Without the distraction of hues, a viewer can concentrate on nuances, facial expressions, and language spoken or implied. The medium becomes so much more intense whether the subject is frothy or leaden. For those frames which capture life many decades ago, it is fascinating to focus on clothing styles, speech patterns, and furniture that is so perfect it almost becomes an additional character.
Thespians, male or female, are rarely as unblemished in real life as the characters they portray. Thankfully, it is also true that the totally debauched characters almost never reflect the people who speak their lines.
Film noir is a genre which was very popular in the mid twentieth century. Glamorous gals with long wavy hair interacted with suave (or sinister) men dressed immaculately in three piece suits and wearing hats. Camera shots linger in alleyways as meetings take place and the hero seeks justice for somebody. Even the truly bad guys seem to have a certain suaveness about them.
An exemplary example of this film type is the 3.5 star "Call Northside 777." Released in 1948, it reflects a post-war positivity even as the story unfolds with its impossible quest. Utilizing the consummate acting prowess of Jimmy Stewart, fresh from his heroism during World War II, the viewer somehow knows that the ending will be satisfactory. Suspending belief is part of the charm of the movies, then and now.
Looking incredibly dashing, Mr. Stewart never appears on screen in anything less than the aforementioned three piece suit. His hat is always near by. His hair is sleek, in place and his face is freshly shaven. On second thought, there are a couple of scenes where the suit is forsaken. Stewart's character, a Chicago newspaperman following a story, can't sleep one night. The camera captures his wife, awake in her twin bed (required by the Hayes Commission) and watching her husband tossing fitfully. He is awakened and naturally he's wearing a proper pair of pajamas. Even the top button is closed on his shirt. The same concept, just the nighttime version. The character projects a cleanliness in his demeanor.
Jim McNeal, the newspaperman, is a person of integrity who also understands that sensational stories sell papers. He struggles with his conscience as he delves into the story behind the murder conviction eleven years earlier of a man whose mother vehemently claims her son is innocent. With Lee J. Cobb as Jim's boss and the underrated Richard Conte as the imprisoned man, the acting is superb. A well-written script and excellent direction wrap the story as Stewart's masterfully understated character searches for the truth and delayed justice. It is his courage that prevails as hopelessness creeps across the screen.
While I watched this movie last night, I reflected upon the films of today. Nobody would make this one again or else it would be so altered as to be unrecognizable. Suits would be banished, language coarsened, bare skin exposed, violence introduced. Garish colors would wash away the purity of the story. The lead actor would be edgy, maybe corruptible. He'd work for an on-line publication and have a bit of history himself. The wife, or more likely a girlfriend, might discourage him from exploring a seemingly hopeless cause. The boss would forcefully talk about readership and suggest/insist that all facts need not be checked, innuendo will do. The prisoner's mother would be far from saintly herself.
Am I a cynic? Yes I am. I enjoy movies that transport me. It may be the story, the acting, the scenery, how good I feel when the film concludes. I care not for unnecessary violence, crude language, nasty pranks, or meanness of any kind. I'd like to feel that the people in the film have talent, whether richly developed or gifted with potential. It might even be nice to know that some actors are as good as their characters in real life, but I really don't expect that very often.
Some years ago I had the extraordinary opportunity to meet Jimmy Stewart. The date was nearly 50 years since he starred in "Call Northside 777." I wish I had already seen that movie and I could have told him how much I enjoyed it. Remembering our brief encounter as we sat across from each other on two sofas, I realize that I was much too awed to converse coherently. He was totally gracious. Always a hero. On screen and off.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlFBva0x_OY
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Two's Firsts
All across the country, students awakened to a school day. Some eagerly anticipate this annual ritual. Others probably prefer to enjoy summer indefinitely. Younger children seem to embrace the academic calendar with more enthusiasm than their elder counterparts. By middle school, the lure of school days is nearly completely focused on one's social life. In high school, each succeeding year brings a bit more freedom until that magical day arrives when the much desired driver's license, or even the learner's permit, is in hand.
Next door to us are six-year-olds who began a new chapter in their lives this morning. Transferring to a neighborhood school, they were almost equally excited and anxious. Depending on which girl to whom you spoke, this change was greeted with enthusiasm or resignation, sometimes both.
Adding to the angst is the fact that for the very first time ever, the girls will be assigned to different teachers. Most likely it is time for the separation but its actual implemention includes a bit of unease. Henry and I stressed the incredible opportunity to meet twice as many new friends and to share all those people between them. That idea had definite appeal. Being able to discuss their individual teachers and compare them also brought a glimmer of interest.
Of course all these conversations are theoretical. It is the first day of first grade for two special little girls. They will have fresh memories to share this evening. We'll be listening and are absolutely sure that the day was totally successful.
After all, they are the most socially adept six-year-olds that we know. Their manners are impeccable. They're cute, funny, incredibly smart and consistently inquisitive. What teachers wouldn't want to have a classroom filled with such students?
One girl has lovely long, silky blonde hair and fair skin. Her sister sports perfect springy curls that frame a face delicately sprinkled with freckles. They are separate, distinct with personalities that are unique. Yet they are devoted siblings who share easily, support each other continually, and are lifelong playmates.
Yesterday afternoon, while we were in the car on the way for ice cream, Henry mentioned a friend of his whom he met when both of them were seven years old. He went on to say that we'd had dinner with this friend just last month, a mere 57 years later. He suggested that each of the girls could meet new friends today and stay in touch with them for many years, just as he had.
The girls listened politely, as they always do. I believe, however, Henry may have lost them when he remarked that 57 years from now will be 2068. That number makes me pause as it is really too extraordinary to contemplate. In that very distant year, the girls will be 64 and they may be talking to their own grandchildren about making friends at school. There's something comforting about such a scenario.
Happy firsts, Hanna and Jessy.
Next door to us are six-year-olds who began a new chapter in their lives this morning. Transferring to a neighborhood school, they were almost equally excited and anxious. Depending on which girl to whom you spoke, this change was greeted with enthusiasm or resignation, sometimes both.
Adding to the angst is the fact that for the very first time ever, the girls will be assigned to different teachers. Most likely it is time for the separation but its actual implemention includes a bit of unease. Henry and I stressed the incredible opportunity to meet twice as many new friends and to share all those people between them. That idea had definite appeal. Being able to discuss their individual teachers and compare them also brought a glimmer of interest.
Of course all these conversations are theoretical. It is the first day of first grade for two special little girls. They will have fresh memories to share this evening. We'll be listening and are absolutely sure that the day was totally successful.
After all, they are the most socially adept six-year-olds that we know. Their manners are impeccable. They're cute, funny, incredibly smart and consistently inquisitive. What teachers wouldn't want to have a classroom filled with such students?
One girl has lovely long, silky blonde hair and fair skin. Her sister sports perfect springy curls that frame a face delicately sprinkled with freckles. They are separate, distinct with personalities that are unique. Yet they are devoted siblings who share easily, support each other continually, and are lifelong playmates.
Yesterday afternoon, while we were in the car on the way for ice cream, Henry mentioned a friend of his whom he met when both of them were seven years old. He went on to say that we'd had dinner with this friend just last month, a mere 57 years later. He suggested that each of the girls could meet new friends today and stay in touch with them for many years, just as he had.
The girls listened politely, as they always do. I believe, however, Henry may have lost them when he remarked that 57 years from now will be 2068. That number makes me pause as it is really too extraordinary to contemplate. In that very distant year, the girls will be 64 and they may be talking to their own grandchildren about making friends at school. There's something comforting about such a scenario.
Happy firsts, Hanna and Jessy.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Melange
Sharable New York scenes and scents that linger:
*Sauro's sandwiches, so New York, impossible to replicate on the west coast
*Del Chicco Market's fabulous wood-fired pizza
*Dave, the Manhattan Residence Inn maintenance man who, when called about our room's malfunctioning refrigerator, diagnosed the problem adroitly. I, the causal factor, needing to use the hair dryer, had mistakenly unplugged the appliance earlier in the day, thinking the cord belonged to the coffeemaker. He was gracious. I was mortified.
