Brooklyn: Once Upon A Time

If I close my eyes I can almost hear my mother

Callin', "Go find your brother
Daddy's home, and it's time for supper
Hurry on" ……
Where's it gone Oh, where's it gone …..
I built me a castle
With dragons and kings
And I'd ride off with them
As I stood by my window
And looked out on those Brooklyn roads……
Thought of going back
But all I'd see are stranger's faces
And all the scars that love erases
But as my mind walks through those places
I'm wonderin' What's come of them
Does some other young boy
Come home to my room
Does he dream what I did
As he stands by my window
And looks out on those Brooklyn roads
.....................................Neil Diamond

Oh, dear -- she's back to Brooklyn again. Honestly, there's a reason. A couple. A few. On NPR this morning, a sports writer was professing that black athletes made it possible for Barack Obama to approach the White House. He made an interesting case: from athletes to movie heroes to political figures to the presidency. And somehow -- well, it seemed obvious to me at the time -- I thought of Jackie Robinson and the Brooklyn Dodgers. And then I thought of Brooklyn. When it was our world.

Reason number two: My younger brother and his wife are coming to Boston next week and taking me to dinner. I know that sounds like a rather typical event. It isn't. I'm going to see my brother, and nobody died. This is huge! No funeral, no wedding, no bar mitzvah. Just dinner. Wow! And I'm not being facetious.

Reason number three: My buddy Sharon Louise and I saw Neil Diamond in the movies about 100 years ago. And we literally slid down our seats and almost wound up on the floor. It's Sharon's birthday, and I bought her a copy of the new CD I heard by Neil recently; just Neil and his guitar. The DJ was impressed by the artist's brilliance at the ripe old age of 67. Piffle!!! Listening to the wonderful CD, I recalled that Neil is a landsman of mine -- a pizan -- a Brooklyn boy.

Reason number four: On July 27th 2008, Walter O'Malley -- the owner of the Dodgers who moved the team to LA.-- will be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Those of us who remember those days, are no doubt wondering what makes him deserve such an honor. Not fame, but infamy is more appropriate.

So all of these synchronistic ingredients seemed to deserve another trip back. Although I've dragged you there before -- I promise you, we haven't scratched the surface. Because it's summer time, I think about Coney Island. I think about Steeplechase: Edward Tilyou's fabulous park at Coney Island. We loved it because it contained the best rides and if the weather was bad, we could still go there, be inside, and have lots of fun. It closed in 1964. I really believe that if Coney Island were brought back to its former glory, people would come from all over the world to be there. It would rival Disney. The Steeplechase Horse ride, the Parachute, -- Nathan's, Shatzkins Knishes, the arcades along Surf Avenue....... Coney Island also had (I think it's still there) the biggest roller coaster in the world called the Cyclone. I don't know if it still has that distinction. I rode the Cyclone once. I never rode it again. 'Nuf said.

On New Year's morning, my Dad would wake me up. We'd bundle up and drive to Coney Island. We'd have hot dogs and knishes for breakfast with hot coffee or tea, and we'd take our feast to the boardwalk. The "Brownies --" a club that went swimming on New Year's Day -- would be diving into the freezing Atlantic Ocean, and Dad would laugh and laugh at the madness. I wonder now if he wished he had the courage to do that himself. Maybe he did do that, growing up in Rockaway Beach; maybe he was revisiting his youth. Coney Island was mine.
Brooklyn was about neighborhoods. My neighborhood was really my street. East 10th Street between Avenue I and Avenue H -- partitioned by the trains at the end of our block. Coney Island Avenue ran
parallel to East 10th Street; street cars/trolley cars ran on Coney Island Avenue from Prospect Park to Brighton Beach. Several blocks in the opposite direction was Ocean Parkway. Back in the day, Ocean Parkway had the road for autos of course, but also a bicycle path, an equestrian path, and a promenade lined with benches. One could rent a horse at Prospect Park stables and ride along Ocean Parkway. All that has changed. It's now the Prospect Expressway or something similarly unfortunate. My street was part of Flatbush. It was in essence a village. For example: we didn't have supermarkets. We had Seymour's Grocery Store around the corner. My mom could phone and they'd deliver. My mom would give the delivery boy a sack of deposit bottles for his tip. On the "Avenue," (that was Avenue J for us), there was Stern's Bakery for bread, the fish market, the deli with barrels of pickles out front ("a nickel for a pickle"), the butcher, the pharmacy, and so forth. I remember doing the shopping for my mom, going to the Avenue with my list, stopping in two, three or more shops, and schlepping it all home in a European shopping bag. It was very much like Europe back then. But of course most of the inhabitants were immigrants -- from every where. My friends and I would meet on the Avenue. At the "frozen custard stand." That's what today's soft serve was originally called. They also served the famous Charlotte Russe: a cylindrical cardboard container with a slice of pound cake in the bottom, fresh whipped cream filling to the top, and a maraschino cherry to complete the sin. The bottom of the cup could be pushed up, making it easier to get to all of the cream and the cake (if one cared about the cake). We remember with our senses -- the smells, the tastes, the sounds, the textures of so many little things that make up our lives. On my one big trip abroad, my son and I were in Paris and, walking past a bakery, I saw these cookies that looked exactly the same as the cookies we bought at Stern's bakery. Could it be possible?? Stern's was called a French Bakery. I went in and bought one cookie. It was the same cookie! I almost wept. It was like finding a lost friend. (how silly?) I bought a whole box. We could never eat it all; it didn't matter.

