December 31 2013

It is the last day of 2013.  A bright, cold morning.  The telephone rang at 7:30 a.m.  I don't usually answer it at that hour if I don't recognize the caller - I don't have a voice before coffee. 
But I did - somehow knowing the "unknown caller."   He's phoned me between Christmas and New Year's Day for 37 years.  Once a year.  He never forgets.  A phone call is so intimate - more so since texting and email and social networks.  His voice is honest and carries us across "the pond" and across the years.  It's strange - not only because we haven't seen each other for 37 years, but because we were only together for two weeks.  Really; one week in 1976 and one week in 1977.  Our conversation is inquiry:  how are you? what have you been doing? do you have snow this year? and so on. Five minutes - maybe six.  And when we hang up I pour my coffee and sit with my warming cup showing myself a movie in my mind.  

This is only my second posting this ending year.  I've no explanation for it - perhaps I've been lacking words.  The year did not lack happenings.  I attended three funerals and there were tears.  I attended my granddaughters' fabulous show in California and there was applause.  I searched for employment and there was disappointment.  I started a little on-line shop and there was promise.  My daughter was taken ill and spent seven weeks in hospital; my little granddaughter stayed with me.  Heartache and joy.  Children teach us so much.  My actor son was in the neighborhood performing - an autumn bonus for us all.  

It is time again to find the words. My words.  There are unfinished plays and screenplays.  There are empty days and absent friends.  And there isn't time for self-pity or self-denial or any such hindrance or distress.  Not at my age - or any age.  So I absorb the warmth of the voice on the phone and go forward.  I care about so many people with whom I share history.  Best way to put it - we "get" each other.  And our souls are eternally connected through love. 
Chances are - since you're reading this - you are one of those souls.  

A bright, cold day.  A fine day for renewal, reawakening, satori.  I wish you the happiest new year.   

Some Things Don't Change

My eight year old granddaughter, Keira, experienced a lousy episode at a meeting of her Brownie Girl Scout Troop.  She arrived with her older sister, was ignored by the other girls, and one of the group - staring at her - remarked, "some people don't belong here."  Keira told her sister that she wanted to leave, that her tummy hurt.  (this is Keira's 'tell' when she needs to get out of Dodge.)  My older granddaughter took Keira home.  Uncharacteristically, she did not tell the offending kid off.  She rescued her sister.  Keira, of course, doesn't want to go back to the Girl Scouts.  Keira and her sister are biracial.  All of the others there are Caucasian.

Lots of old hurts rise to the surface when something like this happens.  Again.  I remembered my daughter's confrontations growing up in a white community (and a white family).  And I remembered when I experienced racial bigotry for the first time.  I was a sophomore theatre major in college in Pittsburgh, PA.  Half-way through the year I met a guy from another university close by.  Richard was charming, blond, and nice to look at.  We went out a few times; always in the company of his friends and their dates. Perry Jones was usually there, too, but alone.  His girlfriend was back home in Jamaica.  Perry was black.  

A while after Richard and I had stopped dating, Perry phoned me.  He wanted to go up to the Hill District to listen to jazz.  He invited me to join him - as a friend.  I'd been to the Hill the year before.  A friend and I had gone to see Billie Holiday.  No place better back then for great jazz than the Hill District.  So of course I said yes.  And because Perry was a terrific guy; very bright and witty and a real gentleman.  

He met me in the lobby of the girls' dormitory.  Everyone there stood around waiting to see whom this black man was waiting for.  When I emerged from the elevator, there was a universal gasp.  When we were on the street, I asked Perry what that was all about.  "Welcome to my world," he laughed.  We cabbed it to the club in the Hill District.  It was fairly early in the evening;  the club was far from busy.  The head waiter refused to seat us.  The scene was repeated in two more clubs.  These  were black clubs, you understand.  Our roles were reversed.  Neither of us had anticipated this kind of reception from the black community.  We were ready to give up.  It had begun to rain; so we agreed to duck into one more club.  We were being very brave; folks seemed to be getting more mean and nasty with each encounter.

I remember that there was a wide bar on the left as we entered the club.  The band was on top of the bar.  When we walked in, the band leader stopped playing his trumpet, bent down and smiled at us. "Welcome to our club - bet you kids love jazz," he said.  "Thanks,"   Perry replied.  "Do you think they'll seat us?  We've been barred from three clubs already."  The band leader looked a bit surprised - well, we were both dressed like college kids on a date in the fifties - pretty conservative. Then it registered.  He called the host over and told him "these young folks are my friends; you take good care of them."  So we got a table; we each had a drink.  We listened to the music for perhaps 45 minutes without conversation.  Then we left.  We both felt as though we'd been to war.  Perry hadn't encountered anything like this in the two years he'd been in Pittsburgh.  But he'd always been with the guys and never alone with a white girl.  We stopped to thank the trumpet player on the bar; he was Louis Armstrong.