*Three Japanese tourists in front of our NY hotel who pose patiently as Henry uses their camera to capture them and the city. The daughter explains that her parents know only two phrases in English. They are 'Thank you.' and 'Excuse me.' That's a very good start.
*At Citifield during the Mets game, the Jumbotron focuses on a young woman and her small daughter. Photos of her husband, a Staff Sergeant assigned to Kabul, flash across the screen. The next camera shot is on the sergeant himself walking toward his family and their emotional embrace. I want this reunion repeated again and again until all our service members are home permanently.
*Searching in store after store to find a gyroscope for our neighbor girls and listening in amazement as salespeople think we're seeking a telescope or have no idea what a gyroscope might be.
*Arriving at the Metropolitan Museum of Art to find lines that herald a three hour wait. The Alexander McQueen exhibit is the draw.
*Learning more about dinosaurs in half an hour than in a lifetime from a retired elementary school teacher who is a volunteer docent at the Museum of Natural History. Peeking at possible skin colors which might have covered these behemoths; studying bones, breathing processes, teeth, brain sizes and favorite leaves of such long ago herbivores.
*From our 33rd floor room windows, watching the Empire State Building welcome a new day, light the dark sky, and disappear behind heavy clouds.
*Glancing out the windows to see the Macy's sign on the 34th Street landmark.
*Recognizing Whoopi Goldberg's distinctive voice as she introduces us to the heavens at the Hayden Planetarium.
*Noticing a family at the Natural History Museum cafeteria as its members strive to eat most of America's favorite foods in one sitting. A cheeseburger, French fries, hot dog, taco, macaroni and cheese, and Caesar salad were among their selections. Food immersion.
*Spying this menu item at the Catch of the Day restaurant at Citifield: Grilled Shrimp PoBoy with Creole Mustard on Ciabatta, $15.
*Celebrating 100 years of the New York Public Library's main building where the exhibit included:
**Cuneiforms from Mesopotamia, circa 3rd to 2nd
millennium BCE
**Malcolm X's briefcase, journal from 1964, and
personal copy of the Qur'an
**Jack Kerouac's notebook from 1949-52, his glasses,
pipe and harmonica
**A 1493 dated letter from Christopher Columbus
published in a book printed that year
**Virginia Woolf's walking stick and 1941 diary
**Ernest Hemingway's draft of his Nobel Prize
acceptance speech
**One of Mao's 'Little Red Books'
**Karl Marx's "Das Kapital" in Russian, published
in 1872
(How can anyone argue that libraries are no longer relevant?)
*German Chocolate Cake gelato gleefully consumed with only a twinge of guilt
*The sight of an ecru maxi dress draped upon a stately young woman who evidently had forgotten she chose black thong underwear that day. Or perhaps not.
*Sharing a subway car with a cute pug and his/her master as well as an entire field hockey team and their sticks
*Evenings reading "Pride and Prejudice" in the hotel room while Henry enjoys the world available on his IPad
*Buildings with shapes that should be able to talk and share their histories with lush green spaces
*Languages that can't be deciphered, emitted from fascinating faces
*Pondering the family that offered German passports, yet spoke Portuguese, to the Macy's Customer Service staff
*Longing to be able to sample nearly every type of bread stacked in Zaro's display case
*Realizing that gladiator sandals and heels have conquered NY's foot fashionistas
*Sipping Nantucket Nectar's refreshing Pineapple/Orange /Guava drink and being glad it isn't available in my town
*Meeting Deborah from Singapore when she offers to take our picture with Weatherly. Later learning that she and her husband have law degrees from England and own seven stores whose primary stock is Italian shoes.
These snippets will stay with us.
*Sauro's sandwiches, so New York, impossible to replicate on the west coast
*Del Chicco Market's fabulous wood-fired pizza
*Dave, the Manhattan Residence Inn maintenance man who, when called about our room's malfunctioning refrigerator, diagnosed the problem adroitly. I, the causal factor, needing to use the hair dryer, had mistakenly unplugged the appliance earlier in the day, thinking the cord belonged to the coffeemaker. He was gracious. I was mortified.
*Three Japanese tourists in front of our NY hotel who pose patiently as Henry uses their camera to capture them and the city. The daughter explains that her parents know only two phrases in English. They are 'Thank you.' and 'Excuse me.' That's a very good start.
*At Citifield during the Mets game, the Jumbotron focuses on a young woman and her small daughter. Photos of her husband, a Staff Sergeant assigned to Kabul, flash across the screen. The next camera shot is on the sergeant himself walking toward his family and their emotional embrace. I want this reunion repeated again and again until all our service members are home permanently.
*Searching in store after store to find a gyroscope for our neighbor girls and listening in amazement as salespeople think we're seeking a telescope or have no idea what a gyroscope might be.
*Arriving at the Metropolitan Museum of Art to find lines that herald a three hour wait. The Alexander McQueen exhibit is the draw.
*Learning more about dinosaurs in half an hour than in a lifetime from a retired elementary school teacher who is a volunteer docent at the Museum of Natural History. Peeking at possible skin colors which might have covered these behemoths; studying bones, breathing processes, teeth, brain sizes and favorite leaves of such long ago herbivores.
*From our 33rd floor room windows, watching the Empire State Building welcome a new day, light the dark sky, and disappear behind heavy clouds.
*Glancing out the windows to see the Macy's sign on the 34th Street landmark.
*Recognizing Whoopi Goldberg's distinctive voice as she introduces us to the heavens at the Hayden Planetarium.
*Noticing a family at the Natural History Museum cafeteria as its members strive to eat most of America's favorite foods in one sitting. A cheeseburger, French fries, hot dog, taco, macaroni and cheese, and Caesar salad were among their selections. Food immersion.
*Spying this menu item at the Catch of the Day restaurant at Citifield: Grilled Shrimp PoBoy with Creole Mustard on Ciabatta, $15.
*Celebrating 100 years of the New York Public Library's main building where the exhibit included:
**Cuneiforms from Mesopotamia, circa 3rd to 2nd
millennium BCE
**Malcolm X's briefcase, journal from 1964, and
personal copy of the Qur'an
**Jack Kerouac's notebook from 1949-52, his glasses,
pipe and harmonica
**A 1493 dated letter from Christopher Columbus
published in a book printed that year
**Virginia Woolf's walking stick and 1941 diary
**Ernest Hemingway's draft of his Nobel Prize
acceptance speech
**One of Mao's 'Little Red Books'
**Karl Marx's "Das Kapital" in Russian, published
in 1872
(How can anyone argue that libraries are no longer relevant?)
*German Chocolate Cake gelato gleefully consumed with only a twinge of guilt
*The sight of an ecru maxi dress draped upon a stately young woman who evidently had forgotten she chose black thong underwear that day. Or perhaps not.
*Sharing a subway car with a cute pug and his/her master as well as an entire field hockey team and their sticks
*Evenings reading "Pride and Prejudice" in the hotel room while Henry enjoys the world available on his IPad
*Buildings with shapes that should be able to talk and share their histories with lush green spaces
*Languages that can't be deciphered, emitted from fascinating faces
*Pondering the family that offered German passports, yet spoke Portuguese, to the Macy's Customer Service staff
*Longing to be able to sample nearly every type of bread stacked in Zaro's display case
*Realizing that gladiator sandals and heels have conquered NY's foot fashionistas
*Sipping Nantucket Nectar's refreshing Pineapple/Orange /Guava drink and being glad it isn't available in my town
*Meeting Deborah from Singapore when she offers to take our picture with Weatherly. Later learning that she and her husband have law degrees from England and own seven stores whose primary stock is Italian shoes.
These snippets will stay with us.