Our village had a downtown neighborhood with lovely shops and department stores - Abraham and Strauss; and the huge Paramount theatre. Built in 1928 by Paramount Studios, the theatre had 4,124 seats. It was closed in 1962 -- the same year the gorgeous Roxy theatre in Manhattan was torn down. The Paramount now serves as a gymnasium for Long Island University -- a rather unusual transformation. The original Wurlizer organ is still in place and still maintained and played for college basketball games. I went to the Paramount as a young teenager with my girlfriends to see Johnny Ray. All the girls completely lost it -- screaming and carrying on. I couldn't deal. Well, I couldn't even hear Johnny sing. I went to the phone to call my Dad, to ask him how to get home. He laughed! He told me to go across the street to Juniors Restaurant, to get a table, to order the Triplet sandwich plate for him (three neat rolls with corned beef on one, chopped liver on one, and pastrami on the third). I ordered two Triplet plates and my Dad showed up in twenty minutes. I was never a candidate for pop concerts! We also had the Brooklyn Academy of Music, which continues to be a cultural force in Brooklyn. Great beaches; restaurants; schools. I went to Midwood High School which stood/stands next to Brooklyn College.
The writer, Erich Segal, graduated from Midwood. So did Woody Allen. Actually, lots of famous people came out of Brooklyn: actors, writers, Nobel prize winners, astronauts, politicians. Midwood High was also famous for a student-run musical event called SING! which was started by Bella Tillis, a music teacher at Midwood, in 1947. I never joined SING! when I was a student. The music teacher at P.S.99 used to walk through the auditorium at assembly, listen to us singing, and tap out the ones she said had to be "whisperers" because we didn't sing well enough. As the music teacher, one would think Mrs. Lefrack might have taught us how to sing. But I brought that voice in my head to high school and never participated in the production. (A film was made about Sing! a number of years ago.)

My daughter (who is an ardent Red Sox fan) won't forgive me if I don't mention baseball. Well, you can't talk about old Brooklyn without the Dodgers. They were called the Superbas, later the Trolley Dodgers, and in 1913 -- the Dodgers. Then the Robins. In 1931, the Brooklyn Dodgers once again. It was possible in the 1950's to go to Ebbets Field, get a ticket, see a game. It was affordable enough for my brother and me to go, see a game, eat hot dogs, drink cokes, -- all with pocket money. One year, for Mother's Day, my brother Matt bought tickets to a game to take my mom. We all went, but mom was NOT very happy. Baseball was not her glass of tea! Folks dressed up to go to the games. Well, folks dressed nicely to go anywhere in public. If you watch classic baseball on the tv, you'll see what I mean. I always make a fuss about why it was more fun to go to a game back in the day. There was no "instant replay" to confuse you; and a great announcer called the game. So you knew exactly what was happening even if you were in the cheap seats. The Dodgers won the World Series in 1955. I was in downtown Brooklyn with my classmates from Midwood -- we were putting our school newspaper to bed. Suddenly, a huge explosion resounded for miles. And everything stopped.

Buses stopped in the middle of the streets and everyone including the drivers ran out screaming and cheering. Subway trains stopped and had to be coaxed into stations so the passengers could get off. People abandoned their cars to run out and join the party that enveloped the borough. I don't remember how I got home from there. I know it wasn't simple. When I hear the names of the players it's like hearing the names of family long gone: Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges, Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Carl Furillo, Duke Snyder, Don Newcombe, Carl Erskine, Clem Labine, Sandy Koufax.....many more, of course. The Dodgers left Brooklyn for LA in 1957. Brooklyn has never really recovered. It was unthinkable; a death in the family. In Pittsburgh, 1958 or 1959, I walked into our campus hangout -- a benign bar nick-named The Greeks (because the fraternity boys were always there). I was with my roommate, Margie Parker. Sitting at a booth with another guy was Sandy Koufax. I didn't faint. I walked up to him (unusual for me) and said in my best little girl voice -- "Hi Mr. Koufax. I'm from Brooklyn; and I'm a fan." Sandy invited us to join them. They bought a round of drinks and we talked. He took my number and the next time the team was in Pittsburgh, someone called with a message that two tickets were waiting at the Forbes Field -- the Pirates stadium at the time. A very special guy, Mr. Koufax.

