. I studied dance for many, many years. I was quite young when I started; first in the ballet and later, modern dance with members of Martha Graham's company. I was probably seven years old when I shed my dance slippers to dance barefoot. In all the scores of years, no teacher, choreographer, class mate, colleague, ever remarked about my feet. Except to tell me to point or flex! So you can imagine my dismay when -- in my early teens -- an elderly gentleman friend of my grandpa referred to the "unfortunate shape of my toes." I was devastated. My mother and my grandmother contributed two consoling facts: that my feet closely resembled theirs; and that the man was NOT a gentleman to have said such a thing. None of that helped. For a long while, I wouldn't wear sandals or strappy shoes. I didn't go barefoot. Except in the dance studio where I became other.</span></span></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxLHUplptgH2rWllyNei11ERYHlK_m5OPKAG1IfHU5XgAIOtaIRA8PbcC1SVcEseXuj1NOZBpIpaJYZhLdrcyK5RgeN_uV78wLlwrZQNPqBj4Ol_vTOnxMx-vNNjkhGEE_Md96l3GezHY/s1600/555px-Happy_feet_2.svg.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 127px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxLHUplptgH2rWllyNei11ERYHlK_m5OPKAG1IfHU5XgAIOtaIRA8PbcC1SVcEseXuj1NOZBpIpaJYZhLdrcyK5RgeN_uV78wLlwrZQNPqBj4Ol_vTOnxMx-vNNjkhGEE_Md96l3GezHY/s200/555px-Happy_feet_2.svg.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635973842806426162" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">In college the problem faded a bit or I didn't think much about it. When I went to school in England I wore sandals the entire summer. Europeans seemed to not care; they seemed to notice the positive attributes and didn't go bananas over extremities. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Well, I married too soon out of college. Because we were in theatre, we had many glamourous friends. Out-spoken glamourous friends. There was, for example, an evening when all of the men who gathered around our table discussed how lovely feet on women were a great attraction. Or homely feet were a big turn-off. So I put on my shoes (which I've never worn in my home) and took to wearing closed-toe espadrilles every summer. The lack of self-confidence is a very powerful malady. Of course it doesn't help when people are stupidly cruel. There was an evening when a younger relation, seemingly out of nowhere, began to exclaim with a great deal enjoyment: " Your feet are UGLY! UGLY!!! UUUUUGGGGLY!" At the time I blamed it on the wine. I believe I responded with something like -- "happily I have two of them and they work." She continued her tirade for a while. Fortunately I had to leave because I had a plane to catch. The next week I visited a friend who was also my hair dresser. A woman was having a pedicure near to my friend's work station. "Oh, I'd love to do that. It looks so relaxing." "Why don't you? " he asked me. And I went into my story about how uuuuggggly! my feet are. "Just do it, buy a pair of sandals and forget about it!" he said. "And if that doesn't help, start looking at everyone's feet for a day or two. Let me know if you find someone with pretty feet. Magazine models don't count." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">He was, of course, absolutely right. My feet looked better and better as the day wore on. And so I went to have my first pedicure. It wasn't something my mother ever did; my grandmother had one before a big family event so she could have fresh polish on her nails. In other words, it had never been part of my experience. I've been going for pedicures ever since. Sure my toes looked better; but it's the leg and foot massage that closes the deal. When I mentioned to the manicurist (in apology?) that my feet were unattractive, she responded; "You have no idea what unattractive is. There's nothing wrong with your feet." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">I am at the age where women in this country become invisible. That's also the same age when women take for their own the anthem of the 'It" girl of the twenties: "I don't care...I don't care..." It's very liberating. It's all the same thing: the nose you don't like; the hair that isn't as lovely as the wig (usually is, you know) that the TV actress is sporting. We can always find a way to feel deficient. We are who we are; be ever grateful when everything is in working order. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">My son told me a clever quote (I don't know where it's from): "If you doubt that God has a sense of humor, just look at people's feet." 'Nuf said.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCi4TlXbY7xz9AcmRfploR_Dg98mpbiMGzKXwicNfN056laJerePxSljfoUE__ak5OKnYMnO5n96UiWoPx5Puf4TBDK9B9xFQZs1lWkKTTOYcHLVpqS3PA0PuL74BG9nYsH-JtAFFcisKe/s1600/IS847-080.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCi4TlXbY7xz9AcmRfploR_Dg98mpbiMGzKXwicNfN056laJerePxSljfoUE__ak5OKnYMnO5n96UiWoPx5Puf4TBDK9B9xFQZs1lWkKTTOYcHLVpqS3PA0PuL74BG9nYsH-JtAFFcisKe/s200/IS847-080.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635974276478738850" /></a><br /><br /><br /></span></span></div></span>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-13150878445545815712011-05-08T14:00:00.001-04:002011-05-08T14:14:30.605-04:00Of Smiles and Knowing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0YPf7ejanfEZGZwjA9NFM_-6m7-rpwwmRVKRg2iOBPR_NZwyir8knJ-QZrK-vVsOdA79DwzEvbq0jjO9DYRgRGlC8twhC0O8v-UbMJx0ngirFhx1uni2QwId1o-EcNQ3zEJSuCJLM1PwZ/s1600/babyjamie.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0YPf7ejanfEZGZwjA9NFM_-6m7-rpwwmRVKRg2iOBPR_NZwyir8knJ-QZrK-vVsOdA79DwzEvbq0jjO9DYRgRGlC8twhC0O8v-UbMJx0ngirFhx1uni2QwId1o-EcNQ3zEJSuCJLM1PwZ/s320/babyjamie.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604408394231677346" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">My second son had just been born. Jamie's older brother, Alex, was three and a half. We got him a little kitten so we'd each have a baby to take care of. Sadly, the kitten (whom we called Lady Grey) choked on a pill; Alex and his dad took her to the vet where she died. We of course immediately got Alex another kitten -- very pretty, but kind of sassy. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvKpq4d7dCxO23f0oNTe8VqRUnh6xs8TG5_NZSZNKAlC240c442AntFrPSzriRKzra_KqFl3XbRbwQ4tnN5TIp2CT9PSB0qOGwQAA481ySkbf6VLXwC9p6MomhFEdUTeouyPqmMrUFv2f/s1600/Alex.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 293px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvKpq4d7dCxO23f0oNTe8VqRUnh6xs8TG5_NZSZNKAlC240c442AntFrPSzriRKzra_KqFl3XbRbwQ4tnN5TIp2CT9PSB0qOGwQAA481ySkbf6VLXwC9p6MomhFEdUTeouyPqmMrUFv2f/s320/Alex.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604409368056254338" /></a><br />Alex named her Pickle, "because," he said, "she's a dilly." The next evening Alex came to me and asked, "what happened to Lady Grey?" I recapped the incident, but he interrupted me. "No. I know all that. I mean herself." I began to carefully explain what the vet would do with her little body, but Alex interrupted again. "No, I don't mean her body. I mean her <i>smile</i>." That was the moment I understood that children have an intrinsic concept of <i>soul</i>.