Pleasing People
Years disappear, hair darkens, lines are erased. High school friends have that effect after decades lived separately. Suddenly you're a teen-ager again and antics are recounted with laughter and sometimes amazement. What is remembered is vivid with parts of stories stuck in each person's memory. In the telling, the tale becomes complete. We're sitting at Murphy's restaurant with Brien and Carol. The link is long between the two guys. On moving day to Granite Springs Road, two little boys formed a welcome committee for Henry. Already living just a few doors away, they relished the arrival of a contemporary and eased his transition considerably. Friendships formed that lasted through high school days.
I hear tales of energetic young men, nearly obsessed with cars, certainly tantalized by girls, pushing their personal prowess and occasionally straddling the line of what was right and what felt right. There are nights where cranky vehicles tested their ingenuity, created encounters with local law enforcement and mostly provided a type of freedom that every teen-ager craves and probably deserves.
I learn about a snowy New Year's Eve when celebratory imbibing rendered a young man immobile and his two friends dragged him home to the safety of his bed. The next morning, the mom of the inebriated teen discovers snow in her house. Somehow, in their haste, the teen samaritans left the front door open and drifts accumulated in the living room. A craftily created explanation of 'flu' settled the matter. I suspect the mom knew the truth and was just grateful the only damage that night came from melting snow.
Mt. View Road is almost our second address. It's where Carol, Steve and Di reside. We know these spaces and relish every hour spent with the family. This year it's nearly as hot as home and the humidity creates more discomfort. We move slowly, catching small breezes, welcoming strategically placed fans. There's much to admire in the completely renovated kitchen with perfect granite, beautiful cabinets and pulls, banquette seating, shelves tucked along one wall, stainless appliances and a sink to envy. The under cabinet lighting is investigated and may be replicated in California. A plethora of design decisions, months of contractors invading the family's life, yielded the final satisfaction of a beautiful and functional finished space.
Di's graphic arts expertise can now be seen in stores across the country. We're especially fond of a set of nesting boxes in shades of blue with chocolate ribbon trim. The list of people for whom I want to purchase various sized boxes is rather long. I'll be haunting retail outlets in the fall looking for our niece's creative expressions and beaming with pride.
On a cloudy and almost too hot day, we once again obey the GPS and drive deep into the countryside south of Albany in search of Henry's classmate Greg's home. Down an unpaved road with gentle hills at our sides, we find the right mailbox and turn onto a long driveway. With seventeen acres surrounding the one and a half story Cape Cod style cottage, Greg and his lady, Barbara, are completely comfortable in their bucolic setting. We, too, are impressed by the mostly untamed pasture and especially the house replete with white and blue flourishes. Oak floors seem just right, as do the abundant windows with peerless views. A bluestone patio sits flush with the rear of the house and a pergola shades an ample table and six chairs. Flowers and plants enhance the scene with lavender predominating the color scheme.
I settle back to be transformed to the mid '60's and small town Westchester County where the boys frolicked, learned many life lessons, sold/bought a car for a glass of beer (under-aged though both of them were at the time)and tested their independence with abandon. Greg is a gentle soul and it is difficult to imagine him ever misbehaving. Then again, thinking of Henry in that way is also very challenging. Both men are exemplary individuals whose lives have been filled with accomplishments, devotion, courage, and consistent use of their awesome intelligence. Barbara is an accomplished horsewoman who has won many awards and ribbons. She's also survived two extremely difficult health challenges. Her demeanor is totally positive and it is clear that her devotion to Greg is paramount. Together they take long bike rides in exotic locales and cherish their week-ends together when Greg arrives from his workweek in Manhattan. Conversation continues as we feast on grilled burgers, a most delicious tomato mozzarella salad, and corn-on-the-cob.
Laura Jean is late. She leaves two cell messages as we wait at Grand Central Station's clock-topped information booth. No problem. There's plenty of people-watching to keep us occupied. On the mezzanine across the way, we notice huge lights like you see for movies or photo shoots. Hmmmm. What is happening? To our left, a people pathway is cleared. A tuxedoed man emerges with his arm crooked. To his side, a beautiful bride, clad in a floor-length wedding gown of pale grey hues. A ceremony is about to commence.
The twosome sweeps the floor as if they are inside a cathedral (which I suppose it is in a way, a train sanctuary)and seem completely impervious to the moving crowd that surrounds them. A graceful turn to my left and they cross the expanse and begin to ascend the historic marble staircase. The groom and officiant, as well as invited guests, watch the spectacle and await the bride's arrival. When the ceremony is concluded, the newly marrieds turn to face those rushing about on the floor beneath. A royal wave is greeted with loud clapping and a few happy hoots.
LJ arrives, her exuberant self smiling broadly, and we descend to the dining concourse. The ladies choose smoothies from Dishes and Henry consumes his traditional turkey sandwich. The last time we saw Laura Jean, all of us were at Caitlin and Bobby's wedding. Since then, she's completed a MFA at Columbia, finished her first novel and is busy with the editing process preparatory (fingers crossed) to publishing. Taking temporary jobs in the interim, she's accumulating enough stories to fill the next novel.
There's also a new gentleman in her life whom she met at a Planned Parenthood event. In the evening, she's joining him at a Living Wage Rally. What's not to love about Manhattan when a person really wants to make a difference and opportunities abound? We talk about books, the city, her friend/our daughter. Laura Jean is mastering life. She's upbeat, flexible, still Southern in so many ways.
With Laura Jean in tow, we take the subway to the Upper West Side. Our destination is the My Most Favorite Food restaurant. Its owner, Doris Schecter, is a close friend of a PS acquaintance and we've promised to meet her. Doris's early life was fraught with extreme difficulty as her family struggled to survive in Rome during World War II after fleeing Vienna. It is almost surely a miracle that she was not among the millions of Jews annihilated during that tragic period.
In 1944, at the age of six, Doris traveled with her family from Italy to the United States on a refugee boat approved by FDR. Only 984 Jews made that perilous journey. On the wall of the restaurant there is a copy of a newspaper story which shows a beautiful little blonde curly haired girl (Doris, then known as 'Dorit') eating her first hot dog.
About twenty years ago, Doris began a dessert business on Long Island. With stunning success, her product line expanded, and a restaurant followed. Now she's ensconced in one of the trendiest sections of Manhattan, open for breakfast, lunch and dinner with a full menu. She's written two cookbooks, produced a movie, been on Martha Stewart, and is a culinary legend.
The three of us are fascinated by Doris's story and listen attentively. We order dessert. Blackout Cake (me,) Lemon Meringue Tart (LJ,) and Apple Crumb Cake (Henry.) The restaurant has rabbinical certification and is vegetarian Kosher. It is busy in mid-afternoon but Doris sits at our table for an hour. She is elegant, assured, thriving.
Cousin Liza suggests we meet at a neighborhood restaurant. Henry recently found her the new-fashioned way--via technology. Through family trees posted on Ancestry.com, he concluded that she might be related to a grandfather of mine. E-mails flow and we verify that Liza is, indeed, kin.
Almost instantly we are talking easily, sharing experiences, learning about our respective families. Liza is a librarian, another unifying factor. We walk to the temple for a tour of the elaborate edifice and the library's comfortable workspace. Introduced to one of Liza's colleagues, we are soon exploring the possibility that he may be a cousin of Henry's!!! This man's surname is the same as Henry's mother's maiden name. Additionally, he bears a strong resemblance to a maternal uncle. The coincidences are uncanny.
Next to Zaro's Bakery in Penn Station, we wait anxiously for our New Jersey daughter, Weatherly. She arrives and is enfolded immediately. There's never enough time with this extraordinarily special young woman. She's unquestionably family, brought to us eight years ago when she and Caitlin were roommates at NYU for the summer. Today we will be celebrating her recent selection as a member of New York Public Library's archival staff. With her dual masters's degrees in Creative Writing and Library Science, incalculable enthusiasm, undisputed intelligence, and charming personality, we're confident that the venerable library will be forever transformed by Weatherly's presence.