I can't take you back with me. To play stick ball, potsy, jacks; to sit on the stoop; to go to the Candy Store -- sometimes called the luncheonette -- for an ice cream cone or, better still, a Mello Roll. The ice cream was in the shape of a cylinder, and placed in a suitably shaped cone. The trick was to unroll the ice cream from its paper wrapper without dropping it on the ground. I always dropped it on the ground. I hated Mello Rolls. But ice cream sodas -- yes! -- and a malted milk; sundaes to die for; sitting at the soda fountain. There should still be soda fountains!

I don't remember when it was -- not that long ago -- a woman asked me where I came from originally. I told her Brooklyn. She said in all sincerity, "What a great place to be from!" I don't think that had ever consciously occurred to me until she said that. Yes. Yes, indeed.

Shooting ducks in Coney Island

Mickey on the right; Manny shooting; Ros and Larry

How's Your Bird?

Steve Allen used to say that -- "How's Yer Bird?" I believe Frank Zappa recorded a song with that title. I heard it from my brothers-in-law; it was their favorite greeting for a long time. I didn't know what, if anything, it meant but it was very funny. What the hell is she talking about, you ask. What brought this on??

Well, I bought a really neat bird feeder last week. My very quiet little patch of a garden has had no visitors except a squirrel who's courting his early demise by digging up my plants. I've been hanging out a suet square which has been the sole property of a greedy Blue Jay. So when I went into the pet store to fetch another suet thing, I saw this bird feeder. I was inspired; bought it and a moderately large bag of sunflower feed. I filled it and hung it on a hook that I placed on a slim branch of this very peculiar, Dr. Seuss kind of tree in the garden. It did not take long for the word to get out. Easily a dozen and then another dozen birds of all bird-species arrived and emptied that feeder before evening. Suffice it to say, I need to fetch another bag of seed; maybe a second feeder. It's very lively back there now. There are birds hanging out in the funky tree; I am awakened in the morning by bird songs and chatter right outside my window. I realize that I have always, in one way or the other, lived with birds. It sounds pretty silly, but I have a history with birds!

My mom had a canary. For years. He provided lots of charm to the old kitchen on East 10th Street in Brooklyn. He lived an inordinately long time for a canary. When he died my mom took him to the pet store to find out why. (I think she wanted an autopsy!) She was bereft. This didn't make sense to me until my parakeet -- Boobo -- died after living with me for easily 10 years. Boobo didn't speak but was really smart -- really! I lived in an attic in Jamaica Plain; when I'd come home from work, Boobo would somehow hear me climbing those stairs to the third floor and would immediately make this funny sound. I finally figured out that he was making the sound of my answering machine being rewound. It was really the only sound he'd copy. But he recognized me; and he was very entertaining if you sat in front of his cage and chatted him up.

I got another parakeet when I moved back up to Beverly in 1997. I called him Shnipsel. My grandpa, Pal, called bow ties shnipsels. I think it's a comical word. Then a over-zealous friend brought me a second parakeet. I called him Pushkin. Sadly for me, the birds had each other for company and no longer paid attention to me. They didn't even sing or chirp very much. They just picked at each other's feathers. One day, after 9-11, I came home from work feeling very distraught. I had just been laid off. Without thinking, I covered the cage, grabbed the extra boxes of bird food, and took the parakeets to the local animal shelter. They were adopted within 24 hours. I can't really explain what that was all about.

My favorite bird was a Cardinal who kept me company in Pittsburgh. I was expecting my first son; I was very young; my husband and I were very poor, and ill prepared to become parents. I (literally) had an apple and half a cup of left over breakfast coffee for lunch every day for several months. One day I saw the red bird sitting on my window sill. I quietly opened the window. He left, of course. but I placed a slice of my apple on the window sill and walked away. He came back, ate the apple and took off when I tried to approach. Before long, however, he'd wait there; I'd open the window, put down his share of lunch, and we'd hang out together until the apple was gone. Then he'd leave. Come to think of it, there was a picture of a Cardinal on the bird feeder I bought last week. Maybe that's why I bought it. Maybe I was hoping a red bird would come. I'd like that.

When my grandma Jennie was ill, a Mynah bird came to her window. Jennie invited him in; my mom shlepped out to her apartment with a birdcage and the usual accoutrements. The bird was a great mimic and kept Jennie company and amused until she died. I went out to Jennie's apartment after her funeral. I think I was expecting to see her there. The bird was gone. Window closed. Cage door closed. That's always been a mystical puzzle for me.

So there are flocks of birds in my garden. And it's suddenly alive. Read The Selfish Giant; it comes to mind -- a silent place coming to life because of a small offering. This is my very small offering today. But prophetic coming from one who grew up with the Blue Birds and the Elm. Blesséd be.