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I've thought of this occasionally over the years, always wondering at the genius of it. Then, yesterday, my six year old granddaughter capped that story with a dialogue of her own. We were driving to her T-Ball game passed the cemetery. Keira, in the back seat, remarks, "Gramma. How do they get in there? Do they go there and lay down?" "No, sweetheart, they don't walk in and lay down. Because they're not alive when they're there. Their smiles, thoughts, talking, smiling (thanks Alex) aren't there any longer. Only the body is left." "So," she continued, "where does all that go? The part that isn't there any more?" <i>think quick, Mickey; how do you put this so she'll get it? "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Well, that part, the living part, goes to God; sometimes people call that place the center of the universe." "Okay. But does the rest have to go in a box?" "No. Some people want their bodies to be burned and their ashes scattered someplace beautiful like out in the ocean or in a field; or saved in a special place." All of this conversation was very casual; very normal. Keira had the final word. "Well, I don't want to be put in a box. I'd rather be burned up and thrown in the wind." </span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFWyUjeHS0HjGHb0Y3jOQMCB6pnE9SgnG68UUsLzLzcJRcT1npZ_Hq9zJ9vbNZ0xMyDX2wdE0p-j982cdDTumQtT2ESxGwesmsYpYaDZW5q4BWryvbWWwy8FXZJW465aP2mxTfHW18bfze/s1600/IMG_0055_2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 242px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFWyUjeHS0HjGHb0Y3jOQMCB6pnE9SgnG68UUsLzLzcJRcT1npZ_Hq9zJ9vbNZ0xMyDX2wdE0p-j982cdDTumQtT2ESxGwesmsYpYaDZW5q4BWryvbWWwy8FXZJW465aP2mxTfHW18bfze/s320/IMG_0055_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604408812298390514" /></a><br /></span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">I was deprived of this conversation when I was growing up. Death was hush-hush. People I cared about might be dead for years before my mother reported the event to me. It was an </span>abnormal<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> event. As though people weren't meant to die. As though it wasn't a part of life. I'd much preferred the knowing. It becomes less frightening. Of course, violent death - as seen in movies and on television or in the newspapers - is mainly the image children have. The unnatural event. And, I suppose, if one doesn't believe in God or the Spiritual Universe, one might be hard pressed to described where the </span>smile </i>goes. I don't have that answer right now.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It's Mothers' Day, so it's appropriate to think about ones family. I'm fortunate to have many delightful memories with which to celebrate the day. I hope you have, too.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Blessed be.</span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-75457953596243338452011-04-10T11:00:00.001-04:002011-04-10T11:23:11.864-04:00He-ros and She-ros<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A few evenings ago I went with Roberta to see a folk singer at a church coffee house in Rockport. The singer is David Roth and one of his story-songs was about "he-ros and she-ros;" teachers, in fact. And while he sang the song I wondered about my own he-ros and she-ros. Here I am; still wondering.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Since he sang about a teacher, the one that always comes immediately to my mind is Sam Datlof, my home room teacher in 8th grade at P.S.99. Mr. Datlof was very small in stature. To compensate (to try anyway) he wore shoes with lifts and combed his hair into a pompadour. He wore over-large black rimmed glasses. We were an innocent, naive bunch of kids; we didn't see the humor in any of it. A good thing, too; no wise-guys in our class to pick on Mr. D. The only ribbing I recall was when he became engaged to the lovely Claire Zaslow (my third grade teacher -- I think it was third grade). There was no end to the chants and limericks about the relationship. "Claire and Sam went for a ride; Sam asked Claire will you be my bride...." etc. etc. etc. <i>Love comes to P.S.99</i>! But that's not how he became my "he-ro."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8rNLMoF8rTRcNwWAowMa25b3ovQNKkqGPhV1oW_MvYLNwFwkITtdOwJhJ6WNl3KMTI2NA7OXRVGF_e-MZ5J-NvrZ-YIIZnk_Wog1a2fz2vl8Zh7Q7z3EJ8FKBz6_ioanVbIVaKSdrEGP/s1600/010_10.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 177px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8rNLMoF8rTRcNwWAowMa25b3ovQNKkqGPhV1oW_MvYLNwFwkITtdOwJhJ6WNl3KMTI2NA7OXRVGF_e-MZ5J-NvrZ-YIIZnk_Wog1a2fz2vl8Zh7Q7z3EJ8FKBz6_ioanVbIVaKSdrEGP/s320/010_10.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593973391598225810" /></a><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The first day of school in his class -- I was 11 years old when I entered 8th grade. That first day Mr. Datlof, recognizing my surname, asked if I was related to Matt Coburn. I told him that Matt was my older brother. Mr. D. then asked if I was as smart as Matt (who was academically very bright) and I told him "No; I'm the dumb one." No more was said. At the end of the day, Mr. D. requested I stay for a minute. He wanted to know what I liked to do. I told him that I liked to write -- stories, poetry, whatever way the words chose to hit the paper. The next morning when we entered the classroom, there was the skelton/template of a newspaper painted on the blackboard at the rear of the room. Mr. Datlof announced that I was the newspaper editor and main writer. And if anyone would like to contribute, they were to let me know. That would have been enough to change my world, but Mr. D. also went to speak with my English teacher, Miss McDonald. He apparently let her know that I wanted to be a writer. And, in retrospect, probably told her that I had a poor self-image and needed propping. Miss McDonald put a list on the board: poem, novella, essay, article, play, -- I don't remember what else. There were 10 varieties. We were to turn in one per month. If I recall correctly, I turned in one a week. She was delighted. Mr. D. was pleased. And my academic world changed. I went from being a B- student to winning the scholastic medal at graduation. I was also chosen to be the principal on Student Teacher day. Who I was and whom I could become was changed dramatically by the caring of an elementary school teacher. Years and years later when I returned to the school looking for Mr. Datlof, I learned he'd gone on to be principal of another school. Then in the early 1990's I learned that he had passed away. I never got to really thank him. I suspect he always knew.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">He-ros. Pete Jones arrived in my life on the eve of my marriage to Don Beaman. Our "best man," Claud Thompson taught English at Carnegie Tech, our alma mater. Claud was moving to Canada; Pete was his replacement. We became immediate best friends. I don't think I'd ever had a true "best friend." Pete was there during the hard times: we were living on a shoe string, and I got pregnant very early on. Don's paycheck would runout by Thursday of every week. Every Wednesday evening, Pete would phone to tell me he'd purchased a package of minute steaks and could only eat one. (this became a weekly script!) I'd respond that I had some nice baking potatoes. And every Thursday for over a year, Pete showed up with the steaks, a can of his favorite tiny peas; sour cream for the potatoes; and dessert. Once our son Alex was born, Pete would also bring a bottle of milk claiming he needed it because of his ulcer. Of course he always left it behind. On Sundays Pete would come by with the New York Times and pastries. I'd put on the coffee. We'd spend several hours struggling with the cross word puzzles. Don was typically at the Pittsburgh Playhouse where he was resident designer. Then, if it was the season for it and the weather was good, Pete and I would push Alex around Pittsburgh in his tram. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4o_S7z4VUfs4EpTQGjiWFy0Evq18nXX0qIQR9pbM4J2OZaNrDKsiUZMqXsoXn-Bg9N6ZtoqkGBsrA9Z8mSj2UfRnpieq2qvqIm95YVbuF_IDMg1lJU5hhDvICCbdnIY9nFZmFsj2jnZAs/s1600/With+Pete046.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4o_S7z4VUfs4EpTQGjiWFy0Evq18nXX0qIQR9pbM4J2OZaNrDKsiUZMqXsoXn-Bg9N6ZtoqkGBsrA9Z8mSj2UfRnpieq2qvqIm95YVbuF_IDMg1lJU5hhDvICCbdnIY9nFZmFsj2jnZAs/s320/With+Pete046.