We're off to Rockefeller Center to chat and share lunch. There's an update on the house renovations. We see a phone photo of Brandon, deep into floor refurbishing. There's some discussion of Weatherly's dear friend, our daughter, and her upcoming adventures. With the requisite memory photos taken, a subway ride transports us to Crate and Barrel, seeking liners for compost cans. Hooray, they're in stock. With a wire basket begging to be filled, I toss in a few random items. For the ever-evolving New Jersey household, there's a new salt cellar. It may just evoke a lovely Manhattan interlude. Henry and I remain wrapped in that winsome Weatherly smile. We know she's won our hearts.
All the people in these paragraphs are enormously pleasing to encounter. Each person brings singular stories and cherished moments that enrich our lives as we intersect during our east coast sojourn.
I hear tales of energetic young men, nearly obsessed with cars, certainly tantalized by girls, pushing their personal prowess and occasionally straddling the line of what was right and what felt right. There are nights where cranky vehicles tested their ingenuity, created encounters with local law enforcement and mostly provided a type of freedom that every teen-ager craves and probably deserves.
I learn about a snowy New Year's Eve when celebratory imbibing rendered a young man immobile and his two friends dragged him home to the safety of his bed. The next morning, the mom of the inebriated teen discovers snow in her house. Somehow, in their haste, the teen samaritans left the front door open and drifts accumulated in the living room. A craftily created explanation of 'flu' settled the matter. I suspect the mom knew the truth and was just grateful the only damage that night came from melting snow.
Mt. View Road is almost our second address. It's where Carol, Steve and Di reside. We know these spaces and relish every hour spent with the family. This year it's nearly as hot as home and the humidity creates more discomfort. We move slowly, catching small breezes, welcoming strategically placed fans. There's much to admire in the completely renovated kitchen with perfect granite, beautiful cabinets and pulls, banquette seating, shelves tucked along one wall, stainless appliances and a sink to envy. The under cabinet lighting is investigated and may be replicated in California. A plethora of design decisions, months of contractors invading the family's life, yielded the final satisfaction of a beautiful and functional finished space.
Di's graphic arts expertise can now be seen in stores across the country. We're especially fond of a set of nesting boxes in shades of blue with chocolate ribbon trim. The list of people for whom I want to purchase various sized boxes is rather long. I'll be haunting retail outlets in the fall looking for our niece's creative expressions and beaming with pride.
On a cloudy and almost too hot day, we once again obey the GPS and drive deep into the countryside south of Albany in search of Henry's classmate Greg's home. Down an unpaved road with gentle hills at our sides, we find the right mailbox and turn onto a long driveway. With seventeen acres surrounding the one and a half story Cape Cod style cottage, Greg and his lady, Barbara, are completely comfortable in their bucolic setting. We, too, are impressed by the mostly untamed pasture and especially the house replete with white and blue flourishes. Oak floors seem just right, as do the abundant windows with peerless views. A bluestone patio sits flush with the rear of the house and a pergola shades an ample table and six chairs. Flowers and plants enhance the scene with lavender predominating the color scheme.
I settle back to be transformed to the mid '60's and small town Westchester County where the boys frolicked, learned many life lessons, sold/bought a car for a glass of beer (under-aged though both of them were at the time)and tested their independence with abandon. Greg is a gentle soul and it is difficult to imagine him ever misbehaving. Then again, thinking of Henry in that way is also very challenging. Both men are exemplary individuals whose lives have been filled with accomplishments, devotion, courage, and consistent use of their awesome intelligence. Barbara is an accomplished horsewoman who has won many awards and ribbons. She's also survived two extremely difficult health challenges. Her demeanor is totally positive and it is clear that her devotion to Greg is paramount. Together they take long bike rides in exotic locales and cherish their week-ends together when Greg arrives from his workweek in Manhattan. Conversation continues as we feast on grilled burgers, a most delicious tomato mozzarella salad, and corn-on-the-cob.
Laura Jean is late. She leaves two cell messages as we wait at Grand Central Station's clock-topped information booth. No problem. There's plenty of people-watching to keep us occupied. On the mezzanine across the way, we notice huge lights like you see for movies or photo shoots. Hmmmm. What is happening? To our left, a people pathway is cleared. A tuxedoed man emerges with his arm crooked. To his side, a beautiful bride, clad in a floor-length wedding gown of pale grey hues. A ceremony is about to commence.
The twosome sweeps the floor as if they are inside a cathedral (which I suppose it is in a way, a train sanctuary)and seem completely impervious to the moving crowd that surrounds them. A graceful turn to my left and they cross the expanse and begin to ascend the historic marble staircase. The groom and officiant, as well as invited guests, watch the spectacle and await the bride's arrival. When the ceremony is concluded, the newly marrieds turn to face those rushing about on the floor beneath. A royal wave is greeted with loud clapping and a few happy hoots.
LJ arrives, her exuberant self smiling broadly, and we descend to the dining concourse. The ladies choose smoothies from Dishes and Henry consumes his traditional turkey sandwich. The last time we saw Laura Jean, all of us were at Caitlin and Bobby's wedding. Since then, she's completed a MFA at Columbia, finished her first novel and is busy with the editing process preparatory (fingers crossed) to publishing. Taking temporary jobs in the interim, she's accumulating enough stories to fill the next novel.
There's also a new gentleman in her life whom she met at a Planned Parenthood event. In the evening, she's joining him at a Living Wage Rally. What's not to love about Manhattan when a person really wants to make a difference and opportunities abound? We talk about books, the city, her friend/our daughter. Laura Jean is mastering life. She's upbeat, flexible, still Southern in so many ways.
With Laura Jean in tow, we take the subway to the Upper West Side. Our destination is the My Most Favorite Food restaurant. Its owner, Doris Schecter, is a close friend of a PS acquaintance and we've promised to meet her. Doris's early life was fraught with extreme difficulty as her family struggled to survive in Rome during World War II after fleeing Vienna. It is almost surely a miracle that she was not among the millions of Jews annihilated during that tragic period.
In 1944, at the age of six, Doris traveled with her family from Italy to the United States on a refugee boat approved by FDR. Only 984 Jews made that perilous journey. On the wall of the restaurant there is a copy of a newspaper story which shows a beautiful little blonde curly haired girl (Doris, then known as 'Dorit') eating her first hot dog.
About twenty years ago, Doris began a dessert business on Long Island. With stunning success, her product line expanded, and a restaurant followed. Now she's ensconced in one of the trendiest sections of Manhattan, open for breakfast, lunch and dinner with a full menu. She's written two cookbooks, produced a movie, been on Martha Stewart, and is a culinary legend.
The three of us are fascinated by Doris's story and listen attentively. We order dessert. Blackout Cake (me,) Lemon Meringue Tart (LJ,) and Apple Crumb Cake (Henry.) The restaurant has rabbinical certification and is vegetarian Kosher. It is busy in mid-afternoon but Doris sits at our table for an hour. She is elegant, assured, thriving.
Cousin Liza suggests we meet at a neighborhood restaurant. Henry recently found her the new-fashioned way--via technology. Through family trees posted on Ancestry.com, he concluded that she might be related to a grandfather of mine. E-mails flow and we verify that Liza is, indeed, kin.
Almost instantly we are talking easily, sharing experiences, learning about our respective families. Liza is a librarian, another unifying factor. We walk to the temple for a tour of the elaborate edifice and the library's comfortable workspace. Introduced to one of Liza's colleagues, we are soon exploring the possibility that he may be a cousin of Henry's!!! This man's surname is the same as Henry's mother's maiden name. Additionally, he bears a strong resemblance to a maternal uncle. The coincidences are uncanny.
Next to Zaro's Bakery in Penn Station, we wait anxiously for our New Jersey daughter, Weatherly. She arrives and is enfolded immediately. There's never enough time with this extraordinarily special young woman. She's unquestionably family, brought to us eight years ago when she and Caitlin were roommates at NYU for the summer. Today we will be celebrating her recent selection as a member of New York Public Library's archival staff. With her dual masters's degrees in Creative Writing and Library Science, incalculable enthusiasm, undisputed intelligence, and charming personality, we're confident that the venerable library will be forever transformed by Weatherly's presence.