Good Ole Days Opus Four: Crossing The Pond

An enormous cruise ship was in harbor at Boston’s seaport the other day. A colleague and I saw it from the bus on the way to the train station. He told me about his Caribbean cruise, and asked if I’d ever taken one. No; but I crossed the pond most elegantly a long time ago. And memories break the Levees of time and overflow.

l The Journey
It was my junior year of college and I was having a love affair with Shakespeare. My dad learned about a four month summer program at the Shakespeare Institute in Stratford-on-Avon, England. He told me if I could get a scholarship to the program, he’d send me over. With the help of my Shakespeare Professor, Fred Sochatoff, I got the scholarship. Dad sent me round-trip on the RMS Queen Elizabeth I. I traveled Cabin Class going and Tourist Class coming back. The entire trip was the same price as round-trip airfare. Planes made Dad and me nervous back in the day. This was a huge event in my family. My dad had come from Europe when he was 11 years old. He’d never been back, and my mom had never made that trip. When we arrived at the pier, Professor Sochatoff was there with a box of chocolates. He was so proud. And I was so touched. He'd traveled from Pittsburgh to New York City to see me off. I remember all of us – my parents and younger brother - going on the ship and walking about. They saw me to my cabin, which I shared with three other gals of assorted ages. I had an upper berth. My dad was teary, which made me teary –Dad found the event significant and it moved him; I was just anxious. Then the horns blew; Dad gave me a $50 bill and told me to hide it in my wallet for an emergency. Mom gave me a hug and said something very uncharacteristic: “If you have a love affair, make it beautiful.” That digression had not occurred to me. (We were a sexually repressed family. My mom’s remark was shocking, to say the least.) The family left; I signed on for late seating in the dining room, and then strolled the ship. Shops, lounges, workout rooms, chapels, swimming pools. At dinner I was assigned to a table. Some interesting folks, including the wife of Jacque Barzun, the Provost of Columbia University and their son, James, who was my age. Someone had given thought to the seating. Although I did not interact much beyond mealtime with the young man, it did help to not be the only young person at the table. (All of this preceded the youth cult, and being 20 had few rewards.) There was also a lovely woman, Margaret Parker -- the same name as my college roommate. I have a photo of all of us at dinner; I can't find it.

The next morning I could not raise my head off the pillow. I was dizzy, and felt terribly ill. My cabin-mates were up and out; I just lay as still as possible. The steward, an elderly gentleman, came into the cabin – he asked me what was wrong. I told him and he replied in that wonderful British accent, “Well, we can’t have that.” He left and returned with a tray of tea, toast, and a little pink pill. I was fine for the rest of the trip. The Queen Elizabeth was truly elegant; the Ritz on the ocean. I was very shy and insecure and not very ritzy; I peered into lounges where games were being played. Huge late-night buffets would be rolled out. Films were shown. Religious services were held. I walked about and observed. I didn’t interact much. I do recall having a drink in one of the lounges one night and chatting with some passengers. All the English folks I spoke with insisted that I must be Canadian. At that time it was very unpopular to be an American. (I fear it’s that way again.) One day James and I were invited to visit the captain and to see the workings of the ship. That was awesome. I even got to be on the bridge. Gratefully, my mom had insisted I bring along my black chiffon shirtwaist dress because the last night on board everyone came to dinner in formal clothes.

The last day, the son-of-Provost knocked on my door at 5:00 in the morning. I grabbed my trench coat and followed him onto the deck. After five days at sea we saw land; it was a breathtaking moment. We both cried. The QE moved toward shore and
docked at Cherbourg for an hour. Folks on bikes waved to us. Some men wore berets, and some carried loaves of French bread. Like extras in a Hollywood movie. I hurriedly packed and dressed so I could be on deck to see the coast; the White Cliffs; the approach to Southampton. It was an awesome experience. When we fly somewhere we look at clouds, we watch a film, we nap, we read. We arrive. But sailing there – five days on a ship – nothing but ocean and maybe another ship off in the distance – the impact of the distance is so much greater. And for a virgin traveler – my first naïve thought was: It’s really here; the world; there’s so much more!

