Mickey Coburn's Blog

Mommy's Holiday Loaf

2011-09-29T20:45:00.001-04:00

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.

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. An exercise in futility as the saying goes. We'd walk home from the subway together when we were lucky enough to connect. 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.

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.

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.

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 Hoska. 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!!

I baked that bread yesterday to bring to my cousins for the Rosh Hashana dinner they so generously invite us to. And I brought this story as well. This one's for you! Happy New Year!

Hiding in Plain Sight

2011-09-20T14:30:00.001-04:00

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.

THE RIDE: 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.

GETTING THERE: 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-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 DON'T KNOW HOW SHE DOES IT -- 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.

SATURDAY: 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 me -- 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.

GRAND FINALE: The show is brilliant -- if you're anywhere near NYC do see it. One show-stopper after another. Fabulous cast; amazing 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.

THE WEIRD RIDE HOME: 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.

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

"NAY, HER FOOT SPEAKS!" (Wm Shakespeare)

2011-08-01T15:39:00.003-04:00

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.

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.

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.

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."

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."

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.

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.

Of Smiles and Knowing

2011-05-08T14:00:00.001-04:00

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.
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 smile." That was the moment I understood that children have an intrinsic concept of soul.

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?" think quick, Mickey; how do you put this so she'll get it? "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."

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 abnormal 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 smile goes. I don't have that answer right now.

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.

Blessed be.

He-ros and She-ros

2011-04-10T11:00:00.001-04:00

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.

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. Love comes to P.S.99! But that's not how he became my "he-ro."

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.

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.
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.

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 arrived, 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.

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. There's a silly song from an old Disney movie, BONGO. The song is called Bears Say it With a Slap. 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.

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.

The Accidental Potter

2011-02-20T12:30:00.003-05:00

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.

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.

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.

This past fall I walked into a charming shop in Beverly, MA where I live, called "Clay Dreaming." A street away from my apartment. 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. 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.

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. 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.

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.

A Love Letter To My Days

2011-01-21T20:00:00.007-05:00

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 Emily in Our Town -- although she was already dead when she attempted to re-live a day gone by.

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 why 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 something -- someone. 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.

The day I won the National High School Poetry Competition. The day Miss MacDonald at P.S. 99 recognized me as a writer. 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.

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 Emily would agree with me.

(Photos below: a lighthouse in Norfolk; with Zoe and Isobel; with my brother Lenny; with Alex; with Jamie; with Pete; with Lloyd; a reunion with Al; my Clea; with Katy;with DJ;with Keira; with cousin Shelly and brother Matt; when the kids were kids; Coburn family reunion; Jamie in Venice - the trip Pete gave us.)

The Jewish Santa of Philadelphia

2010-11-26T15:00:00.001-05:00

This is apparently an oxymoron; it is also a true tale of a very unusual man. He was my mother's second husband, after the death of my father. I need to go back a bit -- I'll make every attempt to keep it brief.

My maternal grandmother, Jennie, (you met her in earlier blogs) had an extensive family in various parts of Europe. The Mednicki part of the family that came to Philadelphia changed their surname to Mednick. Boris Mednick was a photographer; Boris's brother lived in Belgium where he and his family were when the Nazi's arrived on the scene. Bernard, Boris's nephew, had a son and daughter; he and his wife took the children and ran for it. Bernard joined the resistance and hid his family in the countryside. That journey is a book on its own. Suffice it to say that they survived the war, losing too many close relatives. The Philadelphia family located him and brought Bernard, his wife and children (three at this juncture) to the States. They put them up in an apartment, and there they were. We lived in Brooklyn. My dad's parents had a great old house in Rockaway Beach where folks from the city would come for weekends or weeks in the summers. Under the house was a shop, a "candy store" as it was called back in the day. (Dad had worked the shop to send himself to college.) Word reached my parents that Bernard and his family were struggling. So he helped them come out to Rockaway for a summer, promising them a lot of hard work, cramped quarters behind the store, but a profit in cash and goods that would get through the winter.

And so it was. Dad even helped Bernard locate his nephew and two nieces whose parents were killed in the war, and they brought the youngsters to Rockaway. And Dad helped in the shop on weekends. My dad kept his promise. And Bernard, whom the family called "Frenchy," did pretty well, and remained a fond cousin of our family.

Four years after my father's death at fifty years old, and the death of Bernard's wife, Bernard came to visit my mom and subsequently they were married. They lived a number of years in the Brooklyn house and then sold it and moved to Philadelphia. Bernard was not very tall, but he was broad and had grown a full white beard. I don't know how it exactly happened, but he was asked by a local school I think to play Santa for the children. Now, why would an aging Jew decide to be Santa? I believe that, in great part, it was because he loved being the center of attention. He actually was an extra in some movies and did some print work as well. Well, playing Santa turned into an annual event, with other organizations joining in. He was given his very own Santa outfit, and soon was riding in parades.

We called him Bonpapa. He was my children's grandpa -- my kids never knew my dad. All the children thought it a hoot that he was Santa Claus. One summer, while he and mom were visiting with us in Beverly, Massachusetts, we went to spend some time on the beach at Lynch Park. Mom sat under an umbrella. Bonpapa had my sons dig a hole in the sand, large enough for him to sit at the edge with his feet in the hole which the boys filled with water to keep him cool. Bonpapa was reading a book; just sitting there with his feet in his little water well, wearing his bathing suit and sun glasses. Mom and I looked up to see a long queue of children very quietly and patiently waiting for "Santa" to see them. I called to him. Discovering the eager flock, he took a pencil from behind his ear and began to write down their Christmas lists as they one at a time related their wishes to him. I regret to say none of us had a camera. He was, as you see from included pictures, very convincing -- even in August, without any costume at all.

He was then the age I am now, which simply doesn't seem possible. He was not a religious man, but his Jewish identity was as important to him as his Belgian/French heritage. But being able to impress the kids at Christmas, to listen to their secret desires, to hear the cheers when he rode into town, to visit the hospitals where he personified all of their Christmas celebration -- well, this was not a contradiction.

When my mom passed away, Bonpapa walked out of our lives and stopped being Santa as well. But I dare say that there are several generations of Philadelphians who will not forget the "real" Santa who had a French accent and sang songs to them in Yiddish. Gotta love it!!

Enjoy the festive season and let your memories keep you warm.

Notes from the Ice Floe

2010-11-06T20:00:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

Got God???

2010-09-18T20:30:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

Worse than that was being called into the Hebrew School a few months later to be told to remove my adopted, transracial, Jewish daughter from the school. "She doesn't belong here." She couldn't learn the Hebrew language; she didn't have to. I wanted her to have that community.

None of this was the teachings of any God I could ever believe in. I truly believe that God didn't enter into it at all. The people in authority there hadn't discovered God yet.

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

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

Ode to the Morning Mile

2010-09-06T09:30:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

Children of the Myth

2010-08-08T13:00:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heading Out

2010-07-23T08:11:00.012-04:00

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

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

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

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

Almost Death by Mushroom

2010-07-12T15:30:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

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

2010-05-24T16:32:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

Buttercups and Bluebirds

2010-05-16T14:40:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Shop, Old Books and a Rose

2010-04-25T09:00:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

2010-03-27T11:23:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alone" - in search of a definition

2010-03-06T07:55:00.006-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Inner Eye of the Beholder

2010-01-18T16:33:00.005-05:00

"The best mirror is an old friend."

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, Santa Claus, there is a Macy's

2009-12-24T19:22:00.004-05:00

I walked into the store through the door I'm used to; so I can find my way out and also locate the mall entrance. These commercial ventures can be rather confusing. To the left are the coats; to the right hang the weird, hippy-ish, trashy fashions that junior teens love. Straight ahead, in front of the escalator, are the black, white and beaded evening separates. Walking to the escalator I noticed two massage chairs oddly placed among the dressy clothes. A twenty-something woman, casually up-scale and very slim, was attempting to figure out how to start one of the chairs. As I started to the next level, the customer was settling into the chair with audible sighs. After some grazing, I found a scarf and sox that I had come for, went to a cashier (now called a service center) who had been there a minute ago. Peering over the top of the counter, I saw the girl sitting on the floor, arms around her knees. "Are you on break?" I asked. I thought that was politic. "No. I can help you," she said with disgruntlement. So I dealt the Macy's cards I'd been receiving in the mail several times a week for several weeks. "What can I use?"

The salesgirl calculated the cost, looked over my cards, chose the one that worked. The amount was 2/3 less than the ticket price after the reduced sales price. Delighted, I thanked her and walked off with my happy parcel, glancing back to watch her slip down the wall to the hidden position I'd disturbed.

The store was extremely busy. Well, it was December 23rd. But the customers appeared blithely occupied. Not sure what my next purchase should be, I sprayed myself with Chanel Number Five and walked out into the mall. I visited several stores: strolling through, looking at various articles, pausing, trying to decide. In one store I was followed around (stalking?). In another, the salesperson told me she'd be right with me. I left ten minutes later. She hadn't shown up. All the shops boasted sales, but none as good as Macy's. So back I went. I'm not cheap, just unemployed for almost eight months. Anyway, I only had two more items to buy. I found both of them; each at fifty percent off. I laid all my cards on the counter of a more diligent saleslady. "What I can I use?" She did the calculations, looked over my hand, and offered a better percentage from the most recent advertisement. I used my Macy's card, signed the little signing machine, and gathered up my cards. As the lady handed me my package she said, "You saved $35." I backed away looking over the receipt. A two percent further reduction and Macy's would owe me money. As I rode the escalator down to ground level, it occurred to me that it must cost like ten cents to make most of the articles sold here. I turned toward the exit as the twenty-something customer was just standing up and turning off the massage chair. I looked at my watch. Two hours had passed. How hospitable of Macy's to permit the young woman a spa treatment.

I can joyfully report that Macy's is more than a parade. It is a pathway to a jolly red suit. Happy Christmas!

Who the Hell is Murphy?

2009-12-19T22:00:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago I woke up, stretched in my bed, smiled at the ceiling, and saw a line of what looked like leakage. The upstairs resident's kitchen is over my bedroom. I know; a very weird apartment. Very nice but difficult to live in. Anyway. I stood up on my bed and touched the line in the ceiling. It wasn't damp at all. But it was definitely a stain. I sent an email to the upstairs resident and she confirmed that her garbage disposal had leaked and was being replaced and she was very sorry, etc.etc.etc. So I phoned Bob L., the remarkable "handy man" who is a true gift to a single woman. (Stop it!! That's NOT what we're talking about. Besides, he prefers 30-something women which I most definitely am not.) Bob came over later that day, told me he could repair the damage without having to paint the entire ceiling. Not right away at any rate. He'd let me know when he could come to do the work. Okay. The next day the kitchen faucet began to drip; a definite kind of WW II torture. I started my list. The bathtub began to drain verrrry slowly. A variety of small annoyances. Until today.