We're off to Rockefeller Center to chat and share lunch. There's an update on the house renovations. We see a phone photo of Brandon, deep into floor refurbishing. There's some discussion of Weatherly's dear friend, our daughter, and her upcoming adventures. With the requisite memory photos taken, a subway ride transports us to Crate and Barrel, seeking liners for compost cans. Hooray, they're in stock. With a wire basket begging to be filled, I toss in a few random items. For the ever-evolving New Jersey household, there's a new salt cellar. It may just evoke a lovely Manhattan interlude. Henry and I remain wrapped in that winsome Weatherly smile. We know she's won our hearts.
All the people in these paragraphs are enormously pleasing to encounter. Each person brings singular stories and cherished moments that enrich our lives as we intersect during our east coast sojourn.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Sublime City
Crowded is cherished in cities which depend on visitors to keep them functioning. I've spent my whole life in such places. When I was a youngster, I never appreciated the small town chaos created by tourists who arrived to wander through ante-bellum homes, admire hoopskirts, and try such delicacies as fried catfish, decadent pecan pie and that most Southern of all dishes, grits. I vowed that I simply wouldn't live in an area which attracted non-residents regularly.
As an almost thirty-five year resident of a desert city which depends heavily on its climate and magnificent landscape to lure visitors, I've mellowed and now consistently embrace the concept. Whenever I notice someone who seems a bit lost or appears to be from out-of-town, I'm quick to offer suggestions, welcome the individual enthusiastically and taut the uniqueness of our locality. An unofficial greeter.
However, nothing prepared me for the embracing ambience I encountered recently in the lovely upstate New York town of Saratoga Springs. Leaving the Interstate, we traveled a few miles to the center of town. This journey proved to be exceedingly slow. The number of vehicles clogging the narrow street seemed excessive, even for a desirable destination.
Once we mastered the roadway, the search for a parking place began. Turning off Main Street, we drove along Washington, past the site of the evening's concert, our primary reason to be in town. Two hour parking proved available and Henry deftly parallel parked. Two blocks away, the center of the town beckoned.
An historic building retrofitted as a restaurant called 'Maestro' looks promising. Up the massive steps, we meet the hostess. She says it's a two hour wait for an outside table. We're happy to be seated inside. The menu is extensive, the tables covered with pristine white cloths. Our server responds to Henry's request for water by asking, "Tap or bottled?" The latter, please.
We do not know that the town is famous for its spring water and that the cobalt blue bottle in which the fresh liquid is contained resembles a piece of art. We also do not know that this bottle of water costs $8. Gulp.
All around us, well-dressed people are dining. We're casual, vacation clad. The service is languid with intermittent attention. We're in no hurry and that's a good thing. When the food arrives, it is cleverly displayed and delicious. During the wait, I've visited the restroom where Frank Sinatra's voice emits songs from decades ago. I guess he is the Maestro or at least one of them. I notice a wallet lying on a small table and upon leaving the room, take it to the hostess.
Replenished, we explore bountiful blocks comfortably busy with fellow tourists. Nineteenth century architecture is juxtaposed next to more modern structures. Local businesses thrive adjacent to branches of national chains. Historic hotels front the busy street and charming homes have been reclaimed as bed and breakfasts. City Hall boasts a plaque declaring 1871 as its date of origin.
I simply can't resist a grocery store. This one is perfect. Up front, tantalizing all who enter, is a super bakery with sugar shock guaranteed for each selection. Further along, an ample deli offers sandwiches, hot foods, cheeses and more. To the right, packages of gourmet groceries include special dips, hot fudge sauce, crazy candies, jams and jellies. I want some of everything but settle for a few items that will be gifts for friends.
Inside a store that sells wine, we seek a bottle for friends we'll visit the following day. The staff is busy so we look at various potential bottles to purchase. My knowledge of wine is miniscule and I probably wear a perplexed expression. A helpful young man, holding two bottles himself, offers to assist. He represents a local winery and has brought two samples to the store, hoping to get them into the regular inventory. I mention Pinot Grigio, the wine I usually buy for my daughter. He counters with his bottle of Pinot Noir.
The conversation continues and soon we agree to purchase the proffered bottle. There's a problem. It isn't part of the store's stock and thus can't be sold. What to do? Generously, the winery representative solves the problem by giving us the wine while remarking that the label is slightly askew. We're smiling now and will share this special story with the wine's intended recipients.
Pouring rain inhibits our wandering somewhat and Henry retreats to the car for a bit of rest. I clutch my umbrella and trek to the Visitor Center. Three volunteers, ladies slightly more elderly than myself, chat about their town and its magic. I tell them that I've rarely, perhaps never, visited a place where the prevailing attitude is one of such unfettered welcome; there's a strong sense of pride and each individual seems to genuinely embrace visitors. There are smiles of recognition.
Walking through the relentless rain, I reunite with Henry and we stroll the other side of Main Street. A small chalkboard announces a soap store. We duck inside and down a few stairs to a moderately sized space. McGillycuddy's Natural Soaps isn't one of those places where competing fragrances discourage customers from choosing among the offerings. It is cleanly arranged, fresh in every way, confidently organic. Labels entice with 'Almond Oatmeal' and 'Citrus Sunrise.' There's a face scrub close by unscented lip balm. Soaps feature either olive oil or milk bases. The inventory is top quality and ideally suited for anyone looking for natural products. The color scheme is white with khaki accents, simple and soothing.
We talk to the lone staff member and soon learn that she's a McGillycuddy, daughter of the founder of the company. Displaying infinite charm and evident abundant intelligence, Kendal possesses a MBA from SUNY Albany. She relates that she spent some of her classtime collaborating with a friend to create potential soap scent combinations.
On the wall there's a poster of the Planet Green Network's series "The Beekman Boys." I've watched the show several times and really enjoyed the repartee between the two men who bought a farm and relocated from New York City to the countryside. We learn that Kendal's mom, Deb, is the Beekman Boys' soapmaker. She's appeared on the Martha Stewart Show and now provides soap which is sold as part of Martha's brand. In the back corner, there's a photo of Deb and Martha. Gosh. Such a series of coincidences.
I can't help suggesting that McGillycuddy's might consider a branch in Palm Springs. No doubt it would be enormously successful.
Saratoga Springs is famous for its racetrack where harness racing is the preferred venue. Recently a casino has been built not far from the track. In winter, snow sports lure city dwellers. Conventions abound during all seasons. Shoppers are rewarded with abundant retail outlets, many of which feature horsey motifs. A locavore focus favors foodies who throng to charming restaurants along the thoroughfares. Art and music vie for visitors with significant attractions generally more available in larger towns.
There's so much to admire about Saratoga Springs. The people are exceptional, the pace moderate but not a bit mundane, and the beauty of the region well worth exploring. We'll definitely return and until that day, we'll share the delightful reception we experienced with others.
As an almost thirty-five year resident of a desert city which depends heavily on its climate and magnificent landscape to lure visitors, I've mellowed and now consistently embrace the concept. Whenever I notice someone who seems a bit lost or appears to be from out-of-town, I'm quick to offer suggestions, welcome the individual enthusiastically and taut the uniqueness of our locality. An unofficial greeter.
However, nothing prepared me for the embracing ambience I encountered recently in the lovely upstate New York town of Saratoga Springs. Leaving the Interstate, we traveled a few miles to the center of town. This journey proved to be exceedingly slow. The number of vehicles clogging the narrow street seemed excessive, even for a desirable destination.
Once we mastered the roadway, the search for a parking place began. Turning off Main Street, we drove along Washington, past the site of the evening's concert, our primary reason to be in town. Two hour parking proved available and Henry deftly parallel parked. Two blocks away, the center of the town beckoned.
An historic building retrofitted as a restaurant called 'Maestro' looks promising. Up the massive steps, we meet the hostess. She says it's a two hour wait for an outside table. We're happy to be seated inside. The menu is extensive, the tables covered with pristine white cloths. Our server responds to Henry's request for water by asking, "Tap or bottled?" The latter, please.