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593973934406605746" /></a><br />Anything I needed to say I could say to Pete. Not only in those Pittsburgh years, but for years and years in letters, phone calls (long phone calls), the rare meetings in Pittsburgh when I could get there for Alumni events at Carnegie. (Don't fantasize that this was a hot love affair -- Pete was gay. It was a very different kind of love. Unconditional.) Just two more stories: Don was away at State College where he'd accepted a job. Our second son, Jamie, was ill with chicken pox; the summer night was awfully hot and sticky, and I was having the terrors. I phoned Pete -- it was like 11:00 at night. Pete showed up with a trenchcoat over his pj's, a bottle of vodka, and the manuscript of his unfinished novel. We sat up all night while he read the book to me. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The topper was in 1998 -- a long, long time later. Pete was fighting a losing battle with bladder cancer. We had met a few years before right after his first long struggle. Friends were taking care of him in Maine. We met in Ogunquit and walked the Marginal Way together; sat in a pub in front of a fireplace (a cold, rainy October day) drinking hot chocolate. I tried to be there for him through the next few years. In February of 1998 he phoned me to invite me and my son Jamie to take a trip to Europe with him. He wanted to show me Venice -- my fantasy destination for all my life. He wanted Jamie along so I'd have someone to share the memories with. When spring and the time for the trip a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">rrived, Pete was too ill to go but insisted we take the trip. He planned it from his hospital bed and we phoned him from each destination along the way. He passed away while we were in Saltzburg, his favorite place in the world. I will never stop missing him.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">I can't think of a she-ro right now. But there is one more unlikely he-ro -- my dad, who passed away when he was 50 years old. I say "unlikely" because he was a paradox: when I graduated college he published my first poetry collection, presented the book to me as a gift and said, "you probably don't deserve this." Okay. That was confusing. He didn't want me to be studying theatre, but found out about a summer graduate program in Stratford-on-Avon in England and told me that if I could get into the program he'd send me over. I did and he did. I sailed round trip on the Queen Elizabeth I. That summer studying Shakespeare and Elizabethan drama -- well, I remember every day of it. I had just completed my junior college year, so this wasn't yesterday. I learned more about myself that summer than in all of my years at college. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUFzTf1A9RrvJrqBfQGtEE0mLZFsPpkxUqa9fTySoICCSIwIZHys_41kke_0Mfc40e5heNIGvG82cgxKvpJzXiGXN-1rrVhhmls-WAbJhtABxgQVgyMGjU1Nq_jm5PEeP3ldOOYQbF0eX/s1600/Rockaway028.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUFzTf1A9RrvJrqBfQGtEE0mLZFsPpkxUqa9fTySoICCSIwIZHys_41kke_0Mfc40e5heNIGvG82cgxKvpJzXiGXN-1rrVhhmls-WAbJhtABxgQVgyMGjU1Nq_jm5PEeP3ldOOYQbF0eX/s320/Rockaway028.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593974541764669730" /></a>There's a silly song from an old Disney movie, BONGO. The song is called <i>Bears Say it With a Slap.</i> I've always thought of my dear, brilliant father in terms of that song -- although the "slap" was never physical. I don't remember that he ever raised a hand to me. Nor was he always supportive. But I knew that if/when my back was up against the wall, when I'd run out of solutions, he would be there for me. Always with the good answer -- not that I always took his advice. And, sadly, he died before we could be adults together. I believe we'd have been excellent friends. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">So when you're writing your blog or log or gratitude pages, make a list of your he-roes and she-roes. One is good; three is -- I think -- an amazing gift.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-39401971672572532812011-02-20T12:30:00.003-05:002011-02-20T12:46:48.215-05:00The Accidental Potter<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I was sent off to summer camps a few times when I was a kid. (kicking and screaming I may add. I did not like summer camps.) Anyway, I was perhaps seven or eight years old the first time. I was there two days and caught chicken pox -- an epidemic at the camp. My parents, to make things worse, came to visit me - through a window in the cabin called "The Chicken Coop." (any wonder I decided I hated summer camp from then on?) Once out of the "coop," the only activities I remember are the dance classes and the crafts cabin. I worked in clay for the first time, and I sculpted a bird. That's what it began to look like so I went with it. I remember that it was surprisingly good. The counselor in charge said we could pick up our work the last day of camp. The bus waiting, I hurried to the crafts cabin. I stood in the doorway unseen by the counselor, who was packing her bag. I saw my bird sculpture being wrapped in paper and put in her bag. I knocked, and asked for my bird. She did a very bad acting job when she told me it had broken in the kiln. I told her that I was sure she was mistaken; the bird was in her bag. She became rude and verbally kicked me out. I hope to this day that it broke in her bag before she made it home. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All of that to describe my first encounter with clay. When my kids were little we'd play together making things from clay. I'd make baker's clay for them (the stuff made with flour and salt -- remember?). And we'd create a plethora of sugar cookies over the years in magical shapes and designs. The first piece of art I ever purchased was in Pittsburgh when my boys were very young and we were very poor. We went to a craft fair and I bought (for $7.50 - quite a sum back then) a wheel-thrown bowl. I have always loved that bowl; I haven't had the opportunity or where-withal to buy many pieces of art since then. Happily, the bowl remains in tact even after a life-time of moving from place to place like some sort of gypsy. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> And then one day, I met a charming lady who introduced me to her pottery teacher who had a place in her class which was held in her basement. The love affair began: me on a kick-wheel; for over five years, every Wednesday night! Her name was Sandy Lenz; she was a fine potter and a good teacher. When I look at the pieces I created those years (well, the ones I didn't give away) I wonder whether I was actually quite adequate or whether my teacher's hands were all over the work. In any case, the society of the small class, the camaraderie, and the total involvement the clay provided albeit the pieces one took home: all of this wonderful adventure stopped for years and years. When I moved to the New York area in 2002, my son gave me a great birthday gift: a series of classes at a pottery studio near my workplace. I went there with so much hope and spirit only to find a totally unfriendly environment, a teacher who didn't teach -- didn't even look at what was being done. And while my head remembered everything, my hands did not. In fairness, the wheel was electric. I had learned on the kick wheel; a totality of experience. An almost dance -- a complete concentration. But at the New York studio my work looked like a very young child had an accident with some clay. When the series ended, I gave the craft up as a part of yesterday.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> This past fall I walked into a charming shop in Beverly, MA where I live, called "Clay Dreaming." A street away from my apartment.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBOkZKp4EiC_7yHlqwBlaoJYuLeV1g_BmsckfrT4WN7mW3-r6MVnndekvUSU1BgfLAhg1lVUDXzN1qQk8yRCA8CM9gqGsP9IpF97iFAM5ZTcuVI4KgNqT38k8cT4d21rSZ2X7ece7S63Y/s1600/IMG_2369.