Today. While my five year old granddaughter lulled in the bathtub, and my daughter (who had spent the evening before in the emergency room monitoring very high blood pressure) washed at the sink, water poured out from under the toilet. The seal had broken. Scooted the ladies out of the room; turned off the water at the source; flushed the last of it away; employed every towel I owned to mop it up. And phoned Bob L. He came over, checked it out (causing a second flood in his investigation) and called his plumber-buddy. It being Saturday (the Saturday before Christmas no less) nothing could be done before Monday. Okay. I gratefully have a powder room upstairs. Bob left and I mopped the water up again. Now every towel I own was in the bathtub. We had someplace to be so the gals got ready and I put a few of the towels in the washing machine (laundry room off the stricken bathroom) and we left. I returned a few hours later and visited the bathroom expecting to put the towels into the dryer. Well, for some reason yet to be discovered, the water that drained from the washer came out through the same broken area under the commode. ??? Except it was so much water this time that it ran into the hallway and the room adjacent soaking the wall-to-wall carpeting. Nothing to be done until Monday. I mopped again; put two dehumidifiers in place to hopefully alleviate some of the carpet moisture; loaded all the wet towels still in the tub into big plastic bags and spent the evening at the local Laundromat.

My landlord, who is my son, lives in California. We spoke on the phone. He understood the problem and all the worst possible scenarios. Nothing to be done until Monday. Fortunately the upstairs washroom isn't adding to the downstairs problem. Today we are having a blizzard. The real thing. Christmas is Friday. Saturday I'm to fly to San Jose to visit my west coast family. I don't know this plumber or his phone number or if he'll even show up. I am trying to stay in the moment since there is really no where else to stay. But I do wonder who the hell Murphy was and why his law still more than occasionally prevails. Not that it would change anything. Nothing to be done until Monday.

Now is the Winter....

2009-12-13T10:30:00.005-05:00

It is a contradiction, I know, to love the changing seasons and yet despair the winter cold. But I do that; always have. In the past ten years, the approach of the cold has filled me with foreboding. Yet here I am still living in the North East, dreaming of Barbados or -- at the very least -- a working fireplace. It is, with my economy, not a simple matter to relocate.

This winter, its chill preceding its official date, is complicated by chilling events. I lost my job last May, and have not been able to find something since. "Admins" I'm told are not in great demand. My daughter, recovering from mitral valve replacement surgery, is back in hospital with pancreatitis. Almost two weeks now. This is her third hospitalization since July, and her little five year old is confused and bereft. It has been very difficult for us all. Christmas is something of a blur. And while I am so looking forward to a trip to California the day after Christmas to visit with my oldest son and his lovely family, I approach it with trepidation. Will my daughter be okay? So many cancellations since July. It's hard to proceed with optimisim.

I am kvetching; that wasn't my intention. My thought this morning was all the different kinds of winter one deals with -- Macbeth's not the least of these -- the winter of our discontent. It is best I think to huddle -- not quite like "once upon a time..." at the general store pot-bellied stove or four to a bed. But to have a society; to get together with family and friends and surround oneself with the warmth of affection and good conversation. Barring that, there is the apology for the lack of the latter: a good book and a comfy afghan. A glass of brandy doesn't hurt either.

The shortest day approaches; from then on minute by minute the days lengthen and it will be Spring. Ever hopeful.

I wish whatever readers of this there may be the warmth of love in this season.

My mother thanks you, my father thanks you, & I thank you..

2009-11-25T20:15:00.001-05:00

The NPR stations have been visiting immigrants' kitchens this week to find out what they cook for Thanksgiving. I listened with interest and amusement. A Greek chef and his family had turkey but the lamb cooked in the open pit was the star. All side dishes were Greek. The French chef did very sexy French things to the turkey, and converted all else to French attitudes. And so it went. I had never thought of mine as an immigrant family, but since I'm a first generation American, I suppose it was. As a kid I thought it odd when other kids had grandparents born in America. Perhaps I imagined that everyone came from somewhere else. Anyway, today I accepted my origins and recalled the Thanksgivings in my parents'/grandparents' home. The only thing foreign was the conversation typically in Yiddish. My grandparents' generation was all about assimilation. My grandmother, Genya, became Jennie. Her brother, Toldras, became Harry. You get the idea. She was hurt and angry if you referred to her accent. She insisted she didn't have one. (Meryl Streep could have imitated her for Sophie's Choice.) So my grandmother and mother referred to magazines and cookbooks to create the consummate, American Thanksgiving dinner.

My mom loved to set an elegant table. Organdy appliqued tablecloths; crystal cornucopia with fruit and nuts pouring out onto the table; Lenox china with a gold wheat design. Her turkey was the largest she could find; her stuffing began with cornflakes (really!). Candied yams, apple pie, jello molds, apple cider. On and on. The gorgeous Henredon table, it seemed, opened to accommodate a cast of hundreds. And waking up Thanksgiving morning to the smell of that dinner cooking; well, it was childhood euphoria.

After my father died, predeceased by grandma Jennie, my mother married Bonpapa. He was Belgian and spoke many languages. But his primary language was French and his accent was cultivated French (very theatrical). When we went to their first Thanksgiving dinner, I expected something different; the French touch?? It was the same dinner; the only difference was the abundance of wine. Not an unwelcome addition.

I'm grateful for those memories. And the how-to. From the beginning of my married life, when our economy was non-existent, our table -- no matter the size -- welcomed all who would come. (the only request we'd make is please bring a chair to sit on!) My turkey is basically the same as mom's -- including the stuffing. Other dishes have changed to satisfy the taste buds of my children and now my grandchildren. Not so many people in attendance these days. My friends are far-flung; my children have happy lives in remote cities. And the folks I care about here have gatherings with children and grandchildren of their own. The constant that remains is the gratitude; my thanks for the giving. The gifts of the universe; the love and caring of my family and friends. My ability to give when needed and asked for and when needed and anonymous.

And to keep myself company while preparing the all-American feast, I sing Yiddish songs, an occasional French tune, and permit the wondrously familiar smells that permeate my apartment to take me back to many a Thanksgiving-Past. When my little gathering arrives, I, of course, spare them all of that. They're making memories of their own.

The Unlikely Chef

2009-11-09T20:00:00.000-05:00

Who in the world am I?

Ah, that's the great puzzle.

.........Lewis Carroll

It wasn't what they believed I could do that defined me. It was what they believed I couldn't do. That's where self- doubt begins; you know that. And that's when the straight road becomes a pitted mess of quagmires, rocky climbs, hair-pin curves, sudden drops and as many other difficulties as we can think up for ourselves. The universe of course obliges. But when one is oh-so-young, and oh-so-filled with dreams and amazingly innocent imaginings -- well, "they" have too much power. "They" being family, teachers, other kids.....how easily we break.

Where the hell did this come from you ask. Believe it or not -- I was making the pastry for several apples pies this morning. I make excellent pastry. I suddenly recalled a time -- oh so long ago and only yesterday -- when I was faced with having to cook for a husband and having no clue where to begin. Boiling pasta was a powerful secret never mind successfully baking boxed cakes. Rather incredible actually, given that I grew up with two capable women cooking in the kitchen of our Brooklyn home. I can't remember a instance when either my mother or grandmother actually showed me how to prepare any part of a meal. I stumbled along for a number of years, and then one day I phoned my Aunt Edith -- my Italian aunt whose cooking never disappointed -- I phoned Aunt Edith and asked her for her pasta recipe. She laughed and laughed. " A jar of Ragu and a jar of Prince with a pinch of oregano or whatever else you want. That's all I do." I was amazed and said so. "There are no rules," she said. "Just use your taste buds." That was the beginning of freedom in the kitchen for me. And the season I discovered that I could bake bread and make pastry for pie -- the miracle of flour and water -- my mother retreated in confusion. My only secrets to my eventual success: I loved to cook for people. And I had great taste buds!! (photo of Mina and Jennie)

"They" totally believed that I would flunk motherhood and destroy my first-born before his first birthday. We did have a few months of rough patches to begin with. Alex had colic and cried for almost three months. Then he woke up one morning, the first day of month four, all smiles and filled with joy! That very week we received a phone call that my brother and his wife, Stefi, had given birth to their first child. The family was gathering in Philadelphia for a celebration and "naming." (I just realized that they didn't charge out to Pittsburgh when Alex was born -- well, my mom did come. Hmmmm.) Anyway, my mom sent me money to come if I could figure out how to do that. Really -- that's what she said. It didn't seem so awfully difficult: I called the airlines; I bought an Obi baby carrier; and Alex and I would fly in early, spend the day and then come straight home. Don drove me to the airport. Alex was, from the start, a born traveler. When I got off the plane (the days of climbing down the stairway and onto the tarmac) my mom and aunt stood there with their mouths open. It was as though they expected an harassed, encumbered me to arrive with a screaming kid. My mom retreated in confusion. My only secret was that I loved my baby; I loved all three of my kids -- you can do almost anything if love is in the mix.

When Don and I split up my mom was certain that I'd fail miserably taking care of the kids and the house and figuring out how to support them. (I've always been sure she feared I'd pack them up and arrive at her door.) There were many rough patches. For two years I held four jobs. Then I created The Acting Place. (an earlier blog). Then I learned how to be an Executive Assistant. Since I worked as a temp so that I could take leave when I got a theatre job, my mom chastised me often for not having a "real job." She had little faith in the whole writing thing, and certainly less faith in the whole directing thing. Well, no one starved. No one "went without." My toughest challenge I believe is now that I'm at the "certain age," have been laid off from my job, and have not seen the proverbial light at the tunnel's end these six months. BUT I also went to Los Angeles this past month where my first screenplay was a finalist in an important film festival. Mom's not around to "retreat in confusion." Mores the pity.

George Eliot brilliantly wrote: "It's never too late to be who you might have been." All this as I baked apple pies, as I do each year after the ritual apple picking day. I -- who wanted to be a great and famous dancer. I -- who wanted to be a great and famous actress. I -- who wanted to be and still want to be a great and famous writer. I bake pretty awesome pies. Of all the things I accomplished that were not expected of me, baking awesome pies is near the very top of the list. As for the great and famous writer..... I'm still here. Ergo -- there's still hope.

Although It Wasn't Cannes -

2009-10-31T16:00:00.000-04:00

What happened was this: I had sent my screenplay into yet another competition. This time, it was a film festival in Los Angeles -- the LA Femme Film Festival. It cost quite a bit to enter, but I was impressed to do it anyway. Films by women and/or about women. I fit both requirements.

I forgot about it. Once in awhile the thought would intrude; I knew announcements might be made in October. On 9 October, I retrieved a phone message from my answering machine congratulating me on being a finalist in the screenplay category. One of ten finalists. The email that followed was meant for a different category, so that confused me. I made several calls to the festival office hoping for clarity. I called my son, Jamie, seeking some kind of sense to the thing. He looked up the festival, told me it appeared prestigious, congratulated me, and told me that even though I couldn't get out to LA it was great to be a finalist. Okay. I didn't spread the news around. I needed to absorb it. On Tuesday morning, now the 13th of October, I sat up in bed and asked myself when the hell I expected this to happen again. Given my age, and the slow way life often works. I knew I couldn't afford to attend from Thursday to Sunday. But I figured I could manage Friday night to Sunday night -- see some of the films, meet the people and attend the awards ceremony. And that's exactly what I did.