II London
I was to stay with my step-grandpa’s niece, Alma, for two weeks until I went on to Stratford. I traveled to London from Southampton, arriving late into the evening. Alma and her husband, Simon, met me and drove me the long way to their house so I could see some of the city. They were most generous. Their home in East Finchley was lovely; they had two Italian maids who brought me breakfast in bed on a tray every morning. (oh, m’gawd!) Two young children – Elizabeth and Philip. (really!) And a chauffeur who drove Alma in the Rover. Each day I would check in with Alma who spent mornings in bed on the phone; then I'd visit London on my own. Highlights: the day with Mark who had been in love with my mom before my
dad came along. He took me to Hampton Court for lunch and then to his home in Wimbledon to meet his mom and sister. He gave me a box of gooseberries because I’d never seen them before. He was charming. We wrote to each other for years after until he died. Dinner with the Codrons – my younger brother’s speech teacher’s brother and his family. (honestly!) Considering we had no history, they were wonderfully hospitable and generous. It was a Shabbat dinner, and Mr. Codron walked around the table kissing each person. He embraced me and said, "We are blessed to have you at our table because you are a stranger in a foreign land." I still find that very touching. He sent me home in their Rolls Royce, and the next day sent me to the ballet with another sister and their little girl. (Alma was impressed!) Michael Codron, their brother? son? was also at dinner. Michael was a major stage producer in London. He has quite a resume on ibdb.com. A side-trip to Paris for four or five days: Alma helped me make the arrangements sending me to a ladies’ hotel near Église de la Madeleine. (A great location for this church: I ducked in there every evening on my way to the hotel to escape the pickup artists who would practically chase me down the street. Another week of Evensong and I would have been a convert!)

Unsure of how to begin when I got there, I sat in a café across from the Opera and sipped coffee. A man sat down and chatted me up. He turned out to be the fiancé of a classmate of mine in college. His name was Jim. He was Latvian or something that sounds similar. Didn’t find out about his relationship with my friend until he had spent most of my time in Paris pursuing me with seduction on his mind. (Poor guy didn’t know I was a professional virgin!) He even sneaked into my hotel and had to be evicted by the matron. (that was actually funny!) He did however, help me to create an itinerary for seeing the city. I was really clueless! My last day, I checked out of the hotel and was broke. I hadn't brought enough money from London. Had my return plane ticket but no way to the airport and no idea how I was going to get there. (Jim had had enough of “No” and went his own way.) I don’t remember being panicked. I sat on a bench waiting for the solution to arrive. Suddenly, five former high school classmates of mine came running over to me – people I never even spoke to in high school (they were the popular kids) or seen since. They bought me lunch, and a sixth guy who was not from Brooklyn, spent the afternoon with me and took me to the airport in time for my plane. Alma and Simon were exceedingly pissed because I hadn’t called or written the four days I was away. Sigh!
My last day in London, Alma took me to Buckingham Palace; gratefully I had a hat and white gloves or she wouldn’t have. I was very excited; I told her I couldn’t wait to see the Queen. She laughed of course, and said she’d lived her whole life in London and never saw the Queen. But the Universe continued to guide me. The Queen and Prince Philip; Margaret, the Queen Mother, and the rest of the family entourage were exiting the Palace in several cars on their way to Ascot. They waved and smiled and poor Alma was in total awe.
Then we got the last two tickets at the Mermaid theatre to see The Country Wife, and saw Katharine Hepburn, in full-length cape, strolling with half a dozen young escorts during the intermission! Alma was a wreck by the end of the day. (how many coincidences add up to supernal intervention??)

I learned later that my mother and grandma Jennie had put together Alma’s trousseau at the end of the war and sent it on to her because her circumstances were not awfully good and finding lovely things in London was difficult at that juncture. It helped me to understand why she’d been so generous letting me stay with them for so long a time.

III Stratford-on-Avon
Stratford should probably be an entry in itself.
Suffice it to say it involved much self-discovery, recognition of my writing and ideas by my professors, (they read my poetry and declared that I "was the real thing!") a new understanding of American academia (not actually positive), and my first real love affair. Stream of consciousness – sort of: A large bedroom at the Warwick Hotel shared with two other students, Judy and Barbara….a pay- as-you-go-bathtub…..huge breakfasts every day….wonderful Professors – Gareth Lloyd Evans who was charming and actually hit on me (that seemed to be the summer theme) (photo of Gareth)
…..Professor John Lawlor who was my mentor told me NOT to do research for my term paper because he only wanted to know what I thought (that was a new experience)…..my paper was called Shakespeare’s Attractive Bastards: Richard III, Falstaff, Coriolanus, someone else????......The Royal Shakespeare Company: Paul Robeson and Mary Ure and Sam Wanamaker in OTHELLO; Laurence Olivier in CORIOLANUS; Zoe Caldwell in ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL….it goes on like that…..white foam drifting
off the River Avon and draping itself around the trees…..forgoing lunch each day for fruit, bread, cheese, chocolate to picnic along the river……the class excursion to Wales……hitchhiking to Chipping Camden with Judy to go swimming and riding back in the sidecar of a motorcycle….. The Black Swan pub with another door that read The Dirty Duck….High Tea at the Shakepeare Hotel and - ah, yes! - John Morgan Chase, son of a college professor who was also the Cultural Ambassador to Belgium…….yes, mom, I did as you requested.