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBOkZKp4EiC_7yHlqwBlaoJYuLeV1g_BmsckfrT4WN7mW3-r6MVnndekvUSU1BgfLAhg1lVUDXzN1qQk8yRCA8CM9gqGsP9IpF97iFAM5ZTcuVI4KgNqT38k8cT4d21rSZ2X7ece7S63Y/s320/IMG_2369.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575825175882735650" /></a> How lucky is that?! Some excellent work was exhibited for sale; a lovely space was set aside for folks to paint greenware with glazes. Once fired a nice piece of pottery was wrapped to take home.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZiN3YbWsiX1YMOHTpMMXHZtEgGetYNJ19WdgomKdYj_Ap17PjFhJtn9cbKcl2hZPDvBwoFVlDRNLEhoRptNBSfSoNlOXub877JDBho-JScQdqeZQu89JR3THd-jkwwGE5fEAm5unFHKR/s1600/IMG_2371.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZiN3YbWsiX1YMOHTpMMXHZtEgGetYNJ19WdgomKdYj_Ap17PjFhJtn9cbKcl2hZPDvBwoFVlDRNLEhoRptNBSfSoNlOXub877JDBho-JScQdqeZQu89JR3THd-jkwwGE5fEAm5unFHKR/s200/IMG_2371.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575825859971122962" /></a> And then there was this large room with 10 or 12 potters wheels. I had been laid off from my job; I was feeling rather depressed after months of applying for work to no avail. And, like Alice, I saw a door to an adventure I sorely needed -- if I could only make myself fit through. I managed it; found my box of pottery tools still in tact; showed up for class. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhl0aFOFrPVVsbeYnf-_wY-QmoJ32hDpE0DUrTpiMoGRIH7-sNUgrNt_wfYmYRyHUbDGi3cnt-dp-3QYdFe9hPA2_OoyE2s1UBsD2lpyVX342N3NAnXyG6qCy-vLLLzYzoiJ_2fO0BT0ha/s1600/IMG_2373.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhl0aFOFrPVVsbeYnf-_wY-QmoJ32hDpE0DUrTpiMoGRIH7-sNUgrNt_wfYmYRyHUbDGi3cnt-dp-3QYdFe9hPA2_OoyE2s1UBsD2lpyVX342N3NAnXyG6qCy-vLLLzYzoiJ_2fO0BT0ha/s200/IMG_2373.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575827023555523282" /></a> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_SwmT7s5LZ3lBO1kRxoU3BwqDsqNLtlC_RtCNU6bEhuyQ2NyoJM3G9av3YDgvh3B98JOCJOacjm72H1bA9JH3c3P7c5qiYhhISCscmcOPHwsQratl9pD-KWbiaDjFLrLgFNmvC-i8-ktE/s1600/IMG_2372.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_SwmT7s5LZ3lBO1kRxoU3BwqDsqNLtlC_RtCNU6bEhuyQ2NyoJM3G9av3YDgvh3B98JOCJOacjm72H1bA9JH3c3P7c5qiYhhISCscmcOPHwsQratl9pD-KWbiaDjFLrLgFNmvC-i8-ktE/s200/IMG_2372.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575826381583876178" /></a> My head still remembers it all. Well, most of it. My hands do not always cooperate. The society is there -- chatty, friendly, supportive. The teacher wants very much for each of us to succeed in the way we want for ourselves. When I put the clay on the wheel I sometimes know what I want to create (usually a nice, large bowl) but the clay seems to have objectives of its own. If I don't take command I either wind up with a failed attempt or with something I had no intention of making. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"> Thinking about this, it seems that the same scenario plays out quite often in my life. (yours, too?) When I started my little theatre school (a lifetime ago) I meant it to be a place for children to learn about acting and theatre. Most of my students were adults and young adults. There was a class of youngsters, but mainly the school had attracted grown-ups who had always wanted to be part of the theatre. I never intended to do shows for audiences, but the needs of the students and apparently for me led to a small repertory company and a traveling children's participatory company. One of my former students told me years later that "it was magic." Well, it was hard work, but certainly the outcome was always magical. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"> There's a saying in Yiddish (my grandma Jennie always quoted) "Men plan; God laughs." I've given the universe much to laugh about. But I no longer fight it. I go each Tuesday evening to see what the clay has in store for me. I don't turn out the quantity of work that my classmates accomplish. But I have to believe the clay will listen to me more and more as I continue the adventure. And if not, I will permit it to surprise me, until one day I surprise myself. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhv92X728qW7fb0VL-x6cRw0mEKwXeEgr6VCupiw2vgHXj4L-FiZGiLfG9scEAJpEAYQoXTv91Qi0hXzxR8O2X7Ap-83iinr0Q6sgYjmx91mQBDUvs9T1J2vfUH0kj7gkpfFyfrDHs1UCt/s1600/IMG_2374.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhv92X728qW7fb0VL-x6cRw0mEKwXeEgr6VCupiw2vgHXj4L-FiZGiLfG9scEAJpEAYQoXTv91Qi0hXzxR8O2X7Ap-83iinr0Q6sgYjmx91mQBDUvs9T1J2vfUH0kj7gkpfFyfrDHs1UCt/s320/IMG_2374.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575827688276815234" /></a>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-88435361463525922342011-01-21T20:00:00.007-05:002011-01-22T20:20:14.184-05:00A Love Letter To My Days<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It was a long, boring drive, radio reception was sketchy, and for some inexplicable reason I played with multiplying how many days I had so far lived. It took me a while - I don't calculate well without paper and pencil (adding machine?). And the final number was daunting (if even accurate.) I then took myself back as far as my memory would permit, and attempted to recall as many individual days as I could. Of course I came up with pieces of days, patterns of kinds of days; the very happy ones; the very sad ones. It was a mind-boggling exercise. I reminded myself of <i>Emily</i> in <i>Our Town</i> -- although she was already dead when she attempted to re-live a day gone by. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I have long ago dealt with and disassembled all regrets. So I certainly wasn't voyaging toward self-pity. I have not however, discovered the <i>why</i> of many of my behaviors, choices, actions -- the attainments as well as the flops. I didn't discover any reasons on that car trip either. I recalled the Brooklyn era; the awful growing up years. Hiding in my room; hiding in books; finding my freedom only in my dance classes. The Pittsburgh days at Carnegie Tech. The friendships made there; learning to be a friend; to accept friendship. More valuable ultimately than the classes, the training. The teenage thing of falling in love -- I believe we did it for practice. There'd be a song that resonated with me in some odd way. When I heard it I felt the longing. But one has to be longing for <i>something</i> -- <i>someone</i>. So I (like all the teenage girls I've ever known) would choose an object -- a victim -- for all that death-defying emotion. It worked much better if the focus of this passion was rarely seen, if actually known. One of my older brother's friends always away at college; my cousin Shelly who lived in Chicago (he really was wonderful!); a girlfriend's boyfriend; the guy who flipped pizzas in the window of a local caffe; an acting teacher; several acting teachers. On and on. Harmless. It provided continual improvisation enabling habitation in a fantasy world. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The day I won the National High School Poetry Competition. The day Miss MacDonald at P.S. 99 recognized me as a <i>writer</i>. The day the little girls I was teaching at summer camp performed to a standing ovation. The fearful days; the fearless days. The triumphs -- small and huge. The day my mother gave me the kitchen so I could bake mountains of cookies. I'd carry each tray through the swinging door to the dining room and deposit the lovelies on a platter. All day -- for hours and hours; dozens and dozens of cookies. When at last I brought in the last tray, there was only a small platter with any cookies on it. My brothers had spent the day eating them all! I was crushed. And thinking back on it, my mother was an un-professed culprit: sitting there knitting and watching them carry on. Nice. Actually, I still don't find it funny. The days with my kids when they were kids. My first garden. Every garden. The remarkable awakening, trembling, when my plays or poetry spoke back to me. The days of our "Piece of Time" weekend; when my family traveled into Boston to see the production of my play, "A Piece of Time" mounted by the New Ehrlich Theatre Company. The day when I received a letter telling me that one of my children's books would be published. And then it wasn't because the company went out of business. Venice. Barbados. Waiting in line for half a day with my son, under umbrellas, to get tickets to Shakespeare in the Park. What fun we had! Going to L.A. when my screenplay was a finalist in the LA Femme Film Festival. Directing any play. Reuniting with Lloyd after 25 years. The days that could have used changing. The days I wouldn't change for anything even if the consequences might positively alter my life. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">They are my days. So is the one I'm enjoying now. Sitting in my kitchen; shivering a bit because it's terribly cold outside and the wind leaning against the windows prevents real warmth in the room. I spent the morning at my part-time day job; processing quarterly reports. I made steel-cut oatmeal for lunch - not the instant kind. I'm drinking warmed over coffee, and will soon venture out to attend my one to one class at the Apple Store. And this evening I endeavor to finish the Donna Leon book that I'm reading, in time to watch THE MENTALIST on the tv. No big deal you say? It is my day. And my time travel has confirmed my belief that each day is the first and also the last. It is all. Not my intention to stir up philosophical warfare. It is what I believe. And I also believe that <i>Emily </i>would agree with me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">(<i>Photos below: a lighthouse in Norfolk; </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><i>with Zoe and Isobel;</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><i> with my brother Lenny; with Alex; with Jamie; </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><i>with Pete; </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><i>with Lloyd; a reunion with Al; my Clea; </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><i>with Katy;</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><i>with DJ;</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><i>with Keira; with cousin Shelly and brother Matt; when the kids were kids; Coburn family reunion; Jamie in Venice - the trip Pete gave us.)</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTFe_M547D3ZPT8pd-9UAk9frePRxRpIkv75pML1iDm7_R1EdgXVl0Ai6TKx4eS5PejpeCLCBwKPVhBeaKJfUcT6u1Ia1oEPoFW0NNsfQbAtvmAyfFaMjgaGILlKf60gj-giwJucgoDW_L/s1600/With+Zoe+and+Isobel049.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTFe_M547D3ZPT8pd-9UAk9frePRxRpIkv75pML1iDm7_R1EdgXVl0Ai6TKx4eS5PejpeCLCBwKPVhBeaKJfUcT6u1Ia1oEPoFW0NNsfQbAtvmAyfFaMjgaGILlKf60gj-giwJucgoDW_L/s200/With+Zoe+and+Isobel049.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565162911809175378" /></a><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></i><br /><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPp8W3m1hBzaBdC2Kha-6XcnAEuDjJKpfp81B_bXsgM9Xtm-tX0SJ98LU-E0iGr0w3Xx9LIw8aeUzntq8d8klPMmF70uMDcokUqiPHTM70pJpD3af4fHiGGBtOlg7IS1H98RssvDGIokF/s200/The+Lighthouse+Norfolk050.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565164099562298498" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8os2H6ql_ov6ap8reYqAqqBPpzOohDqH1S-qlDAG5LPzQImgNglgNehG51fOBuc6_ktwIT6JQaoyxP-UFDoHcXfoJcX05PJ3YqIGMbQJhtp8sDWgwiey3R-3YE0GVseQqmVnh8qVvUB3S/s200/With+Lenny+in+Bklyn056.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565163550136516434" /><br /><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></i><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5Hr87X-b5MyvaxTq8EwQ98SfELyFLdpZY8vo1sLXPsKv8EP-EvjqAz9uYkNXpnRmaEz_nJDmmtx29qkNlgozJvZB4o8PsVAecrp742gOclyE2fjSRxbegEJ2AO1aAuUpZMavx_lvileY/s1600/With+Alex052.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5Hr87X-b5MyvaxTq8EwQ98SfELyFLdpZY8vo1sLXPsKv8EP-EvjqAz9uYkNXpnRmaEz_nJDmmtx29qkNlgozJvZB4o8PsVAecrp742gOclyE2fjSRxbegEJ2AO1aAuUpZMavx_lvileY/s200/With+Alex052.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565165486327506834" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwt-sxF5MbTr4jrMjT0RV3A99e_0ZMiNJbPWJUKjesPbmeo28lOaWGfEvy94BjZ7UEopvyr0BMsSxfsxujrM9kYgG_Th-l8jcOEseBf2WJmKKIxBkeCeJ9CEeLC751C37V4C-LrQ3lU_2d/s1600/meandmom.jpg"><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; 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margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTYWl86i9uq2wFwrOwR8ZJXFWpZxqgDZ6FMgD0HzNYHRVJn_XiATmt0-HXEtFQyG8R0YJ7P9d4NQshW5U8r1dybt5wh51jz5r65D2By9sAFGJEnWrcixxuEJetFFXaQwha3SnVU-pZTlZO/s200/With+Shelly+and+Matt054.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565173350875074818" /></a> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj20xTU1zxh0AN-dgxNfpxez5BnwEceSLFzV1qK9ZTDTuL4NZDwuhULFhWREKxNPZtBOXZjntubyTyIwMyivhFmN_X3yLi_Umo5QQiVIreHHjA_2ZnazS7reUoyvgQf9hF4HLzRYegdh4kB/s1600/Mom+and+Dad+1960057.jpg"></a></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj20xTU1zxh0AN-dgxNfpxez5BnwEceSLFzV1qK9ZTDTuL4NZDwuhULFhWREKxNPZtBOXZjntubyTyIwMyivhFmN_X3yLi_Umo5QQiVIreHHjA_2ZnazS7reUoyvgQf9hF4HLzRYegdh4kB/s1600/Mom+and+Dad+1960057.jpg"><br /><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinV9gfwS22CGb8HMq5jAnyQ_vP0W2M0ExNfryhnp8RioJkwN9j8U0N80M8Ov_MR85bU9JaTyJBqqamJyv02o_XCV9tZojOuRZYthKeuGWUv17vPWTBRassgSxrSjWriA5HNKUJWmIH72QZ/s1600/IMG_0997.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinV9gfwS22CGb8HMq5jAnyQ_vP0W2M0ExNfryhnp8RioJkwN9j8U0N80M8Ov_MR85bU9JaTyJBqqamJyv02o_XCV9tZojOuRZYthKeuGWUv17vPWTBRassgSxrSjWriA5HNKUJWmIH72QZ/s200/IMG_0997.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565178250026502914" /></a><br /><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></i><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuRJe0X8S0qBkLrmCpwEblErhTBfuUhdiImR9gxobUVz8S2hNWdQ0Iv2gc7ByLM8DxA0wukxBFAA5MN-TAvyXBpcC-C3zIyx7XEWQLuWGJw9RfNGtcQDkb-N7Beprs7e2u5aKqGRCJzD8/s1600/Coburn+Family+Reunion048.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 138px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuRJe0X8S0qBkLrmCpwEblErhTBfuUhdiImR9gxobUVz8S2hNWdQ0Iv2gc7ByLM8DxA0wukxBFAA5MN-TAvyXBpcC-C3zIyx7XEWQLuWGJw9RfNGtcQDkb-N7Beprs7e2u5aKqGRCJzD8/s200/Coburn+Family+Reunion048.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565179138144062066" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZhoPCu__GspPMaN5wfklbdYfacQTxkA8a_UioHD3l6xJ0zihO3UIny4Jkg9FvDrAwGd1YGRL7X51aouWBHP1MN549aqlfP9S6GbZp9AJt62Dck8QhUObLTcdo0XmEoAg7PvzaYm_CEHM/s1600/Jamie+in+Venice.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZhoPCu__GspPMaN5wfklbdYfacQTxkA8a_UioHD3l6xJ0zihO3UIny4Jkg9FvDrAwGd1YGRL7X51aouWBHP1MN549aqlfP9S6GbZp9AJt62Dck8QhUObLTcdo0XmEoAg7PvzaYm_CEHM/s200/Jamie+in+Venice.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565179911186051842" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></i></span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-57004044812379288102010-11-26T15:00:00.001-05:002010-11-26T15:44:03.870-05:00The Jewish Santa of Philadelphia<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">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. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">My maternal grandmother, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">Jennie,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"> (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. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifixn-U8jXY6oX9uDKpeBF0PBxh_UNSGX6qChZhzWmj2XGuyhxfVnLsb3s_DbRoi5MxTDvkEE5-jM4dWBpIZbXr73LEvnRlwlqConlBUrKqh-Xmz-XXQvUAFnn0ZN9q_sa4nuQmaFEn5J4/s1600/img036.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifixn-U8jXY6oX9uDKpeBF0PBxh_UNSGX6qChZhzWmj2XGuyhxfVnLsb3s_DbRoi5MxTDvkEE5-jM4dWBpIZbXr73LEvnRlwlqConlBUrKqh-Xmz-XXQvUAFnn0ZN9q_sa4nuQmaFEn5J4/s320/img036.