The Cheaptickets hotel wasn't really cheap although it felt that way. But it was only a mile to the venue. It was late when I arrived, so I went to bed. In the morning, I walked out and found a Starbucks where I had breakfast. Then I went off to the festival which was being held at the Renberg Theatre. A charming place with two theatres actually and a delightful courtyard. In an adjacent building was a gallery and offices. The complex was the Gay and Lesbian center, a fact which had nothing to do with the nature of the film festival. I was greeted warmly by the folks running the festival, given my VIP pass and the program for the remainder of the weekend. I saw a couple of short subject films and then a feature which was a horror movie. I don't care for horror films, and this particular one was reminiscent of every other one I'd ever had the misfortune to see. But this was followed by a three hour seminar on how to pitch your film. That part was extremely interesting, and at the end of the three hours I walked away with the peculiar knowledge that one pitched oneself -- they have to fall in love with you before they fall in love with your film. The second important ingredient is luck and/or nepotism. I was on over-load by then, so I went back to the hotel, attempted to arrange my limited wardrobe so I'd be cooler (it was 95 degrees in LA and I'd arrived from a snowstorm in Massachusetts).
I grabbed my camera and walked to Hollywood Boulevard where the Walk of Fame began. Well, it occurred to me that getting to LA again might be a remote idea. So I snapped pictures, and was delighted to find myself in front of the Chinese Theatre. I was, for an hour and fifteen minutes, a tourist.

A friend from college days with whom I'd kept in touch over the years picked me up at 6:00. We drove through Beverly Hills and Brentwood to the apartment where he lives with his second wife (his first wife, also a classmate of mine, had died several years ago). His daughter was there also. She and my oldest son played together as kids. And she is a poet also. So it was great to renew friendships. A terrific visit.

On Sunday, after my Starbucks breakfast, I checked out of the hotel leaving my little suitcase with the front desk. I was taking the Red Eye back to Boston that night, and didn't want to shlep the suitcase around all day. I was at the festival in time to see several films. At 3:00 I sat in the courtyard at an umbrella table waiting for another friend from the past. Steven was my star actor at the Boston Children's Theatre years before. Now he is a film maker, actor, writer in Los Angeles. We had a lovely reunion, sitting in a coffee shop catching up on each other's life. This visit also gave me the inspiration to think about making my movie myself -- well, with a team of folks who know how. It is not an impossibility. Although being currently unemployed -- well, the important thing is to keep the thought perculating, sending out positive vibrations. Stranger things have happened.

The Awards evening was charming; cameras clicking away; celebrities being honored along with several awards to the film makers and screen writers. I didn't win in my category -- screenplay -- but it was a winning weekend nonetheless. My screenplay has credentials. And even though it wasn't Cannes -- I was there.

A Cuppa

2009-09-23T19:50:00.000-04:00

This is how is happened: I had returned from Pete's Trip. (Wanderlust - March 2009) Somehow -- I don't remember how -- I learned of an organization called Women Welcome Women World Wide. The 5 W's have strict rules about only spending a night or two in the home of another member, but it's meant to have a welcome ready in various parts of the world. I have never used the opportunity myself, (though I'd love to have traveled that much!), but have welcomed folks traveling into my residence city. My apartments have been too small for overnight guests who are not old friends or relatives. (air mattresses?) But I took a charming lady with purple hair, newly arrived from Australia, for a day in Manhattan. I've had dinner with a traveling group of 5 W members in Boston. I've email-chatted with many members. One day (2004 maybe?) while I was living in the NYC area and working in Manhattan, I looked up 5 W news on the internet. There was a request from a member visiting from the UK for someone to spend a couple of hours with her in Manhattan. Her husband was attending a conference that afternoon in Princeton, NJ. Instinctively I responded -- "I can do that." So we agreed to meet at around 3:30 pm in the lobby of the office building where I worked. It was in the East Village, so I anticipated a great walking-tour around the neighborhood.

That day it poured. Not rain -- pouring rain. My guest's name was Jan; I waited in the lobby holding a flower so she'd know who I was (I think it was a daisy? oh m'gawd!). Jan arrived in her windbreaker and her trainers -- soaking wet. We chatted for a few minutes. She was shivering. So I hurried her off to a little tea/coffee place on MacDougall Street called La Laterna. We sat down near the fireplace and ordered a pot of tea. We chatted as though we had reunited after many years; two strangers with instant recognition of each other. By the second pot, we had done the biographies, the major history, and were up to the hopes and dreams. By the end of the second pot, it was almost 8:30. Jan tracked down her husband, and invited me to have supper with them. I declined since I had to get back to Fort Lee and it was a "school night." We went to the subway, and before I could get her a ticket, she'd bought one from some guy for half-fare and was on the other side of the turnstile by the time I got up to the ticket machine. On the train, this uncommon woman told me she'd be traveling alone with backpack into Asia (I think that's right) and had never done such a thing before. Neither had I. We were both very impressed at the concept. I walked her to her hotel and headed for the bus station. We promised to keep in touch. Don't we usually say that?

We did. Email is a wondrous thing. A couple of years later we met again and had supper at a little Italian restaurant on Ninth Avenue. We talked and talked. Jan wanted to get together Sunday evening before she and John headed for the airport. I was chairing an evening of play readings -- the Carnegie Collaborative reads plays by playwright alumni of Carnegie Mellon University. She said they'd love to attend. I warned her that we sat on folding chairs in a dusty studio. She was not deterred. She and John arrived with their luggage and stayed through Act I, leaving only because they had a plane to catch. They were charming and genuinely pleased to have shared part of the evening, never having attended a reading before.

That was probably 2005. In July, 2006, I moved back to Beverly, MA, and became a "Temp" again. Jan and I stayed in touch; she traveled to Vietnam where she worked in hospital helping little children. Among other awesome trips. What an inspiration! I directed plays in community theatre. She thought this so creative and exciting. The next time we met face to face was Spring 2009, when her son ran the Boston Marathon. I was so happy to be able to give Jan and John a tour of the North End (in the rain!) and an impromptu visit to a very special art exhibit in a church on Newbury Street. The next day they came to Beverly, and we toured Newburyport and Gloucester and drove around the North Shore. In October, Jan returns to Vietnam and to the Children's Medical Center there. Then she and John will tour China. I love hearing about her trips. And she was so supportive when I took my 6 day birthday holiday in Italy. She phones me and has been an excellent friend through my daughter's surgery. It's my plan to go to England next Spring to see them there.

I do not exaggerate the importance of this friendship, serendipitous as it was from the start. I have had very close friends though not many "girl friends." Most live in other states; I've renewed friendships with a couple here in Beverly and they've been great. What's interesting to me is that I know my friendship with Jan is unconditional. Maybe it's easy to be that way at this distance. I don't believe that's the reason. I have/had a friend of 19 years; a dear lady who -- after one not-so-pleasant a dinner meeting, just walked away. Not a word. Friends from the workplace from which I was laid-off in May have vanished. What's that about? A childhood friend did the same thing a number of years ago because she didn't believe that Pete had given my son and me the trip abroad. "People don't do things like that," she said. How sad for her to believe that. How lucky for me to have known that.

Anyway. I sat in a small cafe the other day and had a cup of tea. A cuppa. And I thought of Jan. People touch our lives. How great is that? I was impressed to write about it. Thanks for listening.

(with Jan and John in Boston)

At Wingaersheek

2009-09-04T16:22:00.001-04:00

And all things hushed. Yet even
in that silence a new beginning,
beckoning, change appeared.
........Rainer Maria Rilke,
Sonnets to Orpheus

We went to Wingaersheek Beach late this afternoon. The tide was out -- a marvelous event at Wingaersheek. You can walk a mile out to sea on the sand bar that appears. Clea, my daughter, wanted especially to go. Few people were there at 4:00; the sun was soft as was the cool breeze. The sky was wonderfully blue. Perfect. We saw a very large schooner pass on the horizon; and behind it, a smaller boat with black sails. Like a mystical pirate vessel. We walked the sandbar, then settled down on the same huge rock plateau we've always called "our rock" since the kids were small.

DJ (the 14 year old) was moody and itchy; he doesn't know how to be without his friends or his X-Box. Keira (almost 5) had scraped her knee so was being tragic. Clea was thoughtful; her surgery coming up next Tuesday. I settled my focus on the lighthouse at the end of the mainland, and the slow incoming tide. There seemed to be an unexpected silence. As though I were suddenly inside a bubble that closed out all sound. I felt something shift. Something changed. I know it happened; I can feel it now so many hours later; I don't, however, know its name.

Do you recognize that hushed moment-- that instant stop, as though there had been a minuscule break in a phone connection followed by a different voice picking up the earlier conversation. Extremely odd, but not disconcerting. I recognized a similar event recently -- actually several events -- causing the same effect. People have appeared out of my past; serendipitously. A couple were folks I haven't thought about in years, but seemed to come around a corner as surprised to see me as I was to see them. Each had a message for me though not realizing they were delivering one. (confused yet?) One is someone I have thought about often for many years; a dear, old friend and colleague. He may or may not realized he had a message he was delivering. Possibly I, too, am a messenger in this case. But with each re-meeting that stopped moment occurred. And that shift. Ever so slight, its impact will last for my forever. It may have to do with my work, with my intentions, with my journey. I don't know yet. But I feel the change coming. And I know it's a positive one.

It's been a difficult year in so many respects. And I imagine there will be more difficulties ahead before the radio plays Auld Lang Syne. But I know all will be well. I know something new is stirring, as though the Wingaersheek sand has touched the smallest spot and has begun a pearl. (that reads rather corny to me, but I'm going with it anyway.)

I have always believed that we are given a certain number of people in our lives. They come, they stay, they leave, we leave. But if we have unfinished business, if the purpose of our knowing each other hasn't been resolved, we will meet again. So the adventure continues and can't be forced.

The difference is palpable, if only to me. Perhaps I need to walk Wingaersheek again. And again. Remembering Rilke:

The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.

Sur La Plage!