We do not know that the town is famous for its spring water and that the cobalt blue bottle in which the fresh liquid is contained resembles a piece of art. We also do not know that this bottle of water costs $8. Gulp.
All around us, well-dressed people are dining. We're casual, vacation clad. The service is languid with intermittent attention. We're in no hurry and that's a good thing. When the food arrives, it is cleverly displayed and delicious. During the wait, I've visited the restroom where Frank Sinatra's voice emits songs from decades ago. I guess he is the Maestro or at least one of them. I notice a wallet lying on a small table and upon leaving the room, take it to the hostess.
Replenished, we explore bountiful blocks comfortably busy with fellow tourists. Nineteenth century architecture is juxtaposed next to more modern structures. Local businesses thrive adjacent to branches of national chains. Historic hotels front the busy street and charming homes have been reclaimed as bed and breakfasts. City Hall boasts a plaque declaring 1871 as its date of origin.
I simply can't resist a grocery store. This one is perfect. Up front, tantalizing all who enter, is a super bakery with sugar shock guaranteed for each selection. Further along, an ample deli offers sandwiches, hot foods, cheeses and more. To the right, packages of gourmet groceries include special dips, hot fudge sauce, crazy candies, jams and jellies. I want some of everything but settle for a few items that will be gifts for friends.
Inside a store that sells wine, we seek a bottle for friends we'll visit the following day. The staff is busy so we look at various potential bottles to purchase. My knowledge of wine is miniscule and I probably wear a perplexed expression. A helpful young man, holding two bottles himself, offers to assist. He represents a local winery and has brought two samples to the store, hoping to get them into the regular inventory. I mention Pinot Grigio, the wine I usually buy for my daughter. He counters with his bottle of Pinot Noir.
The conversation continues and soon we agree to purchase the proffered bottle. There's a problem. It isn't part of the store's stock and thus can't be sold. What to do? Generously, the winery representative solves the problem by giving us the wine while remarking that the label is slightly askew. We're smiling now and will share this special story with the wine's intended recipients.
Pouring rain inhibits our wandering somewhat and Henry retreats to the car for a bit of rest. I clutch my umbrella and trek to the Visitor Center. Three volunteers, ladies slightly more elderly than myself, chat about their town and its magic. I tell them that I've rarely, perhaps never, visited a place where the prevailing attitude is one of such unfettered welcome; there's a strong sense of pride and each individual seems to genuinely embrace visitors. There are smiles of recognition.
Walking through the relentless rain, I reunite with Henry and we stroll the other side of Main Street. A small chalkboard announces a soap store. We duck inside and down a few stairs to a moderately sized space. McGillycuddy's Natural Soaps isn't one of those places where competing fragrances discourage customers from choosing among the offerings. It is cleanly arranged, fresh in every way, confidently organic. Labels entice with 'Almond Oatmeal' and 'Citrus Sunrise.' There's a face scrub close by unscented lip balm. Soaps feature either olive oil or milk bases. The inventory is top quality and ideally suited for anyone looking for natural products. The color scheme is white with khaki accents, simple and soothing.
We talk to the lone staff member and soon learn that she's a McGillycuddy, daughter of the founder of the company. Displaying infinite charm and evident abundant intelligence, Kendal possesses a MBA from SUNY Albany. She relates that she spent some of her classtime collaborating with a friend to create potential soap scent combinations.
On the wall there's a poster of the Planet Green Network's series "The Beekman Boys." I've watched the show several times and really enjoyed the repartee between the two men who bought a farm and relocated from New York City to the countryside. We learn that Kendal's mom, Deb, is the Beekman Boys' soapmaker. She's appeared on the Martha Stewart Show and now provides soap which is sold as part of Martha's brand. In the back corner, there's a photo of Deb and Martha. Gosh. Such a series of coincidences.
I can't help suggesting that McGillycuddy's might consider a branch in Palm Springs. No doubt it would be enormously successful.
Saratoga Springs is famous for its racetrack where harness racing is the preferred venue. Recently a casino has been built not far from the track. In winter, snow sports lure city dwellers. Conventions abound during all seasons. Shoppers are rewarded with abundant retail outlets, many of which feature horsey motifs. A locavore focus favors foodies who throng to charming restaurants along the thoroughfares. Art and music vie for visitors with significant attractions generally more available in larger towns.
There's so much to admire about Saratoga Springs. The people are exceptional, the pace moderate but not a bit mundane, and the beauty of the region well worth exploring. We'll definitely return and until that day, we'll share the delightful reception we experienced with others.
Friday, August 12, 2011
A Giant, A Genius, and A Magician
Words linger. Consider these, penned more than a century ago, "Character in the long run is the decisive factor in the life of an individual and of nations alike." I suppose I'm wondering whether there is anyone in politics today who would make such a statement and then live by it. The author served as our President, having attained the office when a dissident shot the incumbent and who subsequently died of sepsis, not the bullet wound.
This man of letters and actions seems to have embodied enough adventures to fill the lives of multiple people. His exuberant self-confidence inspired a nation, settled a war, created a canal, and saved thousands of pristine acres for posterity. In just sixty short years, he led troops into battle, killed an inordinate number of wild animals, championed conservation (not as ironic as it may appear), owned and read at least 10,000 books, mastered six languages, wrote incessantly, and won the Nobel Peace Prize.
We've toured the co-joined Manhattan townhouses where his rambunctious family lived and are anxious to see his Long Island estate. Teddy Roosevelt has always been a special favorite of ours and we're eager to learn more about him. Sagamore Hill rests serenely atop a knoll near Oyster Bay on Long Island. When TR was in residence, a working farm surrounded the imposing home. With no forests to obscure the view, he could look out on three sides and see Long Island sound.
Suffering the heartache of losing both his beloved wife and mother within a few days, Teddy left his infant daughter, Alice, with his sister and sought solace in the still untamed American west of the latter 19th century. He returns to New York two years later robust, refreshed and more than ready to utilize his many personal strengths. Buttressed by a new wife and growing family, he combines public service with private pursuits.
Our volunteer guide uses a flashlight to point out rooms stuffed with authentic artifacts. The spaces are almost too dark to maneuver but artificial light would severely damage the collection so it is scrupulously avoided. We view Teddy's Rough Rider hat worn on San Juan Hill, seemingly carelessly tossed onto an antler. Animal skins and tusks occupy floors and walls. The large dinner bell sits unrung but during the Roosevelt family's occupancy, it pealed often. Children had exactly 15 minutes to appear in the dining room. If any child were late, he had to wait until the family finished its meal and then eat with the servants.
Alice, the eldest child, was a particular challenge. Once her father forbade her to smoke under his roof. She solved that dilemma but climbing out her window and smoking on the roof. Teddy also famously said that he could run the country or he could run Alice but he couldn't do both.
We visit the kitchen where workers reported each morning around 4 am and labored long hours feeding the family, house staff and farmhands. Up narrow stairs, we peek into bedrooms, including one where Teddy's niece Eleanor often slept. Family portraits line the walls and we are struck by the handsome face of Quentin, the youngest child. At twenty, he died in World War I, serving as a pilot. Years later, Teddy Jr. suffered a heart attack and died at 44 leading his troops across the beach on D-Day.
Quiet creeps into the rooms of this venerable old house but the spirits of the lively Roosevelt clan remain. Teddy always halted whatever he was doing each afternoon to join his family outside for vigorous games. Regardless of the prestige of the person with whom Roosevelt might be meeting, these daily outings were sacrosanct.