IV Afters
At the end of the term I had a week before my ship sailed. I had forgotten about that interlude and used the $50 emergency cash to buy a Miss Marple hand woven cape. (I still have that cape). However, I had a week and barely any money. Ed Sinclair - (another friend from the class who was a teacher back in the States), was also traveling back on the RMS Queen Elizabeth. He and I and Johnny decided to spend our last week on the Isle of Wight. Ed and I went to Cowes; Johnny would arrive a day later. We arrived to discover that there were few rooms available; the taxi driver found us a single room in a B&B.
Ed told the proprietor that we were on our honeymoon and that my brother who lived in Belgium would be coming to spend a few days with us. We were given a room with a double bed and a cot. I love writing this – I’d forgotten that I was ever that young!! Eddie and I tossed a coin for the cot. When John arrived we all pooled our money and struggled through the week putting half our breakfast into my bag for lunch; sharing fish and chips for supper, and sharing cigarettes. The proprietor of the B&B was so confused when we'd head out for the day with Ed walking ahead and John and I walking with our arms around each other. A bit too affectionate for siblings! We spent our last day and night on Sandown. Johnny had gotten money wired to him from home and he paid for rooms. Ed just went off and got drunk; he wasn't eager to go home. The rest is for another time.
(photo of Johnny Chase on the beach; Eddie Sinclair leaning on pillar)

John saw us to the ship and walked along the pier until he ran out of pier to walk on. I stood on the back deck (the stern?) and watched him until he vanished in the distance. We were both very weepy. I wouldn’t mind feeling that way one more time. Our first meal on board was lunch; Ed and I kept eating until we were kicked out of the dining room so they could set up dinner. It had been a week of mini-meals. The trip home was different; tourist class was a bit more rowdy and way more fun. We had quite a storm and had to hang onto ropes to walk along the deck. One of my feisty cabin mates had arranged a date for us with two waiters: a bottle of champagne in a broom closet. I bumped into a gal from my Brooklyn neighborhood, Evelyn Rothchild, who was traveling First Class. I snuck into her cabin by going all the way to lowest deck, through kitchens, etc., and then up the other side. First Class was pretty nice; an actual room with sofas and chairs. Ed and I sort of avoided each other for no reason that I can remember; but spent the last day together. We watched from the deck as New York City appeared, heralded by the Statue of Liberty. It gave us chills. Ed's train home (somewhere in the mid-west) didn’t leave until the day after we docked, so we brought him home with us overnight. I’ve lost touch with all of them. Friends and family who went to Stratford on holiday since then stayed at or stopped by the Warwick and the women who ran it remembered me. They, of course, aren’t there anymore. I saw Johnny again in the states; maybe twice. A very different story.

Epilog:
When we moved to Boston’s North Shore, I took my two young sons to the Peabody Essex Museum. This wonderful maritime museum had a gorgeous model of the RMS Queen Elizabeth. I told the boys I had traveled on that ship. For the first time I became terribly old in their eyes! Mom sailed on a ship that’s in a museum. Yeah, she did. And it was a glorious, unforgettable, affordable way to travel. Which is why we call them the good ole days.

Good Ole Days Opus Three: Dancing

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
And God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you'll give faith the fighting chance
And if you get the chance to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance, I hope you dance
................................................ LeeAnn Womack

I love to dance! I've always loved to dance. When I was four, my mom took me to see the Ballet Russe. I danced in the aisle for the entire performance. No one complained so I guess we were in the cheap seats. Consequently, mom and dad signed me up for ballet lessons. The school was called The Metropolitan Opera House of Russian Ballet. I don't remember much about it; I suppose I was in classes with other ballet-mad kids. I believe we must have given recitals, because my Grandma Jennie made me a fabulous tutu. I don't recall any of it. And then one day when I was maybe seven, I was delivered to an adult class into the hands of a Russian dancing master. This I remember. He had a cane or a stick of some kind -- I always think of it as a cane. He paid a lot of attention to me, using the cane to hit my legs to make me lift them higher or turn them out more or whatever. I remember that he terrified me. I didn't know why I was there. I heard him tell my mom that I had to come to more classes several times a week. Later that evening, I told my parents I didn't want to dance anymore. They whispered about it. My little brother was two years old and it was inconvenient for mom to take me to class as many times a week as the school wanted me to attend. I know that I thought I was not a good dancer because of that incident; that I had been put in that class as a punishment. It would be like 50 years later before I had the epiphany: I was put into that class because I was a good dancer. The Master wanted me to be properly trained by attending at least four times a week. I remember everyone in the class watching me. Might it have been a company class? Was I being considered for the Nutcracker? Tra-la! I'll never know. Maybe I could have been the next Maria Tallchief!! (Ha! A contendah!!) My parents decided (with someone's advice?) that perhaps I needed a less structured class. And with the further advice of whomever that someone was, I found myself at The Neighborhood Playhouse School of the Theatre where I would study modern dance and elocution every Saturday for the next eight or nine years.

My teachers were members of the Martha Graham company. Miss Graham didn't have a permanent home for her company yet, and was in residence at the Neighborhood Playhouse. My first teacher was Natasha Newman. The second year my teacher was Majorie Mazia. She would be my dance teacher until I went off to college.