2009-08-17T20:03:00.012-04:00

"There's no saying
Who may be playing
With you sur la plage.
A knight who's left behind his charger
May call you "ducky"
Won't you be lucky?
In the ocean You'll find emotion
May play you a funny game
Sur la plage, sur la plage
Ev'ryone looks the -
Ev'ryone looks the -
Ev'ryone looks the same"
...................................from THE BOYFRIEND

We drove to Old Orchard Beach in Maine last week. To celebrate my daughter Clea's birthday. None of us had been there before. We love to go to Maine, and do so often. It's a short trip with lots of different attitudes. We like York a lot, and have gone since my kids were very little. Long Sands Beach is grand, and the waves are wonderful. There's the lighthouse of course; Nubble Light. And Short Sands Beach is in the beach town which boasts -- along with a variety of crap traps -- a wonderful 1950's style (remnant?) luncheonette that has a soda fountain and taffy machines creating the candy right in the store front windows. The Goldenrod actually opened in the 1890's, but the shop was rebuilt and feels very 1950's to me. And, as I've mentioned at other times, I love Ogunquit where I walk the Marginal Way, and enjoy some wonderful little restaurants and craft shops.

Old Orchard Beach is carny. Helped along by the Playland Amusement Park in the middle of the little village. The residential areas on the way to the beach town are really charming; the houses with gorgeous little gardens, and a sense that all is always good. The beach area attracts many families. Very little diversity which always
disappoints me, being a New Yorker, except in the social mix. Bikers, RV'ers, Canadians, and a mixed-bag of families. It's always remarkable to Clea and me when we are conspicuous walking down the street. Only because we've been a family since 1970; not much has changed around us. The beach itself is quite something; seven miles of water front with relatively clean, white sand. It's not San Tropez; but it serves. The food is mainly fried everything -- what one might expect at an American seaside gathering place.

We stayed one night in a less than auspicious motel. In the morning I walked down to the beach at six o'clock; a number of people were walking or jogging. It was a glorious morning -- not terribly warm yet; a good breeze; no humidity. When ever I walk a beach in early morning I spin back into my childhood at Rockaway beach; back into the early years of Massachusetts era when the children would be sleeping in the Anchorage Motel and I'd walk the beach to see the sunrise and listen to my phantom voices in the waves This walk began that way. And then a peculiar thing: these guys bringing chairs down to the sand from the rental bungalows at that early hour. Guests at the bungalows -- claiming their space for their day at the beach. It reminded me of the urban dwellers in the north east who shovel a parking space and hang on to it with chairs or barrels. Seven miles of sand. Room for all?

Maybe it's because photos of these places are often "old photos" of these places. So one expects the charm we see in the movies. "On the Boardwalk in Atlantic City...." with Fred Astaire or Judy Garland or Gordan MacRae --
Happily the children don't have this frame of reference, so for them it was a fun, carnival kind of place, where a mean grandma refused to buy them fried dough.

Go figure......!

Fictional Affections

2009-07-31T14:37:00.006-04:00

On one of those Facebook challenges where you type something about yourself that no one knows, I revealed that I get crushes on fictional detectives. It was to my friends, old and new, an amusing thought. I was very serious. My first passion was Sherlock Holmes as portrayed by Jeremy Brett. Drawn to the brooding genius, I suppose, the same way I was drawn to male vocalists with scratchy, husky singing voices. Sherlock was soon usurped in my affections by Chief Inspector Morse, created by Colin Dexter. I read all the books, watched all the PBS episodes on Mystery! and wasn't really sure if it was Morse I had a crush on or John Thaw who created him "in the flesh." This romance went on for years. When
Dexter saw fit to kill Morse off, I was devastated. When PBS showed the final episode, with John Thaw's Morse being carried off at the end, I literally sobbed. It might seem inane, but I had lost a dear, old friend. Matters were made worse when John Thaw passed away not long after. Ah, Mickey, I thought, reaching for another tissue -- get a life!!

Incorrigible, I picked up a book by Daniel Silva called A DEATH IN VIENNA. The protagonist is, of course, a detective/secret agent called Gabriel Allon. Allon is an Israeli agent whose cover is a brilliant art restorer living in Venice. Maybe "Venice" was the magic word; maybe Israeli agent -- whatever. Allon is again a brooding, remarkable talent in all respects. So I became instantly smitten, and read all the books -- last to first - before realizing what I'd done. When the next book came out, I put it aside and re-read all the books starting with the first one. Working my way up to the most recent. Mr. Silva seems to have a new release annually, and I order early, The arrival of the book is an event -- the way HARRY POTTER used to be. Now, since no film or TV movie has been made, I have the luxury of casting whomever I choose in the role of Allon.

Now I have a conundrum! When I returned from Venice in March -- doesn't that sound amazing? -- a friend told me about the books of Donna Leon. I researched them (wanting to read the first one first this time) and read DEATH AT LA FENICE. Having just been there, this was so exciting. And the detective, Commissario Guido Brunetti, is different from my other fictional heroes, striking perhaps a clearer note. Sort of a plain guy. WelI, sort of. I have read the first four novels and, gratefully, there are many, many more.

Off the subject for a minute: when I bought the first book, I flipped through to find out something about the author. And there at the back was Donna Leon's picture. Okay, here's the weird thing: I saw this woman when I was in Venice. I stayed near Campo San Luca and saw this woman each morning and each afternoon. By day two of my trip, we nodded at each other. By day three, we smiled at each other. I didn't know of course who she was. She seemed very impressive, as though I should have known who she was. So strange.

So I have the next two Brunetti novels on my kitchen table, along with Daniel Silva's latest Gabriel Allon novel -- THE DEFECTOR. It is a betrayal of sorts I'm sure to have crushes on two guys; haven't had that luxury since I was a teenager. And of course, no films featuring Brunetti have been made (yet!) so I can once again cast whomever in the role. I think I must read the Allon book first before continuing with Guido's next adventure. Even if I have rubbed shoulders with the author.

Think what you will. This is a fine madness!

Just a Minute --

2009-07-19T11:45:00.001-04:00

Last week, my daughter went to the emergency room because she was having breathing difficulties and had for years been told it was her high blood pressure. Tests and x-rays showed that she has a damaged Mitral Valve and requires surgery. In just a minute, her entire life changed. Without the ER visit she might never have known of this problem and died of heart failure. In just a minute, a rocky road appeared before her and she'll have to navigate carefully to make it across. In just a minute. When someone older than you tells you "it's all a blink," please believe it. When you're cursing a Monday and wishing for a speedy jump to Friday, please stop and remember that the Monday you want to erase is a one-of-a kind day, never to appear again. I know; you've heard this all before, I don't -- truly don't want to sound preachy. But this is what's on my mind today. (picture of Clea and her little girl)

My brother and sister-in-law are coming to Boston to visit next weekend. They came last August; went home; Evie went for a regular check-up, and in just a minute was fighting breast cancer for her future. My oldest son's best friend -- young, talented, special -- didn't feel quite right one evening. He laid down on his sofa to rest and never woke up. In just a minute there was a hole in the universe. There's a saying: "Man plans; God laughs." You have holidays mapped out; purchases; dreams. And suddenly, in just a minute, you have no job. Right. And then you reach my age -- please do -- and every minute is a lifetime. Not because it's interminable; because it isn't. There was always time it seemed. And then there wasn't. I remember a number of years ago hearing one of my favorite artists, Charles Aznovour, singing a song that brought me immediately to tears: "I didn't see the time go by." Wiped me out. This is the day. This is all of it. Rain, snow, hellish temperatures. This is the day. With loved ones, alone, happy, sad, whatever. This is the minute. If you want it to pass, don't fret. In just a minute. Use the time. Stay in the moment. Look up; your world is there. Whose voice do you need to hear? Call today.

Blessed be.

The First of Three Fables

2009-06-12T14:50:00.009-04:00

This is peculiar: clearing out years of papers and scribbling, I found something I was challenged to write ages ago by my then husband. He dared me to write a fable. From the notations on the original, it had to be 1964-1966. A different life; a different me; a different writer. I'm going to put it here, and hope that a reader will tell me what this is about. And if I'd be wise to delete it! Here goes...

In a land of many shadows stood a town of many walls. The walls were built of violet colored stones and the foundations were of white marble. The roadways of the town were on top of the walls. The people lived in houses that stood between the walls, and one house did not face another. Doors and windows opened to the walls. The people strolled their roadways with pride. The high walls, the low walls of violet colored stones with white marble foundations crossed each other and crossed each other. The people were proud.

The wall of gray fieldstone was old. No one walked on that one except Ahni. Ahni was the little boy who everyone knew was mad because he spoke to the birds and said they spoke to him. Ahni would sit on the old gray wall and look out over the meadow of golden grass to the distant blue mountain. Beyond that mountain lay the distant places. Only Ahni looked out over the meadow. He was watching for the stranger who the birds said would come. Every day Ahni would watch. The people would look across the many walls and see him there and they would laugh, strolling the violet roadways with pride. Only Ahni looked out over the meadow of golden grass.

One day as the people strolled and Ahni watched, he saw a figure moving through the meadow. The stranger had come! Ahni called to the birds and they flew across the orange morning to greet the comer. Ahni recognized him, because it was himself-to-be who came. The stranger stood in the meadow and called to the old men. His voice reached them in tones of whispered words. The old men hurried along the old, gray wall to see the stranger in the field. They didn't see that it was Ahni-to-be. They only saw the stranger's walking stick with the white marble handle. They were filled with desire to posses one so lovely. Their old marred hands curved for such a handle on such a walking stick. The only marble in the town lay beneath the walls of violet stones. The old men ached for the marble; wept for the marble. But they didn't have the strength to tear down the walls.

Ahni was young and strong. He was mad because he spoke to the birds and said they spoke to him. So Ahni tore down the walls, stone by stone....stone by stone. This frightened the people and they hid in their houses. The old men wept and ached for the marble. The stranger waited in the meadow holding his walking stick with patient pride. Ahni tore down the walls. The old men beat at the marble and scraped at twigs. Each old, marred hand shaped a walking stick to match that of the stranger. When they finished their work, the stranger who was Ahni-to-be moved back through the field of golden grass, and the old men followed him. He led them up the distant blue mountain, and they climbed the blue beyond the mountain's height....

The people crept slowly from their houses. The doors of the houses now opened to a neighbor's house. The people walked among the violet stones which lay in great useless heaps upon the ground. The night was coming and the people were afraid. They piled stone upon stone, stone upon stone until new walls were built. Grotesque walls were built because there were no white marble foundations. Walls that could not be traveled upon. Stone upon stone...

The people did not see what Ahni saw: meadows of golden grass lay on all sides of the town, and blue mountains and distant places. The people built their grotesque walls of violet stones without white marble foundations and Ahni crossed the fields of golden grass. The old gray wall stood humbly in the shadows of the town of many walls. And Ahni-who-was sat and watched for the second coming.

THE CATALOG

2009-06-10T11:53:00.005-04:00

Do you remember that classic Bette Davis postcard -- the one where she’s holding a needlepoint pillow that reads “old age ain’t for sissies?” Well, I’m no sissy! I have been gallant into my sixties. And I only occasionally check as I leave the ladies’ room to make sure I don’t have toilet paper stuck to my shoes. There are only three things that frighten me about growing older: 1) not being self sufficient; 2) not being self sufficient; 3) the arrival of The Catalog. The Catalog! Just when I’ll think I’ve mastered defiance (per Melanie Griffith); when I’ve found a style reminiscent of ‘40’s movie stars or at the very least -- Golden Girls; when strains of “koo-koo-achoo Mrs. Robinson” still occasionally hum in my inner ego; just when I’ll think I’ve created timelessness through elegance -- it will arrive. Wrapped in brown paper. Ominously nondescript. And the book enclosed will read The Catalog. And only that.