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543956607525781026" /></a> 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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">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 <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlz2kECrGpd0tgkwqMyRqSv_FXgem15m3FOuQ1npYCcY3slQOhdyrJHgNMf12akaD1k8LGfL_CNnofiY7u0abuoo7keSzhMexI4kdJ2pVMiEEbtB9UBR_XLItkrRNG905ym9hmqzwDT-9A/s1600/img037.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlz2kECrGpd0tgkwqMyRqSv_FXgem15m3FOuQ1npYCcY3slQOhdyrJHgNMf12akaD1k8LGfL_CNnofiY7u0abuoo7keSzhMexI4kdJ2pVMiEEbtB9UBR_XLItkrRNG905ym9hmqzwDT-9A/s320/img037.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543957324980381490" /></a>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.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm_WfFxDhbkKldA68tYXhlhk92g25Q3vbxtA6KaZxYyNfOWp3G_Onsq6erAMlZfnAC12LaChNlj7C10kbman8f9VPO-b0LDrsch2tkOCyEU300N06F8MKdveYUvhoZaHejcT3SFJa8cP2W/s1600/img038.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 127px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm_WfFxDhbkKldA68tYXhlhk92g25Q3vbxtA6KaZxYyNfOWp3G_Onsq6erAMlZfnAC12LaChNlj7C10kbman8f9VPO-b0LDrsch2tkOCyEU300N06F8MKdveYUvhoZaHejcT3SFJa8cP2W/s200/img038.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543958125119276290" /></a> 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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">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!!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Enjoy the festive season and let <i>your</i> memories keep you warm.</span></div><div><br /></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-79787661149975364002010-11-06T20:00:00.001-04:002010-11-06T20:15:40.584-04:00Notes from the Ice Floe<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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 <i>a certain age</i> (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!</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5Q3Ctx9P1Bxey5RO-iWxCl7rlom05QX2lxS5sMt05Y6fyw13nTe6DlNJmHxwNnYEiHfu-NH0EDxurtW7KwESxLxLBa6Numj5k-dkzqnfVQ8RMp8bBxOEFGs7j1d64rMQIQ42CSu5tZ4Y/s1600/12_AM_Arctic_Ocean_Ice_Flowsized.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5Q3Ctx9P1Bxey5RO-iWxCl7rlom05QX2lxS5sMt05Y6fyw13nTe6DlNJmHxwNnYEiHfu-NH0EDxurtW7KwESxLxLBa6Numj5k-dkzqnfVQ8RMp8bBxOEFGs7j1d64rMQIQ42CSu5tZ4Y/s320/12_AM_Arctic_Ocean_Ice_Flowsized.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536593914642706146" /></a><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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 <i>made it</i> 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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I suppose there is a judgment factor: if you haven't <i>made it</i> by now you never will! So what does this <i>made it</i> mean? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">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!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-31018762811973211952010-09-18T20:30:00.002-04:002010-09-18T20:40:26.210-04:00Got God???<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEzUQ5NM_NaFNtrJWrfk19qeSwWXlURNN1z0X1DngGz2ZFfk0NtHtwHCp4Y1copLUnPNeb85qk6qhVph2F8bfPillzTODbooWb-tme1AY38ARVZ5VzP4sqxTohiYfl-YWxR4WIjwACY-h/s1600/Dad+032.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 182px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEzUQ5NM_NaFNtrJWrfk19qeSwWXlURNN1z0X1DngGz2ZFfk0NtHtwHCp4Y1copLUnPNeb85qk6qhVph2F8bfPillzTODbooWb-tme1AY38ARVZ5VzP4sqxTohiYfl-YWxR4WIjwACY-h/s200/Dad+032.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518416263102212514" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA4IzTUIN3GmGOBmRK2EQ3pIwYGFJV_2yI9w-WHgiKpJq8BfVEtVmTzV7Bkb43Emc1UhMgw3cHhluQYJ9Mr42pjEosba2wiPpmt6TWR04G2UJY9TygNu6zezSDGjUy8gClZcEuvmf4Jzhz/s1600/IMG_0371.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA4IzTUIN3GmGOBmRK2EQ3pIwYGFJV_2yI9w-WHgiKpJq8BfVEtVmTzV7Bkb43Emc1UhMgw3cHhluQYJ9Mr42pjEosba2wiPpmt6TWR04G2UJY9TygNu6zezSDGjUy8gClZcEuvmf4Jzhz/s200/IMG_0371.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518416688023363634" /></a><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuHoGCMmJ3xavLBpqmrBPQ56PhJYfHOvKBSv2mmkv7PBVGsr2RzfrfdVCVxHcKvdNVdTnvS7fWDeBEoR2cPcTevp4bQFiWuwzX3_hS1nYLGJ8Azf7h-uk_WGZSk6F3MWSjFj-xM7DDIri/s1600/IMG_1095.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuHoGCMmJ3xavLBpqmrBPQ56PhJYfHOvKBSv2mmkv7PBVGsr2RzfrfdVCVxHcKvdNVdTnvS7fWDeBEoR2cPcTevp4bQFiWuwzX3_hS1nYLGJ8Azf7h-uk_WGZSk6F3MWSjFj-xM7DDIri/s200/IMG_1095.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518417303891703698" /></a><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All of this brought on by the advent of the holy days. Happy autumn equinox; happy turning of the wheel; happy, happy new year.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-42448025347165991312010-09-06T09:30:00.001-04:002010-09-06T09:46:42.295-04:00Ode to the Morning Mile<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBHBUnmWkHvcfLINsrcIvv9WKz-G85uFwukuHv95k29KduicpdW6_LPU-YQ9qkX1_vpfKiNTxpWQjT1G9ZdYU0pC_ZYfCVPnwZdwAGHfYNYZCy7QDtPhrPZXPB043lv3UC0vlIPix506CC/s1600/IMG_2217.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBHBUnmWkHvcfLINsrcIvv9WKz-G85uFwukuHv95k29KduicpdW6_LPU-YQ9qkX1_vpfKiNTxpWQjT1G9ZdYU0pC_ZYfCVPnwZdwAGHfYNYZCy7QDtPhrPZXPB043lv3UC0vlIPix506CC/s320/IMG_2217.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513794140235150114" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Fhn_La2fQhatPfgpmBG3dEiSImQWPFmc02l8JdCX9o0jxiRbQ-vjImnrIV01Lzuvy_C-NqD2GQUa0PXERKKwjTQhAOblHibPRVIaulcLUv1kh2C6cw49tavxs76oJ2LPgzpxyOVIdtxk/s1600/IMG_2222.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Fhn_La2fQhatPfgpmBG3dEiSImQWPFmc02l8JdCX9o0jxiRbQ-vjImnrIV01Lzuvy_C-NqD2GQUa0PXERKKwjTQhAOblHibPRVIaulcLUv1kh2C6cw49tavxs76oJ2LPgzpxyOVIdtxk/s320/IMG_2222.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513795637374360178" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-5057555812605862072010-08-08T13:00:00.000-04:002010-08-08T13:29:10.073-04:00Children of the Myth<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkTMl7bPjGPObwLhyphenhyphenB_idM5Pdvl3-CilK_hf9Yr7n1C7xfiXdQy6NwKFNrruz_IzEsW7bLiPrJylyzvXMxDtetmsup_xEniVOc11V3bhM2eKWoBQsOT7OQzSxgplvrikQy8pM5WukK8vM/s1600/img030.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 219px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkTMl7bPjGPObwLhyphenhyphenB_idM5Pdvl3-CilK_hf9Yr7n1C7xfiXdQy6NwKFNrruz_IzEsW7bLiPrJylyzvXMxDtetmsup_xEniVOc11V3bhM2eKWoBQsOT7OQzSxgplvrikQy8pM5WukK8vM/s320/img030.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503090285126150002" /></a> 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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In an earlier blog -- <i>The Legend of Jennie Prizant </i>-- 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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">By 1993 my mother, Jennie's only daughter, had passed away.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9grbe5M6jlGikOxQJeke2JWzbbQYaxVVL4-s0OVGooH6qCtOilqTDd2ijiJ559rXfinfXWipHTnMcXQo7ixNn-pf4wpw3usu8F6tk0w0P3ju2MLUmI2V1KYWwgwCEUXNDgEY-aK1hhef/s1600/img031.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9grbe5M6jlGikOxQJeke2JWzbbQYaxVVL4-s0OVGooH6qCtOilqTDd2ijiJ559rXfinfXWipHTnMcXQo7ixNn-pf4wpw3usu8F6tk0w0P3ju2MLUmI2V1KYWwgwCEUXNDgEY-aK1hhef/s320/img031.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503091605500099666" /></a> 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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-58351241296382156272010-07-23T08:11:00.012-04:002010-07-23T09:16:06.964-04:00Heading Out<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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 G</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">rim Reape</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">r 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. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mr. Reaper; </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">or if I'm cramming for finals; or if I'm just showing myself a helluva good time. I like the last explanation best.</span></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheChm92v19hpdEWxBzNHsQNzcrfPkg2_1r2L63ZYjXxp7kH_iY8VGLZsr2eXKRjOSI6TsgFzmgGvyKwPzkbqBTcf_zMai4y8IakmVc0lSM7VP1CG1S_i8YmPeEHKXKiyimDfxjGhXEGBG0/s1600/IMG_2090.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheChm92v19hpdEWxBzNHsQNzcrfPkg2_1r2L63ZYjXxp7kH_iY8VGLZsr2eXKRjOSI6TsgFzmgGvyKwPzkbqBTcf_zMai4y8IakmVc0lSM7VP1CG1S_i8YmPeEHKXKiyimDfxjGhXEGBG0/s200/IMG_2090.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497085748440471106" /></a><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijnMo3Xn1j84fP9S_dFTZ14kZkPBH8j-OmXgxhPlqppfCa0mvwUpxlqPe835uwHmB5V10hKJkbmtwvO1A55hpvRgjMql2b6onThMICU7Q7Hb4wO7tHi5vQr_gvEw2cS47OV_eStoKn1UEG/s200/IMG_2098.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497086168083644050" /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3z1TKxeChUN62EGr0mm-y0f-KtHVi0ltPLf2TGKQ-oiY8jfnyqdQPwf-eBF4ymxyTQaEEMNObhBeakvpJCwuMhJWss3mVeTF05BXejekpxPAk6Hw2xQo2-Qqt3wNvS5cVAEjWQLXp8ldx/s1600/IMG_2110.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3z1TKxeChUN62EGr0mm-y0f-KtHVi0ltPLf2TGKQ-oiY8jfnyqdQPwf-eBF4ymxyTQaEEMNObhBeakvpJCwuMhJWss3mVeTF05BXejekpxPAk6Hw2xQo2-Qqt3wNvS5cVAEjWQLXp8ldx/s200/IMG_2110.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497086822704373842" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04GwcfkwSL3LOekMde47WrzkMPto4O9dFzOVOv8vihVwhrJLrvqEYVpajdiM_J9Q2SdAWYzcYMGdzbH-wbuKPtlbrvN2Zu8teNsuWY3MrYo3r_7_TtIhQuf-mRP7UtPGjDpXLzVRUQkrv/s1600/IMG_2111.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04GwcfkwSL3LOekMde47WrzkMPto4O9dFzOVOv8vihVwhrJLrvqEYVpajdiM_J9Q2SdAWYzcYMGdzbH-wbuKPtlbrvN2Zu8teNsuWY3MrYo3r_7_TtIhQuf-mRP7UtPGjDpXLzVRUQkrv/s200/IMG_2111.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497087372600598722" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxS_e6R97xwyi3QSbT8-7jJ3DkjBKO-JXFto9-UjXQBcK7AbBQMb3RfZwD7CnkrqiJuatuExAzhtSAk1gAxUK3-yrcMMMR6xwrCt98hQdHo4vOy2HwCtUDmkjkMZTopQrHlr-wwiygmJfH/s1600/IMG_2116.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxS_e6R97xwyi3QSbT8-7jJ3DkjBKO-JXFto9-UjXQBcK7AbBQMb3RfZwD7CnkrqiJuatuExAzhtSAk1gAxUK3-yrcMMMR6xwrCt98hQdHo4vOy2HwCtUDmkjkMZTopQrHlr-wwiygmJfH/s200/IMG_2116.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497087936640986898" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij64s1SNJgg6GrbDgiXqSe6CRBLnqcytrAo9wtIckgEBM94LH10VLBGWVdXxGdorIag0qZV5rQFqutyTysefuqIH5UruUT5Fmf0r36Q5Sm3ghpw_nYbyaJwqZq7ILDoxI7hbMCS1fagcrX/s1600/IMG_2117.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij64s1SNJgg6GrbDgiXqSe6CRBLnqcytrAo9wtIckgEBM94LH10VLBGWVdXxGdorIag0qZV5rQFqutyTysefuqIH5UruUT5Fmf0r36Q5Sm3ghpw_nYbyaJwqZq7ILDoxI7hbMCS1fagcrX/s200/IMG_2117.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497088291302987058" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FFivdmTEplhi6g47EdNPZE2SJcip0_xRJFGLga-0l5h_2Rkb9QCMm2Wq9z4fZYtc3Rycov7HOENEix553Sp_kbZhdotlLrCb-8yJ3V4lGSseCbp8JWTSI9XlrHXmLsMURZrPdudHUO2e/s1600/IMG_2120.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FFivdmTEplhi6g47EdNPZE2SJcip0_xRJFGLga-0l5h_2Rkb9QCMm2Wq9z4fZYtc3Rycov7HOENEix553Sp_kbZhdotlLrCb-8yJ3V4lGSseCbp8JWTSI9XlrHXmLsMURZrPdudHUO2e/s200/IMG_2120.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497088715778155202" /></a>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-244494018555561982010-07-12T15:30:00.002-04:002010-07-12T15:54:15.813-04:00Almost Death by Mushroom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUA9TH341t-AcvkK3b60PM6K91rsmfThDHvuagxAwnMHZkixiaw2S8x8eBGk1ncFjS-ZBr6IYwjMKon9JFyRxG3qFWFLsuYLxk139Iv7xdq_-akPOo9nPj9vKtJubuOdm5S5-N9708X0f/s1600/img017_2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 164px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUA9TH341t-AcvkK3b60PM6K91rsmfThDHvuagxAwnMHZkixiaw2S8x8eBGk1ncFjS-ZBr6IYwjMKon9JFyRxG3qFWFLsuYLxk139Iv7xdq_-akPOo9nPj9vKtJubuOdm5S5-N9708X0f/s200/img017_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493108442692898450" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Reminiscing with my friend Sharon. About a murderous mushroom.<br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2CD3gcAvdprH3WuyTfOu7HuEzuYXwo9PQhpLLfJBgjpC89sv9xWwQUmSTaFMZOBLLciNtoejmW9UgxqXo2fl8l8wLeHL8RU3NqV20lO5M93Ep7xUOryIbGW7taRzvSrQ9vf1AlmqmVXV/s1600/img017.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 154px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2CD3gcAvdprH3WuyTfOu7HuEzuYXwo9PQhpLLfJBgjpC89sv9xWwQUmSTaFMZOBLLciNtoejmW9UgxqXo2fl8l8wLeHL8RU3NqV20lO5M93Ep7xUOryIbGW7taRzvSrQ9vf1AlmqmVXV/s200/img017.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493107698645400274" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We were between things and my assistant, Ginny Williams, offered me her family summer cottage in York, Maine.</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBTC5hYO1YxKgIOkNOBslhBSfbId-6IPCQOSX35XDUcZNoPvEiFBob7eQoBitZo_Jq34BC5Xcqsugk_RzmShQ-ZemsNbfLwyn23r3S8cKfxNzPmgYfNzLfap3TocI6wc9Q5mqwRuJotONy/s1600/IMG_0381.JPG"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> 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!</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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, </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs10HgXuQ65Be90XsLjJhmjL_qGjXL-ZBcH9fNqVenoxK71YYtmjq7mAuZ1BQMWVehOWC_vrkbQo0dZt6zE_RVMS5rMsLIWK9TDubc6-rCPbK8UplFEPTo7qUaaSMTxw44E0yRJOFOLKl2/s1600/img004_2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs10HgXuQ65Be90XsLjJhmjL_qGjXL-ZBcH9fNqVenoxK71YYtmjq7mAuZ1BQMWVehOWC_vrkbQo0dZt6zE_RVMS5rMsLIWK9TDubc6-rCPbK8UplFEPTo7qUaaSMTxw44E0yRJOFOLKl2/s200/img004_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493109294114272706" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />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?!!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-87063714019213598022010-05-24T16:32:00.007-04:002010-05-25T15:15:04.002-04:00"Mama's Little Baby Loves Rhubarb, Rhubarb......"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Lovely surprise! My son, Jamie, performing in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Annie Get Your Gun</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> 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. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jWLvRs33AE7ASePXROZ5mXxZHk-tUnFTJPAbdAFyKprCoLMMbsMGSrxdkkfEHaZvVEQDycGFAGK2C3V9nOnx5EvOs-WJH_a6Em208R20u15iyNWQS-9PgueeL8PurFIfdxqE-jpcBb2C/s1600/2458725380046864771xoiRJg_ph.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jWLvRs33AE7ASePXROZ5mXxZHk-tUnFTJPAbdAFyKprCoLMMbsMGSrxdkkfEHaZvVEQDycGFAGK2C3V9nOnx5EvOs-WJH_a6Em208R20u15iyNWQS-9PgueeL8PurFIfdxqE-jpcBb2C/s320/2458725380046864771xoiRJg_ph.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475286079533331202" /></a>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 <i>Woodman's</i> in Essex for a chowder lunch. We walked after from antique shop to antique shop. We both really like that stuff. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In front of a tired looking 19th century house there was a sign: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Rhubarb</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> -- with an arrow pointing to an even older house in the backyard. On the side door of this house a sign read: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Rhubarb in the refrigerator. Honor system! </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The rhubarb, stalks tied in easy-to-carry bundles were, indeed, in the refrigerator. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_XU5o8WEqgMN8QskjOjcYS_MqtqqSq52g7scHlMXdoJuXBNIi0kA4NkaT2gfw1hxCqQbq5yJQZuuh8bx4Pda1BwQaTtF_ni4VSFkMk813TLjx6-VeLJcLhvMy3eTZS4vQpAse_T-g_Jc/s1600/rhubarb.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_XU5o8WEqgMN8QskjOjcYS_MqtqqSq52g7scHlMXdoJuXBNIi0kA4NkaT2gfw1hxCqQbq5yJQZuuh8bx4Pda1BwQaTtF_ni4VSFkMk813TLjx6-VeLJcLhvMy3eTZS4vQpAse_T-g_Jc/s320/rhubarb.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475286882377042130" /></a>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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Splenda</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, 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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Splenda</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. Of course it made little difference. The Yuk!! wound up in the disposal. We were very disappointed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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 <i>Putnam's Pantry</i> -- 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 <i>thing</i>! I've gotta get it right!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmNrHQbYE0q8D-EoLx_lRqHKAj2zzLAUkW9r2td9BqRSvM1y6Uvnhyphenhyphen-A4CGKNFPlSQ5641gesyveei1t7_miHS0tYS0ZoJaRNk544mn17Fl-8iQAWgjbjT5_ZTVLqdYHLQ5_eHuTnfgR1p/s1600/meandmom.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmNrHQbYE0q8D-EoLx_lRqHKAj2zzLAUkW9r2td9BqRSvM1y6Uvnhyphenhyphen-A4CGKNFPlSQ5641gesyveei1t7_miHS0tYS0ZoJaRNk544mn17Fl-8iQAWgjbjT5_ZTVLqdYHLQ5_eHuTnfgR1p/s320/meandmom.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475287605389518130" /></a>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-16172033792159022892010-05-16T14:40:00.005-04:002010-05-16T15:50:31.724-04:00Buttercups and Bluebirds<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmBAFIeHNqVzv07B6WHVpSLyk61Q8kiRIUrO9dIYuRTCSO5_MYL_SEzzGdw38Zm5KbxEeAGKEeH_msmSaGa40-WAqm8k7JcG81JLyivghyPGsgO9wvlYJY6g_fnEl2bBceXIKBcl5jWJJ/s1600/250px-Creeping_butercup_close_800.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmBAFIeHNqVzv07B6WHVpSLyk61Q8kiRIUrO9dIYuRTCSO5_MYL_SEzzGdw38Zm5KbxEeAGKEeH_msmSaGa40-WAqm8k7JcG81JLyivghyPGsgO9wvlYJY6g_fnEl2bBceXIKBcl5jWJJ/s320/250px-Creeping_butercup_close_800.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471951073873123426" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;">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.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> 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 </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkud2v3XX6pW1TlA6EoWauKuVhPK-b_rGP2A9oWjGf95PQPzTQ8sG-mQMq4tyKj7mcFp7HMaxD0AcKUjHWrR0Y-XtqhcEmDu7aajMe7T8ujLdhwRb8g4CY0y_bbpaKxtmmX-qCPzIONOv/s1600/eastern_bluebird_11.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkud2v3XX6pW1TlA6EoWauKuVhPK-b_rGP2A9oWjGf95PQPzTQ8sG-mQMq4tyKj7mcFp7HMaxD0AcKUjHWrR0Y-XtqhcEmDu7aajMe7T8ujLdhwRb8g4CY0y_bbpaKxtmmX-qCPzIONOv/s320/eastern_bluebird_11.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471951564511492290" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Who'd have thought that a patch of yellow flowers could accomplish all of that?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-411415960529999912010-04-25T09:00:00.001-04:002010-04-25T09:01:57.485-04:00New Shop, Old Books and a Rose<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUFKxSEY4mOGj3ehlG27BbR3Dpz_r4CW96KEQ5U__sDyHzd5oPVW8LSywaOPAQM6mkhL8-q8oC4ElDNWgUHI254Wj3qNeX5GjuZIQXTHkNbVgC8Z127EfyAohYNndxtcOp1qTqjG5PStN/s1600/IMG_7230.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUFKxSEY4mOGj3ehlG27BbR3Dpz_r4CW96KEQ5U__sDyHzd5oPVW8LSywaOPAQM6mkhL8-q8oC4ElDNWgUHI254Wj3qNeX5GjuZIQXTHkNbVgC8Z127EfyAohYNndxtcOp1qTqjG5PStN/s320/IMG_7230.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464058238327162850" /></a>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. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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 <i>Gabriel Allon</i> 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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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 <i>The Unequivocality of a Rose. </i>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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><i>Whoopee! she spoke with a book seller!</i> 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. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;">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 - <i>unequivical</i> ......</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8004122593138180462.post-65992906381433665532010-03-27T11:23:00.002-04:002010-03-27T11:30:29.284-04:00White Noise, Old Friends, & Dining with the Help!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It is a very curious thing: at home I am disturbed and distracted by the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">doggy daycare </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">white noise </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. -- </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">back in the day</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hQF-ttF4uzWA7U4yFDKgfUWxHCbKZKvohdpV6XBSzHjg3o8_Q5xqxAexE6Q4MolNVTqgPcok5rLtUvNSUdi4UUlDn0kwaGylZ6C0jSrm9sPiWS2MsNIzEp9fAk6wvU2Y5pp8ZLrY7doQ/s1600/220px-High-line-2009-panorama.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hQF-ttF4uzWA7U4yFDKgfUWxHCbKZKvohdpV6XBSzHjg3o8_Q5xqxAexE6Q4MolNVTqgPcok5rLtUvNSUdi4UUlDn0kwaGylZ6C0jSrm9sPiWS2MsNIzEp9fAk6wvU2Y5pp8ZLrY7doQ/s320/220px-High-line-2009-panorama.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453335495459033474" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> 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.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilt6yrPVcjAMiAnnsijN-PTVnbhJzWsMulwnwojJFy2rOKLYP8CJxF0gddgaEosL1QoGYIxn8MNLwIeBSKve2WhHFZO7ZwMNAbAhgy23ClDerZaYHa94So1Oe3VvtQ9UBywgXNPuI-t-2T/s320/IMG_2010.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453333166733247538" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But my favorites are the doll houses. All hand built. All magnificent. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfajoGPmDDgempo7A8tigXXjLaaOlGyNfDh6Y7MhOPzuBvpKqJ5KiGMSZPFUxbmjZvMZViTfJ8ZTj9ouda10ZBv9COKMYrRVzpsScbWwHNuSecnAxm-hjpLoFcEqUDoGAdv-wlaM2r35mY/s1600/IMG_2008.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfajoGPmDDgempo7A8tigXXjLaaOlGyNfDh6Y7MhOPzuBvpKqJ5KiGMSZPFUxbmjZvMZViTfJ8ZTj9ouda10ZBv9COKMYrRVzpsScbWwHNuSecnAxm-hjpLoFcEqUDoGAdv-wlaM2r35mY/s320/IMG_2008.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453332759291673618" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> 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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On my way back to my son's flat, I stopped at one of my best liked restaurants on 9th Avenue -- </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Basilic</span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">a</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. 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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtTGuVyEst3AlTA60FQatzS5_mJmhPtRlfQXaEOIzfw3ZYPKF2XB7_gLh3iCNJ6aLgMhVkRl_hX713D8NZufRPb1MkuZ4J0k_CsPQ3FYCha3VNv4viRL01TecHxiJPmPJAncKRuHf0ith/s1600/IMG_2011.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtTGuVyEst3AlTA60FQatzS5_mJmhPtRlfQXaEOIzfw3ZYPKF2XB7_gLh3iCNJ6aLgMhVkRl_hX713D8NZufRPb1MkuZ4J0k_CsPQ3FYCha3VNv4viRL01TecHxiJPmPJAncKRuHf0ith/s320/IMG_2011.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453334064862727890" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div>Mickey Coburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15717361402709911733noreply@blogger.com2