The scene in the dormitory repeated itself.  By now I was pissed off; so I kissed Perry goodnight at the elevator.   Shocking!  The next day, the head of the drama department called me into his office to tell me he heard I'd been keeping bad company.  This was the ultimate disappointment and I told him so.  I'd heard about snotty New York restaurants not wanting to serve black Broadway stars.  But it wouldn't have occurred to me that people working in theatre or any of the arts would be racist.  

I went back to my dorm room and called my dad to tell him the entire saga.  His response - being a Jewish immigrant from Poland - was pretty close to "welcome to my world."  Perry phoned me that evening to say that he thought we'd better not attempt such an outing again.  He wasn't up for the fight.  I'm sure he had many others before and after our shared battle.  Over the years I fought along side my daughter.  I had hoped that the world would be a gentler place for my granddaughter.  Not so much has changed.  Keira will need to learn to be brave.  And to seek out the great human beings like Mr. Armstrong.

AFTER ALL

I was having tea by a lovely fire in Starbucks this afternoon, and reading a terrific book my friend Lloyd had recommended.  Music played; people chatted.  And I was oddly not reading but silently talking to myself.  The year is almost over.  A tough year.  Dark.  Every blessing a mixed blessing.  As in: I flew out to California at the end of December to be with Alex on January 2nd - his 50th birthday.  I got terribly ill the night after arriving and so did everyone else (except Isobel) within a day later.  Awful 'bug.' Wasn't able to drive out to see Lloyd.  Or visit San Francisco.  Gratefully, we were all almost whole by Alex's birthday - we went to a deli restaurant (gifted by Jamie) where we ate chicken soup.  And thus the year began.

It was not my favorite year.  Useless murders across the world.  Poverty - homelessness - disastrous storms.  I even include too much nastiness in the major election.  And many personal disappointments.  Was laid off from my job in the fall for no credible reason.  Friends appeared and friends disappeared.  My daughter's health a terrible worry.  And things of mine - mainly jewelry - disappeared with troubling regularity.  Nothing of any real monetary value, but stuff I cared about nonetheless.

As for my work - well, I directed a show in January/February at a public school in a North Shore town.  Came off well enough.  Didn't progress much with my writing.  We did have a wonderful though private reading of my play, YELLOW ROSES, in my son's apartment in Manhattan.  Two remarkable Broadway actors; confirmed what we already know: it's a damn good play.  sigh.

Not all terrible.  My eight year old granddaughter and I went to New York City for my birthday.

So amazing to see the world I grew up in through her eyes.  Alex, Patricia and their lovely family came in summer.  And, in the fall, Jamie came to Beverly to perform at North Shore Music Theatre.  No better company than my own kids.  Well, hardly kids; first-rate, brilliant folks in any case.

So that's the litany.  Many people of my generation that I know keep as busy as possible.  Clubs, 'meet-ups,' classes, travel, card parties, etc. etc.  Good for body and mind.  I am on my own more than not.  Maybe too much time to think.  I read my Buddhist books and cool my mind with Zen-like focus:  just being.  It is easier for me to achieve than I would have thought.   At this juncture, I am glad to 'be.'  Charles Aznavour sings a wipe-me-out song: I DIDN'T SEE THE TIME GO BY.  We never do.  Because it's a blink.  A shooting star.  When I'm off balance I begin to miss people long gone and people down the street;  I begin to regret and have to play Edith Piaf recordings.  I kick myself for what I did and didn't do.  So to work it out  I connect with my Zen lessons, and center myself.  If that doesn't do the trick, I pour a glass of Cote de Rhone and bake bread.

Happy New Year my dear friends!

ISH: Almost, Not Quite, Maybe, et al.