You know what’s inside, don’t you? Those fashions women wear so you’ll know they’re old farts: Polyester print dresses in awkward pastels. Cardigan sweaters that must be ordered a size too small. Dime store brooches you could no longer buy at Woolworth’s, (if there were a Woolworth’s). Coats with slightly natty fur collars. Directions for applying prophetic blue rinse. Eye glass frames with gems and pearl chains. Pink sweat suits with floral jewelry to match.

Well, you know what I mean. You see the ladies on the street. In Boston, Columbus, Chicago, New York -- these gals are not only visible in front of bingo halls. Be honest -- haven’t you wondered how that happens? Didn’t that “look” go out with pin curls and hair rollers in the supermarket? Or can one still see hair rollers in the supermarket? Uh huh -- and you’ve said to yourself, “Where do they get those clothes?” Ergo -- The Catalog.

The Catalog. It doesn’t matter if you avoid joining AARP. Or if you never ever play beano. Or sign-up for a Golden Agers’ bus tour of autumn leaves in Vermont. You can evade lunch specials at Grant’s or Denny's and always pay full price on the subway and never go to the shopping mall on Wednesdays. Someday that nondescript brown paper envelope will arrive. You can move without a forwarding address; get medical referrals from Phyllis Diller; make biannual trips to Eden Rock. It will arrive. You’ll put it in the toss-away pile and feel safe because you’ve committed Deepak Chopra to memory. But curiosity will be too much for you. You’ll open it. And no doubt, you’ll laugh. “No way I’m gonna be caught dead in this stuff.” But The Catalog defies trash collecting or recycling. One thing -- one small item will seem “not so bad” and you’ll hang onto The Catalog because maybe you’ll order that one small item -- and then before you realize it, you have a list and the next thing you know -- well..... It will arrive as surely as hot flashes and gray roots and yellow toe nails. What ever you do -- DON’T OPEN IT!!

Walk With Me

2009-05-31T09:35:00.031-04:00

When we moved into the Corning Street house in Beverly Massachusetts 40 years ago, I believed that I had come home, that I would plant roots there and grow like an oak forever. It didn't work out that way. After 13 years there, I was between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and I moved to Boston neighborhoods -- spending 15 years in the city. Then I found myself back in Beverly -- for a four year event -- before moving to the New York City area for four and a half years. Now, like a weed, I'm back in Beverly. Unfinished business, no doubt. The universe works that way.

Beverly didn't impress me when I returned this time; I've felt that the community was avoiding its potential. Lots of second hand shops; an inordinate number of Dunkin' Donut stores and pizza restaurants and bars. Even with the presence of the Montserrat School of Art in the center of the city, Beverly doesn't boast an art center or even a small art museum or a palpable historic presence as do so many of the neighboring towns. Some really good restaurants have opened here. The in-town area no longer has a really good market. There is, of course, glorious coastline and some fine parks. And gorgeous big houses along the coast up through Beverly Farms. But something missing for me. I went to look for it.

I walked to the pier which people don't seem to notice much. And from there I explored the earliest Beverly streets. Feeling immediately the quiet -- not that Beverly is hustle and bustle ; lots of traffic drives through its two main streets causing the din. If, on the weekends -- you want to stroll among others -- you need to go to Salem or Newburyport or other towns where tourists walk the streets as well as residents and neighbors. The area closest to the marina, known as Fish Flake Hill, was undoubtedly settled first. And the charm of these streets, the feeling of neighborhood and neighbors -- well, walk with me for a moment. Let me know what you think.

The Beverly marina and pier. Front Street begins with a charming antique shop.

History is evident everywhere in this town within the city.

Looking down Cottage Lane.

I didn't recall the "Furniture Institute" on Water Street. Or the

little beach at the end of the lane.

Out of the Blue

2009-04-22T13:00:00.000-04:00

I did this rather peculiar thing recently: I joined Facebook. I did it for one reason: I had no other way to get messages to my almost 20 year old granddaughter. It didn't quite accomplish that. Nonetheless, it's been a rather interesting journey. At first there was a great welcoming clamour from my kids. Then mutual friends gathered around. Then, out of the blue, people I never thought I'd meet again. With a few folks, I walked around for a couple of days trying to place the name, the face, something -- without saying "who the hell are you?" Gratefully, I'd eventually remember them in my old mental movies so I could be genuine in my response.
I don't much like the yik-yak. Just posting something without really having anything to say. So a few days ago I did a search for people I attended high school with. (Not my favorite four years, but the search was amusing.) I contacted a few of the women whose names I
recognized. They didn't respond. Maybe they weren't who I thought they were. Maybe they were! I contacted a couple of guys who don't really remember me, but responded anyway and we've been typing to each other. There are three of us now who can share the delightful memory of being at the printer's with our high school newspaper when the Brooklyn Dodgers won the World Series in 1955. These folks have many of the same memories, but can't really see me in their look-back. I don't care. It's great to connect with people who came from the same world; who know the Brooklyn that's been lost in time. But it would be such fun, I think, to find someone from long ago who does remember me and is glad to have found me -- and perhaps will unwittingly remind me of who I was then. It's very possible I've been the invisible traveler for a very long time.
Most folks will send me a thumbnail sketch of their lives and I'll reciprocate or send them the url to this blog. Then, as though we were strolling at a cocktail party, they move on to the next discovery or to engage in the yik-yak. Facebook is sort of like an old fashioned cocktail party. People are there mostly to be seen. And once you notice them they scurry away to make another entrance or impression. I never liked cocktail parties for that reason; I was never very good at them. I suppose I've always wanted more notice than that. You know, drop by for a 30 year weekend. We search always for our real identities, believing we'll discover ourselves in someone else. While I was in Italy, traveling alone, I couldn't help being who I am. There was no one with me to require me to be in a particular role. That's what happens in the familiar -- we walk in and out of various roles, characters, personna. But being far away, being alone, encountering new places and faces, sounds, smells..... one relaxes into ones self. When we come back, it's not always the place we've visited that we miss. It's ourselves in that place. I liked who I was there.
I've heard folks on National Public Radio talk about net-working on Facebook; promoting their work or themselves. I don't really see how one would do that. I'm getting better at dealing with the simpler Facebook environment. I don't hang out there; I drop in to say hello. If there's too much yik-yak, I leave. If there's someone there who wants to talk, we take it into another room. I don't think I've introduced the Mickey I met in Italy. Maybe it's not possible in a room filled with people all talking at once. But it's fun to drop in at the party, see what's shaking, and -- maybe -- run into a buddy from a long time ago.

The Invisible Traveler: Venezia

2009-04-04T15:30:00.000-04:00

I have been in love with Venice for so long. Long before I actually went there on Pete's Trip. Eleven years ago, when Jamie and I arrived in Venice I just sobbed. I vowed not to do that this time. I welled up but the rude officials at the Vaporetto (the ferries) helped me to hold back. My first impressions after so many years: huge crowds for March; graffitti, litter, artisan shops replaced by big names -- Guess, Timberlane, Disney, Gucci, Burger King, etc. etc. But I am here -- older; a bit worse for wear. And so is Venice. The power of place: places that we belong to, recognize; that touch something in us -- awake something in us. Well. My hotel was lovely; the room was charming (the TV is behind the mirror on the dressing table-- you turn on the TV and see it through the mirror); and dear Jamie had a bouquet of yellow roses waiting for me. I lost it. Had one helluva good cry.
I walked out looking for the familiar. I found the hotel where Jamie and I stayed on our 1998 trip. Not remembering the name
of the hotel or the street, I walked right there. I found that amazing, since I can't remember yesterday's breakfast. Also found my way to the "Crazy bar" which was our favorite lunch spot. I looked for the Trattoria alla Madonna, but though the signs for it were there in the Rialto, I couldn't find the restaurant. I walked and walked the rest of the day. Venice is a
great place for getting lost. I did quite a bit of that my first afternoon.
All the eateries looked like tourist traps to me, so I wound up with an espresso and pastry for supper. I hope I live long enough to visit Venice again in like November or late October. To see it when mostly residents are there and not visitors. On Thursday I walked to Teatro La Fenice -- La Fenice means the phoenix; and like the phoenix this theatre has risen from its ashes three times -- having burned to the ground three times. There wasn't a production while I was there, but one could tour the theatre with an audio tour. So I did. Spectacular theatre. I sat in the Royal Box and watched the stage hands working on the flies. Then I walked to the Ghetto Nuovo, through a part of Venice that had few tourists roaming about. People shopping in a mini- super- market (is that an oxy- moron?) Kids coming from schools; women shouting to each other across the courtyards. An intimacy. The Ghetto is stark and filled with ghosts. This hasn't changed. I crossed the Accademia Bridge to visit the Peggy Guggenheim Museum. I love the sculpture garden there. One passes lots of unwelcome art along the way, as you can see from the photo to your right.
For supper I found a Venetian style Bar (their word for cafe) where I had some lovely soup and red wine and a salad. Then I treated me to an espresso and strudel at a pasteriere in Campo San Luca. I strolled through San Marco. Orchestras were playing albeit the very chilly night.
It was Friday too quickly. The week went too quickly. I took the Vaporetta to the station where I had seen an "Italian Barbie;" well not really a Barbie but like that, dressed for an opera! I got it for Keira. Then I took the boat to the Rialto and did the rest of my shopping. Not too much buying going on from me -- didn't budget it in. Dropped off the loot and walked again across the Accademia Bridge to visit Campo San Barnabas, where all of this romance with Venice began for me back in the 1950's with Kate Hepburn and Rossano Brazzi in Summertime. Kate falls into the canal at Campo Barnabas attempting to photograph Brazzi's glass/antique shop. On our trip in 1998, Jamie and I would spend each evening strolling Venice with Gelato in hand searching for the Campo. We found it our last night. The shops boarded up; the old church holding only Sunday mass; a few elderly gents hanging out in the courtyard; the old coffee shop the only place open there. Deserted; quiet; clean. No more. Campo Barnabas has been turned into a destination by the Venice tourist office which toted out Kate and Rossano for additional revenue. The church has exhibits; gelato shops are there; tacky tourist shops; tables and chairs in the courtyard. Litter. Something lost. Change can't be stopped.
On my way back from San Barnabas I saw a toy shop with a little rag doll in the window. It's an Italian made favorite called "My Doll," and can be purchased with a full wardrobe. I have a small collection of rag dolls so went in to see it I bought myself a red-headed reminiscence of Raggedy Ann. As I walked away with my treasure, I remembered an early family trip when I was perhaps 8 or 9; I felt lonely on the trip and my dad bought me a little red headed rag doll at a souvenir shop. I called it Mopsy. I still have Mopsy. Had I just had a little-girl-moment? And another Mopsy? We don't ever really grow up. I walked through San Marco; went to the little bar for pasta and wine. And another turn around my favorite places. Then I went back to the hotel to pack up. In the morning, I took the boat to the airport where everything went very smoothly and easily. The flight to Paris was fine. I still had to walk the 3/4 mile trek to
I
the next terminal in Paris, but no flights were missed. And the seats were more comfortable and a young man of 13 from the Brookwood School charmed me all the way to Boston.
You know what was best about being away? Just being away. Seeing new things; relying on me. Not having to deal with the daily creaking of my daily world. Yes, it's hard to come back. But I was so glad to hold little Keira again and to see her face when she opened the box with the Italian Barbie and said -- "She's GORGEOUS!" I hope, I pray, I invite the universe to be good to me and allow me another trip next year, perhaps to Provence. I've never been to Provence. In the meantime, color me happy!