(When Marjie left the Playhouse to open her own school in Sheepshead Bay, I went with her.) Martha Graham would often step into the classroom, and we would be directed to greet her with reverence – never really knowing who she was. The dance forms were a bit strange to me; they were a blend of ballet, Pilates, yoga, and a strong philosophy of movement that would make Graham a legend. (in photo: Sophie Maslow at left facing photo; Marjorie Mazia at the right.)

Marjorie was married to Woody Guthrie. We weren’t aware of Woody’s renown either. When Woody was in the city, he’d come to Marjie’s classes and she'd introduce him as just Woody. He's sit on the floor and play his guitar and together they'd make up songs for us. Marjie would choreograph little dances to go with the songs and we’d perform them on open school days. One Saturday morning I arrived early at the dance studio. Woody was playing his guitar for a tiny little girl who was dancing her own choreography. I've always remembered that picture because the little girl was like a sprite; slightly unreal and ethereal. Not long after, Marjie didn't come to class for several weeks. Sophie Maslow taught us. Then we learned that the lovely little girl, Cathy Ann, was Marjie and Woody's daughter; she had been caught in a fire in their Mermaid street apartment. She died in hospital the day after.
The inspiration for the children's songs that Woody and Marjie wrote was Cathy Ann, who'd make up little rhymes that became the basis of many of the songs: Let's go Riding in my car car, Don't you push me down, My Dolly... and many others recorded in the album Songs to Grow On . I still own the original record; I used to play it for my kids. It's available today on a cd called Woody's Grow Big Songs. And my classmates and myself were part of the creative process, improvising to the songs so they could see what would work. (the photo: the Saturday school of the Neighborhood Playhouse School of the Theatre, 1947)
One year, when I was a bit older, I had an hour between dance class and drama class. Marjie asked me to babysit her little kids, who were always crawling around or running around in diapers. One of those kids of course grew up to be Arlo Guthrie. We were in a parent waiting room, and it was my job to keep the babies from crawling out into the hall. Well, as they say in New York --"Ya nevah know!"

Because I grew up in New York in the hub of the "business," my dance teachers were almost always stars (or eventual stars) in their field. All friends of Marjie, they'd come out to Sheepshead Bay to teach at her school. As a teenager and then on holidays and summers when I was in college, I'd take classes at Marjie's studio. Bill Bales, Donald McKayle, Merce Cunningham, Ronnie Aul, Sophie Maslow, and others were my teachers. Today I’m very impressed. Back then (and probably a good thing) they were just my teachers.

Why didn't I go on to study dance professionally? Well, my mom spoke with Marjorie about it when I was 16 and entering my senior high school year. Because I still expressed an interest in making it my profession. Marjie told her that I didn't have the technique, and that I was an excellent and exciting dancer but would have to perform my own choreography. This was convincing. I majored in theatre in college. One of the summers when I took a series of classes at the Sheepshead Bay studio, several teachers rotated teaching the program. In the first class, Donald McKayle approached me during our barre warm-up. He told me I could get my leg up higher. I told him I didn't think so. Heck, I was like 19 years old and had been studying dance for --what? -- 15 years. Obviously, I was a hobbiest. Then, as I raised my leg in a forward attitude, Donny gently pressed that leg at the hip joint and it shot up another six inches into the air. So once again, I was at a woulda, coulda, shoulda moment. I let it pass but with a lovely, warming inner knowledge. I danced at Marjie's studio whenever I was in New York, and at the New Dance Group Studios in Manhattan. I danced at Carnegie Tech with my teacher Cecil Kitkat (who had been with Graham for a brief time). I performed as a dancer in productions at Tech and taught dance in summer camp. I choreographed the musical shows at The Acting Place and at the Boston Children's Theatre.

When I was living in New York a few years ago, I had the opportunity to teach a couple of acting classes one Saturday at The Neighborhood Playhouse. It was like a day in a time machine; and everything was really very small -- the rooms, the entire building. When I stepped into the dance studio for a moment, I could almost hear the music, the soft guitar, Woody's voice, Marjie's gentle prodding. It delights me to say I didn't cry. It was such a gift to be there one more time.

I don't have photos of me dancing. I realized that with some dispair as I looked through the albums. Hmmmm.... didn't anyone in my family come to our concerts?
With a camera? The only one I can find is from Carnegie Tech where I'm choreographing a dance for the Scotch 'n Soda Theatrical Club. I don't even remember this one. All I do know is that I miss it. A lot. My God, how I loved to dance!