ISH has become an entity.  I don't know how the dictionary folks keep up with the idiomatic vocabulary we keep inventing.  However, I have begun to take -ISH personally.  Lots of years directing plays with good success; lots of years writing in a variety of genre with good reviews; lots of years.  So the only way I can explain directing a show that is a winner - with the audience, with the producers, with the actors, etc. - and then not be able to get another show with the same company -- ?!  (No - I do NOT have bad breath!)  To send written work out, to get positive feedback but also - "can't use at this time."  You get the picture.  Well, if that's not an ISH result, I don't know what is.  
My once husband used to say that we were "aliens."  A bit abstract, I think, but it was his interpretation that we thought differently; our values were different; our insight was different.  I simplify it I suppose, but I believe that we were either not good enough or too good.  We could be deceiving ourselves regarding the latter, but there have been enough applause over time, enough experience, enough humility and humble pie -- for us to know who we are and what we artistically achieve.   It's sort of the same as being "over qualified."  That's bunk, you know.  Unless you  hold a PHD and apply for a job cleaning black boards.  (of course if you're starving to death and that's the only available job - well, it may not be appropriate but one is certainly qualified.)  I applied for a directing job at a public school; I got the job and the end result was a terrific little show.  But the hiring team was suspicious when I applied; they wanted to know why I would want to work there with my "background."  I made an instant decision to not be ISH (or tell them I liked the money).  I told them instead not to sell themselves short; that in the dead of winter in a community that does not have an abundance of theatre opportunity, directing kids in a public school setting is a good fit for one who's directed a children's theater company.  Hopefully a politically correct response.
I tend to be "politically incorrect."  I don't mean that my behavior is pejorative.  The definition I found: "connotes language, ideas, and behavior unconstrained by a perceived  orthodoxy or by concerns about offending various groups of people for the sake of telling the truth."  Sometimes it is politically incorrect to offer information that a person in authority would rather not learn from you.  Sometimes it is politically incorrect to express an opinion, albeit informed, that a person in authority might interpret as a put-down.  Being right and letting the other guy know that you're right is sometimes the wrong thing to do.  Usually the wrong thing to do.  Knowing you're good and insisting with one's behavior that the other guy recognize it, too, -- well, if that alerts his/her inadequacies --you get the picture.  I do stuff like that.  A lot.
So I have obviously been thinking out loud here.  Have been speaking recently with other artists of various art forms; all of us have shared this kind of experience.  Some folks rise above it (or seem to) when they become big stars in their professions.  But often they are tripped up along the way by someone whose fear of being discovered as inadequate in his/her role over-rides the star's fame and talents. Or perhaps one loses one's edge by becoming old-ish or skit-ish.  The only way around this is to move on or to create a solo act that depends only upon ones self.  Giving up or giving in is not an option.  

That would be fool-ish!

Catch up!

Went to my wee garden this morning to give my family of song birds their peanut butter suet. They love the stuff. The yellow lilies that always bloomed first are gone. No trace at all. Peculiar at best. The forsythia is happy; but there seems to be lots of planting to do this season. I can do that. It seems a long, long time since the autumn. The mild winter not withstanding. And standing outside in the cold sunshine I remembered my blog and that I've neglected it for awhile. Longer than that it seems; my last blog was in September. Last year. So I put on a pot of coffee and asked myself the question: "What happened to stop me in my tracks?"

October was a fine month: apple picking; guests for brunch; a trial membership at Studio 13 with ballet classes (really!) and Pilate's and Zumba. Ah -- but that was when my work schedule was cut from 5 days to 3 -- because, I was told, I'd been so efficient there wasn't enough work for me to do. I was in essence invited to leave; I told my boss I couldn't afford to quit so he was welcome to fire me if he was of a mind to do that. He didn't. But somehow I think I must have fallen into a funk. That's actually in the dictionary -- funk. It's defined as depression, agitation, fear, etc. etc. I prefer the music genre - funk. Anyway -- while I lost interest in reading (a pile of books wait for me) and avoided writing because I didn't want to kvetch -- I kept on keeping on. I also developed a recurrence of PMR which comes out of nowhere, makes it painful and often impossible to be mobile. It's treated with prednisone. Bad stuff for good moods. And I promised NOT to kvetch! Well, I did what I do when I have a wall to scale: I took on a second job doing something I love to do: I directed a show in a public school. From January to March. And while it was not always much fun, the result was positive and I'm coming out of the dark corner.

Spring is still fighting with winter for dominance. It's that way every year -- spring always wins! I'm still here. We take that for granted -- being here! At all ages we think that's a given. It's not; just open a newspaper. And today the birds are fighting over their version of PBJ; the sun is out; I'm reaching out to my friends through my blog. Reach back! We're still here!!

(3 granddaughters skip into Spring -by Alex)

Mommy's Holiday Loaf

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

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