The Invisible Traveler: Firenze

2009-04-02T21:37:00.002-04:00

23 March 2009 – Happy Birthday to me!!! It felt like my birthday when the train pulled out of Roma Termini. The antiquities of the city are heart-stopping. It is not, however, the Rome of the 1950’s movies. I knew that, of course; I didn’t expect it to be. But, yeah, I wanted it to be. It would be unfair to judge it in any way having walked a city for only 4 or 5 hours. Maybe I’ll get back there again. But this day the scenery from the train on route to Florence was lovely; green showing across the farms; white and yellow flowers blooming; a cherry tree here and there. Mountains rising on the horizon. Lambs grazing. I hope that I’ll get to tour Tuscany one day soon. I felt suddenly in need of the pastorale. Not today. I arrived in Firenze and followed the directions to the hotel received earlier. I was very glad it was daylight. Pretty seedy, and a bit scary. A man on a scooter (they are all mostly on scooters) directed me to The Centrale. It’s a large, old building. The hotel is on the second floor. The elevator is a one-person-thing. I’m not good at elevators, never mind one-person-things. So I schlepped my suitcase up the stone steps (very far up) to what I figured was the second floor. In Italy, however, there is the ground floor (zero) then primo, THEN seconda. I interject here that I am in damn good shape for an old lady – I was still breathing after the second steep flight! The room was nice; the folks were nice. I dropped my stuff, and headed out. I did ask the gal at the desk which way to go to avoid the scary stuff (I didn’t really put it that way) and so I turned toward the opposite direction and was face to face with the Duomo – the glorious cathedral. (What a great hotel!!) I have no idea how many miles I walked. Firenze is a great city for walking. It’s small but packed with ancient history, interrupted by the most expensive high fashion shops the world offers: Pucci, Gucci, Ferragamo, Armani, Gigli, Prada, and on and on. I visited Piazza Santa Maria Novella where the glorious church is being repaired. And Palazzo Vecchio which overlooks Piazza della Signoria. Every piazza is like a sculpture garden. A charming carousel stands near the archway in the Piazza della Repubblica. Walking along and suddenly a carousel! No, I’m sad to say, I didn’t ride it.

When I couldn’t walk anymore I found a small place for supper. Then I walked some more. Lots and lots of teenagers strolling around, seemingly on tour with school personnel. Maybe it was spring break or the like in Italy. On Tuesday I walked early to the Uffizzi. I had purchased my ticket on-line so I would be sure to get in. I think the most beautiful place I saw in Florence is the path along the Arno River from the Uffizzi to the Ponte Vecchio, the only medieval bridge to survive WW II bombings. The view from there, of the bridge, the buildings across the way – heartbreakingly beautiful. Glitzy shops line the bridge, but right before itI found a little, classic stationary shop called Signum. I bought a few gifts there. Had to drag myself away. I walked the Uffizzi for hours; how fabulous to see “live” the paintings I’ve admired in print for so long.

I returned to the hotel to change shoes, drop off purchases and grab my umbrella. It poured all afternoon. San Marco was closed; it being Tuesday. There is a conspiracy of Tuesdays in Italy. Suddenly a shop or museum or café will be closed because it’s Tuesday. ??? I hid out in a bar (Italy’s name for café) with espresso and panini, then grabbed my umbrella and continue to walk the city. For dinner I went to Giannino’s – recommended by the host of the hotel. Very nice. One of the wait staff was much concerned that I was alone. I explained my trip and my birthday event. For this I received hugs and kisses on both cheeks and offers for me to stay and drink liquer. I declined with abundant thanks. (I’d had my wine with dinner; I don’t do more than that at one sitting.) Spirits lifted, I bought a berry tart (tiny one) at a Patisserie and took it back to the hotel. I hadn’t scratched the surface of Florence. But I had breathed it in. And how could I be sad to leave? I was going to Venice in the morning.

The Invisible Traveler: Roma

2009-03-31T20:37:00.003-04:00

There are three things I learned on my solo trip to Italy; well, at least three.(we'll began there.) Never change planes through Paris (choose Amsterdam instead); never take advice from leggy, red-headed American girls while traveling abroad; and a woman of a certain age traveling alone is invisible. Explanation: Clea and Keira drove me to Logan airport. Easy. I had checked in on-line and printed my boarding pass. Very easy. I was in a very short line, checked my small suitcase, passed muster with all documents, accomplished security in less than 10 minutes, and didn't spend any money in the duty free shops while waiting for the plane. Pretty good so far! Air France left on time. I had an aisle seat. Gratefully. Unless one was 4 feet 9 inches or less, one did not fit properly into the seats. Consequently, the trip was accompanied by moaning sounds from all packed into coach. My new iPod Touch has a solitaire game on it and I was occupied for the next six hours. I am also a valium flier. 'Nuf said. We arrived in Paris at 6:00 am. (We, of course, thought it was midnight, which--pre-adjustment--it was.) Let the games begin!! To connect with our next flight (lots of folks were doing this), we had to walk to another terminal. No shuttle buses or vans or scooters. I swear it was easily 3/4 of a mile. When we finally got to the next gate area, we needed to go through passport check. Only one airport employee was there to do this for the 300+ folks trying to make flight connections. Well, it was 6:00 in the morning. An ungodly hour to be at work in Paris. All but a handful of folks missed their flights. Including me. So we raced each other to the nearest counter. No airport personnel had arrived there either. It's now 7:30 a.m. local time. All the suits in the line whipped out cell phones and made outraged phone calls. An attendant finally showed up; I convinced her to get me a seat on the 9:45 to Rome. She did. I think I was quite pathetic. I took another valium and flew to Rome. At the airport in Rome: it seemed my suitcase had been misplaced. We call it lost when we are panicked, which I was. A couple of hours later, my suitcase showed up. ??? I made it to the station connected to the airport to take the train to Roma Termini -- the center of the city. Appearing a bit confused, this tall, red-headed American girl said follow me, I'm going there. I did. She of course went first, and purchased an array of tickets that resembled a tour. The train was in the station. She, of course, made that train. Myself and the ten folks behind me in queue, waited another half hour for the next one. I was at this point a bit unnerved. However, I was in Rome. With no idea how to get to the hotel -- the directions given were useless. Wandering around the general vicinity, trying NOT to cry, a gentleman (really!) stopped and asked in Italian if I needed help. I told him yes, but in English. He was instantly delighted and in a charming British accent, directed me to my hotel.

A nice hotel. A nice room. It was around 3:30p.m. I dropped my things, washed up a bit, grabbed my camera, and headed for the Metro. As I exited the subway facing the remarkable Colosseum -- I was appalled at the litter, and hundreds of people partying and a general mess. It was the day of the Rome Marathon!! In New York City, we'd say "Go know!" I stood in the middle of the chaos and laughed and laughed! Then I began my own marathon: snapping pictures, racing from landmark to monument; arriving at the Spanish steps after dark. And the Trevi Fountain after that. It was around 8:00p.m. I'd had it. I found my way back to my hotel, changed clothes, wandered into a little trattoria next door. Ordered a glass of vino rosso, insalata mista, pasta pomedoro. I don't like to eat alone. The place was very small, so I was practically sitting at the same table as a pleasant British couple who- it turned out -- were at the same hotel. We chatted happily through the meal. I thanked them for their good company, returned to the hotel, sent an email to my kids (my iPod Touch wasn't doing its expected thing so I used the hotel computer.) In my room I showered, laid down on the bed, and not feeling tired I was watching Italian TV. The next thing I knew it was 8:30 a.m. Why was I surprised? I hadn't been to bed since Friday night. It was Monday morning. It was my birthday. I was in Rome.

Lesson #4: I knew there'd be more lessons. Don't plan to move on to the next city at mid-day, believing you could get some sight-seeing in before leaving. Either beat it early so you have more time in the next city, or leave later so you can actually sight-see before heading out. I of course hadn't done either. I spent an inordinate amount of time at the Termini; not boring -- people watching; tons of shops; like a mall with a train inside. When I saw my train number appear on the board, I went to it. It said it was going to Venezia. I was going to Firenze. Yet another tall, red-headed American girl with enough luggage to have been moving her residence, looked at my ticket and pointed me to the Florence regional train. I got there; I got on it. Yuk! Fortunately, an attendant looked at my ticket and pointed me back to the Venice train. The Euro Rail. Verrry nice. The first stop would be Florence. I got to it just in time to get on board, find my seat, look out the window as we left Rome and inform the universe that there would be no more shit flying on this trip. It was my birthday. I was on my way to Florence. (That will be my next entry!)

Bad Rice!! Bad Rice!!

2009-03-14T19:16:00.004-04:00

When I was a teenager, I saw a film called Love is a Many Splendored Thing. It starred Jennifer Jones and William Holden (he was a teenage crush). It was a three-handkerchiefs-movie. Set in 1949-1950 Hong Kong, it tells the story of a married but separated American reporter (played by Holden, who falls in love with a Eurasian doctor originally from Mainland China (played by Jennifer Jones), only to encounter prejudice from her family and from Hong Kong society. Of course it has a tragic ending: Bill Holden dies in a plane crash, and the drawn-out final scenes elicit sobs. In one of the happier love-scenes, Jennifer Jones -- in an attempt to keep the gods from envying their love -- stands on their hilltop and shouts: "Bad rice! Bad rice." Apparently, this is how the farmers protected their crops. I believe all cultures have superstitious tricks to fool the jealous gods. My grandma used to spit three times if someone admired one of us children.

My Italian aunt tied red ribbons to the baby carriages. There are any number of spells to avoid the evil eye. Little bags of various herbs, necklaces or rings of particular gemstones (depending on the protection needed); even a rabbit's foot used for luck.

