Children of the Myth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heading Out

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

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

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

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

Almost Death by Mushroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buttercups and Bluebirds

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Shop, Old Books and a Rose

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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