This New Jersey city isn't anything special and we see no pretty parts as we leave the Garden State Parkway. Homes are old and now are inhabited by many families in space designed for one or at the most, two. On Main Street, we turn right and locate a parking lot which serves the lab. We're here to see where genius functioned and changed the world forever in significant ways. One multi-storied brick building is obviously abandoned, cordoned off by tall fencing. Another similar edifice seems ready to welcome a shift of workers at any moment. We obtain our audio tour devices from the Visitor Center and enter the cavernous laboratory. Immediately inside, we see the time clock. There's a hand-written note from the owner which warns that there will be no smoking and those who ignore this directive will be dismissed. It's documented that the man himself worked 80-90 hours a week. He even kept a cot in the library for brief naps among the volumes. Most of the books were written in German or Russian. Since he knew neither language, he hired scientists whose first language was one or the other.
Thomas Alva Edison practiced persistence, teamwork and positivity. He saw failures as opportunities. In the 1880's, he lost $2 million dollars in an iron ore investment. As a result of this venture, he began the development of Portland Concrete and made even more money. While attempting to turn the goldenrod plant into rubber for tires, he oversaw 13,000 experiments before finding success. Edison said, "Hell, there ain't no rules here! We're trying to accomplish something."
Edison understood the value of women in the workplace. Nearly all the people who worked in the precision parts of his laboratory were female. Additionally, he hired women as musicians when he began to produce the world's first recordings of sound. In adjoining rooms, we view the earliest phonograph players, movie projectors, cameras, and musical instruments of great variety. Period photographs allow for the proper placement of original furnishings or replicas.
As we are riding the elevator up to the second floor of the building, a little girl exclaims, "He was stubborn but still a genius." Edison had over 1000 patents and made everything from ladies' watches to locomotives. We're able to glimpse a few of his first silent films which are kinetoscope fragments. How amazing film must have seemed to first time viewers.
There's not enough time to tour Edison's home, Glenmont, but we drive a few blocks to survey the grounds. The house is stately, set in a private neighborhood. Today's owners of the surrounding homes must loathe having their privacy usurped by tourists, however benign.
Not far from the house is a garage where the chauffeurs lived upstairs and a collection of vehicles was stored. Of course there's a special feature in the form of a turntable which allows for additional cars to be stacked in the space. Inside, we meet two young African-Americans. Chatting with them, I learn that they will be high school seniors at a private institution this fall. They are amiable, obviously extremely smart. Tre Turner wants to act. He's already performed in New York workshops and is applying to NYU for Film School. Calvin Million cites Columbia and Penn as his preferred colleges. Both tell me that they've done well on the SAT but will be taking it again in hopes of an even better score. I have no doubt of their ability. They have the Edison trademarks of persistence, positivity, and I'm just sure they embrace the concept of teamwork. As we're walking away from the garage, I say to Henry that I'd like to take their picture. He gently cautions me that to do so would be invasive. I can't help thinking that someday I'll see Tre Turner on the screen and read something equally as extraordinary about Calvin Million. Edison would champion both young men.
The Taconic winds through cellless reception zones, meandering towards Albany. Our GPS directs us to leave this divided expressway for a more bucolic path through small villages replete with fruit and vegetable stands. Neither of us is certain we are still on our way to our destination, but we obey the disembodied voice. Some miles into this unexpected path, I see a marvelous house adjacent to the two-lane road. Immediately thereafter, there's a familiar brown and white sign, denoting a National Park Service site. We're intrigued and turn around.
Lucky for us, we've arrived just in time for the first tour of the day. We're at Lindenwald, a president's home. Not nearly as famous as Mount Vernon or Monticello or even close by Hyde Park, the house is nevertheless striking. Though its famous occupant is little remembered compared to the owners of those more prominent homes, he deserves our attention.
Our plucky guide is Stephanie Ortiz, a rising senior at SUNY Albany. Majoring in Political Science and History, she hopes to obtain a MBA from the same institution. Despite working three jobs and being a full-time student, Stephanie's brimming with enthusiasm for someone who is considered a minor president. We are her only tour members this morning.
I never really thought much about Martin Van Buren. I knew he was Andrew Jackson's Vice-President, served one term, sported significant mutton-chop whiskers, and was, well, short. There's much more to the man whose first language was Dutch and who ceased all formal schooling at the age of 14 when he apprenticed to a local lawyer. By his early twenties, he'd become a formidable barrister and soon entered local politics before expanding to state-wide offices and then the national scene.
Van Buren bought the beautifully situated ochre colored home in 1839. In dismal disrepair, the former president completely revised the structure and greatly increased its size and significance. Widowed twenty years earlier, the Little Magician, as he was affectionately known, raised his four sons with the help of family members. Beautiful furnishings were imported from Europe to grace many rooms of the house.
Today, most of the family possessions remain intact. One of the small bedrooms on the first floor contains a bed in which Henry Clay once slept. Though he and Van Buren consistently disagreed on many topics, most significantly slavery, they were friends. During Clay's visit, a straw pallet in the corner of the room provided a resting place for his slave, Levi.
Two intricately carved pianos, a harp and an organ used by the Van Burens are in place, ready for fingers to pluck notes from their core. Henry stands at the keyboard of one piano and we imagine the family gathered around, singing songs. The Duncan Phyfe dining table accommodated twenty-two but it is a reproduction. Some years ago, the original table was auctioned and the National Park Service lost to a bid from a private individual. Though that special piece of furniture now adorns a Manhattan apartment, the owner allowed it to be borrowed so that a replica could be made for Lindenwald.
In many rooms, it appears as if the occupants have just stepped away for a moment. Books are open, games are sprawled across beds or floors. Stephanie says that on her first day at work, she was directed to learn to play whist, an early form of bridge.
The house contained amenities rarely found in even the most elaborate homes of the time. Running water, a lead tub, and a flush toilet with a blue and white porcelain bowl insured that the former president lived comfortably. Near the kitchen there's a servant's bedroom. We learn that it is currently being renovated but when it is open for touring, it contains a special item. A single Staffordshire dog sits on a table. It was given to an Irish servant of the Van Burens in the 1850's because the matching piece had been broken. A few years ago, descendants of that servant returned the dog to Lindenwald.
Van Buren's own bedroom commands a view of his acreage. It is here that he died in 1862. On the bed is a beautifully carved hickory walking stick, a gift of Andrew Jackson. The thirteen knots on the stick were specially selected so that silver medallions could be affixed and one letter of Jackson's name engraved on each. I'm reminded that the term "OK" originated with Van Buren and actually represented one of his many nicknames, "Old Kinderhook," shortened to OK. He's with us still if only in our everyday language.
Three men, so different, so alike in many ways. Teddy and Thomas knew each other well, and Edison was a guest at Sagamore Hill. Roosevelt shared a common Dutch heritage with Van Buren. Definitely men to remember.
This man of letters and actions seems to have embodied enough adventures to fill the lives of multiple people. His exuberant self-confidence inspired a nation, settled a war, created a canal, and saved thousands of pristine acres for posterity. In just sixty short years, he led troops into battle, killed an inordinate number of wild animals, championed conservation (not as ironic as it may appear), owned and read at least 10,000 books, mastered six languages, wrote incessantly, and won the Nobel Peace Prize.
We've toured the co-joined Manhattan townhouses where his rambunctious family lived and are anxious to see his Long Island estate. Teddy Roosevelt has always been a special favorite of ours and we're eager to learn more about him. Sagamore Hill rests serenely atop a knoll near Oyster Bay on Long Island. When TR was in residence, a working farm surrounded the imposing home. With no forests to obscure the view, he could look out on three sides and see Long Island sound.
Suffering the heartache of losing both his beloved wife and mother within a few days, Teddy left his infant daughter, Alice, with his sister and sought solace in the still untamed American west of the latter 19th century. He returns to New York two years later robust, refreshed and more than ready to utilize his many personal strengths. Buttressed by a new wife and growing family, he combines public service with private pursuits.
Our volunteer guide uses a flashlight to point out rooms stuffed with authentic artifacts. The spaces are almost too dark to maneuver but artificial light would severely damage the collection so it is scrupulously avoided. We view Teddy's Rough Rider hat worn on San Juan Hill, seemingly carelessly tossed onto an antler. Animal skins and tusks occupy floors and walls. The large dinner bell sits unrung but during the Roosevelt family's occupancy, it pealed often. Children had exactly 15 minutes to appear in the dining room. If any child were late, he had to wait until the family finished its meal and then eat with the servants.