All of this is prelude to answering a question posed daily to me these past few weeks: Aren't you excited about your trip??? (That would be my birthday week in Italy.) I answer, "Sure." But they don't believe me because I'm not frenetic about it. Well, it's a case of "Bad rice! Bad rice!" I'm psyched; I'll get excited when I'm standing in the airport in Rome -- My friend Dennis says he's never excited about a trip until he gets there. My friend Bobbie, who's been teaching me how to pronounce Italian phrases so they might actually be understood in Italy took me to dinner last evening to my favorite North End restaurant Antico Forno. The dinner was celebratory; the rule was that I had to order in Italian. And I did! Of course, none of the wait staff were Italian or understood the language. That didn't matter after a glass of vino rosso! I guess my useless point is that if I get really excited now, when I get there I'll have spent all the emotion. I will have used it up. But going one day at a time, enjoying the approach of the holiday, will make it last that much longer. And I will be carrying a little black velvet bag that hides in my purse; it holds several good luck charms. That and a couple of valium to get me on the plane. I'm still looking for a pair of good walking shoes!

Light

2009-02-15T22:46:00.009-05:00

Yesterday was Valentine's Day. It's actually named for a priest named Valentine who was martyred and made a saint. There are several versions of his story, but that's not the subject of this entry. At the inception of the "holiday," it celebrated romantic love. Today, maybe thanks to Hallmark, cards and remembrances are given to relatives and friends as well as lovers. C.S. Lewis defined the kinds of love in his book The Four Loves: affection; friendship; eros; and caritas (unconditional love). I suppose one could make the case that "true love" is a combination of all four.

I've gone off on this because I realized yesterday that I've really never quite celebrated Valentine's Day in that romantic vein. My daddy used to bring me a little heart box containing chocolates every year. My ex-husband did not believe in Valentine's Day. And any other fellas in my life were apparently equally unsentimental. I am not complaining or kvetching or feeling sorry for myself. It's just a sort of belated observation. I've gotten funny cards from friends and sweet hand-made cards from my children (and grandchildren). This year I realized that all kinds of love begin in one place not mentioned by C.S. Lewis: self-love. Not ego, not conceit, not vanity. But an awareness and a belief in one's self and valuing one's self. We've heard it before many times: if we do not love ourselves, believe in ourselves, how do we expect others to do it?

My son and I were talking about this; very synchronistic. It is a connection with our center, with our light, with our soul I suppose we may call it.
People go there through meditation; artists through their art. It is, I believe, the beginning and the end of our personal journey. When people who have experienced an "out of body" episode, a sort of death, they describe seeing a light and moving toward it. I experienced that once when I was in trouble in a recovery room after surgery. When I thought about it afterward, the light wasn't external; it wasn't outside of me. The journey toward the light was a journey deep to the center of myself. That's where the light is. And in that near death experience, I was watching myself move into myself to become one with my light. Weird, huh?

I suppose if I had a beau, and if I'd received two dozen long stemmed roses, or a satin heart filled with dark chocolate covered cherries, or a dinner at a sweet, dimly lit restaurant, etc. etc. etc., I wouldn't wax philosophical about the nature of love. I'd be besotted and feeling the feelings for someone other. That would be nice too. But rediscovering one's inner light gives a different kind of warmth. It will get us through many kinds of winter.

Wanderlust

2009-02-03T21:00:00.002-05:00

It's a very long winter. We had more snow by mid-January than in the typical six month season. I've never liked the cold which begs the question -- "You've lived in the north east all of your life??" I can't answer that reasonably, but at my age it's a moot point. Most of my friends and relatives who were way smarter than me have retired or semi-retired. They travel. Some escape the winter by heading south. Some of them hold up in foreign ports for weeks on end. I don't envy much. Traveling I envy. Oh, I've had a few trips. There was my adventure in England "back in the day." (see June 2008 Crossing the Pond) And I became my actor-son's groupie when he was performing in regional theatre and traveling his cabaret show. I saw Virginia Beach; St. Louis (twice); Montgomery, Alabama; Berlin, Germany; and more. In 1998, at low ebb, my dear friend Pete Jones telephoned me from his home in Laguna Beach. Pete was concerned that I'd never see Venice (my big dream) if he didn't see to it. Thinking of me while he was suffering from cancer. And though he'd meant to take me on the trip himself, he wasn't able. So he arranged a journey for me (with my son, Jamie, because he wanted me to have someone to share the memories with.) He did it all from his hospital bed. We went to Paris for six days; traveled by train to Venice by way of Milan. We spent six days in Venice. Then on to Saltzburg -- Pete's favorite place. Four days there, then two in Vienna. We finished the trip in Munich for two days and flew home from Frankfort. Pete was my best friend.

Jamie met me at Logan Airport in Boston, flying up from NYC. We arrived in Paris on the first of May. It rained most of the time we spent in Paris but it didn't matter. We crossed all of the bridges; rode a carousel; strolled a museum or two; ate crepes; went to a movie; brought bouquets of flowers to Père Lachaise Cemetery; were chased out of the lobby of the Ritz Hotel because we were wearing blue jeans. We visited with a dear friend who had been an exchange student with us eons before -- she came with her lovely son and her sister for hot chocolate. We went to Le Comedie - Française where we were stared at because we'd dressed up. We walked. We walked. And discovered so much about each other. Venice was very sunny and very warm. And very crowded. We were out each morning by 6:30 and roamed the streets without competition. It was beyond expectation. Each evening after dinner, we'd have our gelato while searching for Campo Barnabas (in the film SUMMERTIME, Kate Hepburn meets Rossano Brazzi there). We walked. We walked. And discovered so much about each other. Saltzburg was stunning. I will always wish that Pete could have been there with us, to show us "his" Saltzburg. Once we arrived in Vienna, we knew we should have stayed two days in Saltzburg so we'd have four in Vienna. It was glorious. We saw Cosi Fan Tutti. And we walked. We walked. And continued to discover so much about each other. On the train to Munich, we felt foolish because we were nervous crossing the border into Germany. The train stopped, and two men slammed into our compartment. One was in a black leather jacket. They demanded passports and had a good time scaring us. They actually did work for the railroad. When they left and the train started again, we laughed until we wept. We watched fields of red poppies from our "Miss Marple" train windows. In Munich, we went to the theatre. WEST SIDE STORY done in German. It lacked something.....(you can only imagine!) By the time we reached Munich, however, we knew that Pete had passed away. And we were suddenly tired with that news. Pete was my best friend.

That was my great trip which deserves a small volume actually. And it was my great gift. It continues to reverberate. It turned me into an eternal tourist. It made me what Pete called "Journey Proud." It turned my son and me into friends. Adult friends. Oh, I'll get the occassional phone call still and hear him say, "I need to speak to my mom." But on any level, we can talk. (Wouldn't it have been amazing to take a similar trip with each of my kids?) Anyway, that was Pete's greatest gift. That, and his deep and abiding friendship.

So now I have this big birthday approaching in March. At low ebb (again) I feel that I am in need of a holiday instead of a cake with a forest fire of candles. For several months I have been squirreling away as much money as I can, and I'm taking myself on a birthday trip. I'm going to Italy. A very short trip, really, but I know it will be a good thing. I'll have a day in Rome, two days in Florence, three days in Venice. I won't have company; but I learned a long time ago that if I wait for someone to show up before I do something, it probably won't get done. Funny thing: when I was maybe 11 or 12 years old, I wrote a poem which I can't totally remember. But the last line was something about it being wonderful to "travel through the world alone." My English teacher thought that was a foolish concept and berated me for it. I wonder if it was 'fore-shadowing." When I feel some trepidation about it, Jamie tells me my trip will be empowering. I can use some of that. In the interim, while this relentless winter carries on, I have something wonderful to plan. Pete would call me "Journey Proud." He was my best friend.

Travels in Black and White

2009-01-20T08:34:00.010-05:00

I stayed home today to watch our new President take the oath of office. The company where I currently work as a temp assistant won't be putting time aside for that experience, and I really (like most of us) didn't want to miss it. The past few weeks leading up to this awesome event have brought up so many memories. In my blog entry, A Week in November, I wrote about my first time voting. And I wrote about my father weeping when Arthur Goldberg and Abraham Ribicoff became members of JFK's cabinet. It was a huge thing for Jews to be part of the cabinet. And here we are today, 48 years later (where did all that time go?) welcoming Barack Obama to lead our country. I think my dad would have surely been impressed with the remarkable turn of events. But chances are he'd have said something about not yet seeing a Jewish president. Well, he'd have to say that.

You know that mine is a trans-racial family. A friend asked me recently how/why did this happen? I probably shrugged and came out with a smart-ass remark -- I don't remember. But it did send me thinking back. From the time I was a teenager I had decided to adopt a baby. Even if I had biological children, I knew I would adopt. When my first son was around two years old I researched the Pearl Buck Foundation. Adopting an Asian child through this organization was not financially possible for us. When my second son was around one year old, I looked into adopting a Native American child ( the profile of available/needy children continually changed). The adoption agency encouraged us to give our boys their childhood. When we had moved into Beverly Massachusetts, into our wonderful Corning Street house; when we had come home, the time seemed right. So I made some calls and learned that the children who needed homes at that time were mixed race babies. It never occurred to me to adopt a Caucasian child; I wanted to adopt a baby who might otherwise not have a home. I worked with Friends for Inter-racial adoption. We were sent to Jewish Home Services in Lynn. These good folks had never assisted with an inter-racial adoption. They had many reservations: we didn't have any money; we were already a mixed religion family. The woman, Alice, who was in charge of our "case" asked me "In what race will you raise the child?" I remember clearly saying, "How about the human race? I think that will work." My only stipulation was a baby girl under the age of two. It was December of 1969. Don and I met with her together, then we met with her separately. In January, she came to our home. She approved us, but cautioned that it could take years for the appropriate child to appear. (My husband, by the way, went along with all of this because it was so important to me. But I know he thought it was a fine madness.)

On Friday, February 6th, I received a phone call from Alice. She had a baby. The baby was mixed-race, and had a Jewish mother who wanted the child to be with a Jewish mother. We qualified! The little girl had been waiting six months. Don left work in Boston, I left Beverly and we met at the office in Lynn.
Alice had photos of the baby, but very little information about her background. The adoption fee was very low in order to permit us to afford it. The baby was coming from Jewish Family Services in Boston; we couldn't pick her up on the weekend and Monday was a Jewish holiday, so Tuesday became the day we'd come for our new baby. Alice said something stupid like "Sold!" I was sure then and convinced since that this baby had been waiting for us.

We spent the weekend putting our new baby's room together; the crib, etc. I didn't know how big the baby was but I went shopping for clothes for her anyway. My mother (who wasn't crazy about the idea) had wired me $50 for a layette for her. I had a short list of names -- Zoe, Keira, Sabra, and at least six more. But on Sunday evening I finished reading the last book of the Alexandria Quartet. The book is called Clea. And with Don's blessing, I decided to call the baby Clea Coburn Beaman. We fetched our Clea on Tuesday, February 10th, 1970.