Talk To Me Out Loud

Be what you would seem to be -- or, if you'd like it
put more simply - Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise then
what it might appear to others that what you were or might
have been was not otherwise then what you had been would
have appeared to them to be otherwise.
.............Lewis Carroll: Alice in Wonderland

When I was growing up, the people in my home whispered a lot. In foreign languages. For instance: I’m four years old; I walk into the kitchen. My mother and grandmother look at me; then they begin to whisper to each other glancing back at me occasionally. I’m four years old – I don’t know how to say, “Is something the matter?” or “What the hell?” or “Just speak to me -- to me.” This did NOT instill confidence.

I’m seven years old. I walk into the kitchen where my mother, grandmother, and my grandmother’s sister-in-law, Sarah Prizant, are talking. (Aunt Sarah is married to Uncle Hymie – grandma’s brother who is an actor in Yiddish theatre) It’s late at night and I’ve woken from a bad dream. The women whisper to each other about me. In foreign languages. I begin to cry. They whisper more; now they’re very annoyed. So I tell them, “I dreamed that Uncle Hymie died.” My grandmother hauls off and slaps me across the face. Now they're talking all at once and I’m crying harder (no kidding!) and the phone rings. It’s another of grandma’s brothers calling from California to tell them that Uncle Hymie just died of a heart attack. No one ever mentioned that dream to me again.

I’m eight years old. It’s dinner time, and I come into the house from play. My mom and dad are whispering to each other. I have a little more courage than in earlier years and I ask, “What did I do?” (because that’s the usual scenario). My mother says that my teacher phoned from P.S.99 to tell her that I plagiarized a poem. I ask her what that means; I don’t know that word. So she tells me. She shows me the poem; I realize that she was called into school. It’s my poem called, “An Old Fashioned Girl.” It’s my poem. I tell them that. They apparently don’t believe me and they whisper to each other again. They do not talk to me. I take the poem and go quickly to my room so they won’t see me cry because they’ll call me Sarah Bernhardt and tell me I’m being melodramatic. I do not again tell them or my teachers that I write poetry; not for a very long time. In eighth grade I have a teacher, Miss McDonald, who recognizes me and encourages me to write. That year I win the National High School Poetry Association contest with a poem I wrote about the death of my Bubbe, my father’s mother. I bring them the book and hand it to them and I say, “There. See? I do write poetry, and it’s good enough to win contests.” They do not say anything to me. They whisper in foreign languages.

Do they not know that they can just talk to me? Could we not solve any problem through conversation? Whom do they see when they look at me that warns them off? Is this a universal experience? Because it’s plagued me all of my life. Friends who just vaporize without saying goodbye, and I’m left wondering what happened. What did I do? (well, that’s the fallout from my childhood.) People close to me who’d rather believe something about me told to them by someone else without asking me about it. Yakkity-yak. Even my really fine children will side-step a conversation with me if they deem it offensive or controversial. It is horribly frustrating. Especially when I know that I am wholly accessible. And I won’t run to my room crying. Sometimes in order for folks to say something to me that they believe will offend, they get angry. Well, that’s an interesting approach. Easier to fight than to talk? I don’t fight anymore. I wonder how much is never resolved. If they know me, they know I won't break, because I was broken a long time ago and am held together now with impenetrable stuff. It is a benefit of growing older.

Does this read like a pretty dumb subject? It’s just that I’ve been thinking about it lately. True, there are individuals who back-off if you try to discuss something personal or perhaps offensive. I don’t mean politics or religion. But it seems to me that a chat over a cup of coffee
(or something stronger?) is usually a reasonable solution to differences or the need to let someone know what’s on your mind. With trust and respect you can say almost anything. I’ve worked with many actors in the classroom and on the stage. Unless you’re a murderer, you don’t tell an actor that he/she sucked. You speak the truth, separating the work from the artist. Without tap dancing; without lying; without speaking in tongues. Without judgment. Who’s that guy on the television – Simon? – He’s a killer. He chooses to cause pain and humiliation (in the name of entertainment). Often saying nothing comes close to the same result. We think that silence is inaction but it is action.
Silence is a thing; it is not no thing. It can hurt.

Yes, it’s true – I have friends and relatives with whom I would not share my feelings about adverse incidents in our relationship or similar stuff. They would feel attacked and run for the hills – even if I applied all of my communication skills to the situation. Sometimes I risk it because our relationship is in jeopardy. Some things can be dealt with through humor- the great panacea - or do not have to be discussed at all. But I like to believe that I see the
people in my life; that I know to whom I can speak freely. And maybe it’s because I’m a writer, a communicator with words that I believe silence shuts us out. Or shuts us in. There’s gotta be someone who’ll tell you that your breath is bad or you sat on wet paint. Hell, I’d sure want to know that.

Talk to me. I'll listen.

In Search of Higgins

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

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

I have not as yet found Higgins. No kidding.

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

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

The Great Train Fantasy

"The train is rolling down the track,
Listen to the wheels go clickety clack,
Over the bridge, around the bend,
Taking me for a ride."
The Train Song by Phil Rosenthal

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

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

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

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

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