I had always been oddly color blind when it came to race. I say oddly because being raised in the '40's and '50's, racism seemed a way of life. So was antisemitism. There were too many "antis" in those days. But not until you are in the trenches do you really understand the pain this causes. We were instantly in the trenches. We had integrated Beverly, and for
years Clea was the only child of color in her classrooms. We fought the Metco fight, the "let's destroy the Beaman's yard" fight, the screaming and throwing rocks at the Beaman children on the streets, and so forth. I hope that Clea knew during all those years that she wasn't alone but had a family-army with her.

This of course doesn't really answer how/why. Recently I remembered having several books when I was little; books that today would not be politically correct. One was about a little girl called "Pinky Marie" whose hair was in tiny braids with colorful ribbons that get stolen by the birds while she sleeps in the garden. The birds make a glorious nest with her ribbons. The other book was about a little black baby girl who is abandoned on the steps of a hospital. And Nurse Moore who is a single, white lady decides to adopt her and calls her Baby Jane. (The book doesn't say "black baby;" it says "colored baby." Such were the times.) I loved the book; I loved Nurse Moore who took this adorable baby home. And truly, as a little girl, I didn't see color -- I saw a baby who needed a home and a lady who gave her one. I think this was probably where it all began.

The rest of Clea's story is a book waiting to be written. I'll try to do that really soon. But today my daughter is watching the first black President take office. And her three children will know that this is possible. Perhaps it will be a better world for us all. We can hope. President Obama is all about hope.

I

Missing Midnight

2009-01-01T13:24:00.007-05:00

Maybe it's much too early in the game
Ooh, but I thought I'd ask you just the same
What are you doing New Year's
New Year's eve?
........... words & music by Frank Loesser

My, my -- I thought this year -- there have been quite a few New Year's eves gone by. I don't recall too many from my childhood. One though: I was maybe 10 or 11 when I was left to babysit for my younger brother. I'm sure it was New Year's eve. My parents and grandparents had gone out. I don't know where my older brother was. I just remember sitting on the couch, looking out the window and watching the snow fall. It was a beautiful snowfall. I know I didn't mind being there. I remember when I was in high school, I'd stay home on New Year's eve. But my friends would show up at around midnight to see in the New Year with me. My mom and I would make them breakfast. One year I had a date (I don't recall whom with) and we went into Manhattan to see a movie and watch the ball drop. When we came out of the theatre in Times Square it was bedlam. My date vanished into the crowd. I have never coped well with crowds, so I beat it down to the subway and went home. I found my date sitting on my porch steps. Duh! After that, I pretty much told my friends that I'd be home on New Year's eve. Even in college -- folks who were in NYC for the holidays would shlep out to Brooklyn to sing around our piano. My parents would always come home early from wherever they went for the evening so that they wouldn't miss the "party." A bunch of theatre students -- there was always someone who could "really" play piano, and people like Ellen Travolta and Lloyd Battista who could sing and entertain any crowd. In the early hours of New Year's morning, my Dad would wake me up and we'd drive to Coney Island for Nathan's hotdogs and Shatzkin's knishes which we'd eat on the boardwalk while we watched the "Brownies" club members go for their New Year's day swim in the cold Atlantic. After I'd graduated school and married and moved away, folks continued to show up at my mom's door and spend some New Year's eve time reminiscing.

During the Pittsburgh years, my husband and I would host a little New Year's eve party. Always a small gathering with some close friends. My dear friend Mary and her hubby Ray would have an open house party right next door. So there was friendly visiting back and forth. And at midnight, we'd meet on the shared porch of our two rentals, to toast the New Year in together. The early years in Massachusetts in the Corning Street house brought all kinds of new traditions. One of the best was our Victorian New Year's Eve. I asked the friends we invited to come dressed as they would have been during that era. I remember we borrowed little tables and chairs and turned our living room into a Victorian restaurant. All of the dishes served were from that era. Friends even came from out of state. It was a charming evening, lit only by candle light.

During the Acting Place years, the actors and students from the Place would show up; we'd read fortunes in the fireplace and throw the Tarot cards. For years this became a happy way to spend the night. When I moved into Boston, my friends continued to arrive for our "magical" New Year's eve. Ouija boards; spirit writing; past-life regressions; seances. We had a terrific time. Occasionally my step-father would overnight a "do-it-yourself crepe suzette kit." It made a lovely breakfast!

People go their own way. Living in New Jersey didn't attract any comers for the holiday. And since my return, my circle of loved ones is far flung and miles wide. But usually, there's a good movie, some time with the little ones, and a glass of Prosecco while watching the ball drop on the TV. HOWEVER, last night I curled up on my bed with my mulled wine and turned on a show to watch until the midnight event. We'd had a snow storm, and the temperature had dropped to single digits after the snow stopped falling. So any plans to go out were pretty much parked. So I turned to the TV for the evenings event. The next thing I knew, I was waking up and it was 4:00 a.m. I had slept through midnight!!! That was a first. And hopefully NOT to be repeated. I felt terribly old farty having missed midnight!

I wish you a joyous 2009 filled with good health and excellent surprises!

A Whole Lot of Tra-la-la!

2008-12-07T15:27:00.009-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Madness That Keeps Me Sane

2008-11-25T23:00:00.011-05:00

“'But I don’t want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.'Oh, you can’t help that,' said the Cat. 'We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.

''How do you know I’m mad?' said Alice.

'You must be,” said the Cat. 'or you wouldn’t have come here.'”

...............Lewis Carroll

“And Something's odd - within -That person that I was - And this One - do not feel the same - Could it be Madness - this?"...............Emily Dickenson
A person needs a little madness, or else they never dare cut the rope and be free." ...............Nikos Kazantzakis

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Thanksgiving.

A Week in November

2008-11-09T19:35:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, the Apple Trees

2008-10-15T10:35:00.013-04:00

Ah, the apple trees,

Blossoms in the breeze,

That we walked among,

Lying in the hay,

Games we used to play,

While the rounds were sung,

Only yesterday,

when the world was young.

..............Johnny Mercer

It has been a week of glorious autumn weather -- warm sun, cool breezes; dry, crisp air; breathtaking colors of foliage along the highways. It is an apology for the damp, cloudy summer. In the fall, we go apple picking along with throngs of other urban dwellers. When I was a kid, my dad would get Columbus Day off from work and we'd drive to Connecticut to a farm owned by a German couple. I don't remember their names. We'd spend the day picking blueberries. My mom didn't come with us, but she'd welcome the bounty and she'd put up blueberry jam. So when my own kids were little, we began our own tradition. We'd take them to the orchards on Columbus Day and we'd pick apples. When we got home, I'd bake apple pies, freezing a couple for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The others were our feast. Everyone would peel apples for me, and I'd make original pie crust. There were big apple trees in the orchards then, and my little boys would climb those trees. The best part of the experience! Don, my husband at the time, would take us in search of Northern Spy apples -- his grandma's favorite. We could find them while living in Pennsylvania. When we moved to
Massachusetts we had to settle for new varieties. I like the Macouns and the Cortlands for pie. They're bountiful here. When I lived in New Jersey several years ago, I discovered the Wine Sap apples. The best I've ever had in pie. Again living in Massachusetts, I seek out the Macoun apples -- there are no Wine Saps that I can find here.

The trees in the orchards now seem all to be dwarf trees. It's okay though, because I'm picking apples with Keira who is four years old.

She can reach the lowest branches. She loved apple picking this year. Happily she enjoys eating apples because she's not much for the pies. (she prefers cakes with flowers on them). I have to work on Columbus Day, but the Sunday before is perfect for pie baking. I don't have any apple peeler guys around; in spite of that there are three large pies in the freezer and one individual size pie. My daughter and I made short work of another small pie on baking day. There's also a tub of apple sauce -- I cut out the cores but leave the skin, adding only cinnamon. The sweetness of the apples is quite enough.

It is a weekend of memories; one of my long mental movies -- long enough to last me through the several hours of peeling and baking and cleaning up. I remembered the Columbus Days during the Acting Place years -- many of the actors from the Place would tag along to the orchard. I'd be baking pies into the night, with lots of music and laughter and probably a few bottles of wine thrown in. Now the baking time is rather quiet. My family and friends are scattered across the country. But it is a time unto itself; we are still memory-making. Keira was thrilled to be picking apples, and sitting under the trees at picnic tables eating them.

When I came home from work last night, there was a package for me. In it were five large Wine Sap apples sent to me by my niece, Amy. Amy lives in Media Pennsylvania where Wine Sap apples grow. She remembers the Thanksgiving pie which she enjoyed when she shared the holiday with us while I lived in Fort Lee. It was so touching a gift. The best memories are those we share. So is the best apple pie.

It is probably a conceit of mine, but it is encouraged. Jamie has told me he won't order apple pie anywhere. He's had the "real thing" and won't settle. He's due for a visit in early December; there's a pie in the freezer waiting for him.

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

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

The End of Something

2008-10-07T11:38:00.016-04:00

How queer everything is today! And yesterday things went on just as usual.

I wonder if I've been changed in the night?

Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning?

I almost think I can remember feeling a little different.

But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I?

Ah, that's the great puzzle!
--Chapter 2 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hair

2008-09-25T15:51:00.014-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

Sitting Around

2008-09-14T19:06:00.005-04:00

I'm sitting here in my living room reading the latest Daniel Silva book. For years I had a crush on Chief Inspector Morse -- a character created by Colin Dexter. Dexter killed him off, and the actor who played him on Masterpiece Theatre, John Thaw, died soon after. I vowed not to fall in love with a guy in a book ever again. However, Silva's character, Gabriel Allon, is even edgier than Morse. He's an Israeli agent who is also an artist working as an art restorer as his cover. Anyway. I'm sitting here and the slowly setting sun has reached that place in its journey where it's shining into the room. Everything is glowing. It's the same room I've had for too many years. Different apartment, but the same room. It wants an inspired change. But the unexpected glow makes me look around: the pictures Jamie took on our trip to Venice; the photo Robert Fay took of me wearing a top hat in the Forest Hills cemetery one rainy January Sunday; the memorabilia on top of the old upright piano; the white wicker rocker I bought so Bonpapa would have a comfortable place to sit. I couldn't fit the rocker in my small Datsun and I had to carry it the two miles home. (Then walk back to the shop to get my car). The glorious doll house Jamie built for me; the glass case filled with my unintentional pear collection. A side board of vinyl records -- 50 years of collecting. And, the silly excuse for a sofa,

a bank of three theatre seats from the old Lucy Larcom Theatre -- at the time when it was a porno house called The Fine Arts Theatre. When it closed, my friend Al (who managed the Fine Arts at the time) brought me the seats as a momento. (I had wanted to rent the theatre for a year and produce plays and musicals and revues. ) My son, Alex, and I recovered the seats. (Right!) None of the furniture is comfortable to sit on. Well, the rocker is okay. But the room feels comfortable all the same. It's friendly. I like it. Bits and pieces of my life. I close my eyes and drift, remembering where I've been.

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

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