Alice, the eldest child, was a particular challenge. Once her father forbade her to smoke under his roof. She solved that dilemma but climbing out her window and smoking on the roof. Teddy also famously said that he could run the country or he could run Alice but he couldn't do both.
We visit the kitchen where workers reported each morning around 4 am and labored long hours feeding the family, house staff and farmhands. Up narrow stairs, we peek into bedrooms, including one where Teddy's niece Eleanor often slept. Family portraits line the walls and we are struck by the handsome face of Quentin, the youngest child. At twenty, he died in World War I, serving as a pilot. Years later, Teddy Jr. suffered a heart attack and died at 44 leading his troops across the beach on D-Day.
Quiet creeps into the rooms of this venerable old house but the spirits of the lively Roosevelt clan remain. Teddy always halted whatever he was doing each afternoon to join his family outside for vigorous games. Regardless of the prestige of the person with whom Roosevelt might be meeting, these daily outings were sacrosanct.
This New Jersey city isn't anything special and we see no pretty parts as we leave the Garden State Parkway. Homes are old and now are inhabited by many families in space designed for one or at the most, two. On Main Street, we turn right and locate a parking lot which serves the lab. We're here to see where genius functioned and changed the world forever in significant ways. One multi-storied brick building is obviously abandoned, cordoned off by tall fencing. Another similar edifice seems ready to welcome a shift of workers at any moment. We obtain our audio tour devices from the Visitor Center and enter the cavernous laboratory. Immediately inside, we see the time clock. There's a hand-written note from the owner which warns that there will be no smoking and those who ignore this directive will be dismissed. It's documented that the man himself worked 80-90 hours a week. He even kept a cot in the library for brief naps among the volumes. Most of the books were written in German or Russian. Since he knew neither language, he hired scientists whose first language was one or the other.
Thomas Alva Edison practiced persistence, teamwork and positivity. He saw failures as opportunities. In the 1880's, he lost $2 million dollars in an iron ore investment. As a result of this venture, he began the development of Portland Concrete and made even more money. While attempting to turn the goldenrod plant into rubber for tires, he oversaw 13,000 experiments before finding success. Edison said, "Hell, there ain't no rules here! We're trying to accomplish something."
Edison understood the value of women in the workplace. Nearly all the people who worked in the precision parts of his laboratory were female. Additionally, he hired women as musicians when he began to produce the world's first recordings of sound. In adjoining rooms, we view the earliest phonograph players, movie projectors, cameras, and musical instruments of great variety. Period photographs allow for the proper placement of original furnishings or replicas.
As we are riding the elevator up to the second floor of the building, a little girl exclaims, "He was stubborn but still a genius." Edison had over 1000 patents and made everything from ladies' watches to locomotives. We're able to glimpse a few of his first silent films which are kinetoscope fragments. How amazing film must have seemed to first time viewers.
There's not enough time to tour Edison's home, Glenmont, but we drive a few blocks to survey the grounds. The house is stately, set in a private neighborhood. Today's owners of the surrounding homes must loathe having their privacy usurped by tourists, however benign.
Not far from the house is a garage where the chauffeurs lived upstairs and a collection of vehicles was stored. Of course there's a special feature in the form of a turntable which allows for additional cars to be stacked in the space. Inside, we meet two young African-Americans. Chatting with them, I learn that they will be high school seniors at a private institution this fall. They are amiable, obviously extremely smart. Tre Turner wants to act. He's already performed in New York workshops and is applying to NYU for Film School. Calvin Million cites Columbia and Penn as his preferred colleges. Both tell me that they've done well on the SAT but will be taking it again in hopes of an even better score. I have no doubt of their ability. They have the Edison trademarks of persistence, positivity, and I'm just sure they embrace the concept of teamwork. As we're walking away from the garage, I say to Henry that I'd like to take their picture. He gently cautions me that to do so would be invasive. I can't help thinking that someday I'll see Tre Turner on the screen and read something equally as extraordinary about Calvin Million. Edison would champion both young men.
The Taconic winds through cellless reception zones, meandering towards Albany. Our GPS directs us to leave this divided expressway for a more bucolic path through small villages replete with fruit and vegetable stands. Neither of us is certain we are still on our way to our destination, but we obey the disembodied voice. Some miles into this unexpected path, I see a marvelous house adjacent to the two-lane road. Immediately thereafter, there's a familiar brown and white sign, denoting a National Park Service site. We're intrigued and turn around.
Lucky for us, we've arrived just in time for the first tour of the day. We're at Lindenwald, a president's home. Not nearly as famous as Mount Vernon or Monticello or even close by Hyde Park, the house is nevertheless striking. Though its famous occupant is little remembered compared to the owners of those more prominent homes, he deserves our attention.
Our plucky guide is Stephanie Ortiz, a rising senior at SUNY Albany. Majoring in Political Science and History, she hopes to obtain a MBA from the same institution. Despite working three jobs and being a full-time student, Stephanie's brimming with enthusiasm for someone who is considered a minor president. We are her only tour members this morning.
I never really thought much about Martin Van Buren. I knew he was Andrew Jackson's Vice-President, served one term, sported significant mutton-chop whiskers, and was, well, short. There's much more to the man whose first language was Dutch and who ceased all formal schooling at the age of 14 when he apprenticed to a local lawyer. By his early twenties, he'd become a formidable barrister and soon entered local politics before expanding to state-wide offices and then the national scene.
Van Buren bought the beautifully situated ochre colored home in 1839. In dismal disrepair, the former president completely revised the structure and greatly increased its size and significance. Widowed twenty years earlier, the Little Magician, as he was affectionately known, raised his four sons with the help of family members. Beautiful furnishings were imported from Europe to grace many rooms of the house.
Today, most of the family possessions remain intact. One of the small bedrooms on the first floor contains a bed in which Henry Clay once slept. Though he and Van Buren consistently disagreed on many topics, most significantly slavery, they were friends. During Clay's visit, a straw pallet in the corner of the room provided a resting place for his slave, Levi.
Two intricately carved pianos, a harp and an organ used by the Van Burens are in place, ready for fingers to pluck notes from their core. Henry stands at the keyboard of one piano and we imagine the family gathered around, singing songs. The Duncan Phyfe dining table accommodated twenty-two but it is a reproduction. Some years ago, the original table was auctioned and the National Park Service lost to a bid from a private individual. Though that special piece of furniture now adorns a Manhattan apartment, the owner allowed it to be borrowed so that a replica could be made for Lindenwald.
In many rooms, it appears as if the occupants have just stepped away for a moment. Books are open, games are sprawled across beds or floors. Stephanie says that on her first day at work, she was directed to learn to play whist, an early form of bridge.
The house contained amenities rarely found in even the most elaborate homes of the time. Running water, a lead tub, and a flush toilet with a blue and white porcelain bowl insured that the former president lived comfortably. Near the kitchen there's a servant's bedroom. We learn that it is currently being renovated but when it is open for touring, it contains a special item. A single Staffordshire dog sits on a table. It was given to an Irish servant of the Van Burens in the 1850's because the matching piece had been broken. A few years ago, descendants of that servant returned the dog to Lindenwald.
Van Buren's own bedroom commands a view of his acreage. It is here that he died in 1862. On the bed is a beautifully carved hickory walking stick, a gift of Andrew Jackson. The thirteen knots on the stick were specially selected so that silver medallions could be affixed and one letter of Jackson's name engraved on each. I'm reminded that the term "OK" originated with Van Buren and actually represented one of his many nicknames, "Old Kinderhook," shortened to OK. He's with us still if only in our everyday language.
Three men, so different, so alike in many ways. Teddy and Thomas knew each other well, and Edison was a guest at Sagamore Hill. Roosevelt shared a common Dutch heritage with Van Buren. Definitely men to remember.
Quite a Quartet
Our credo is to be early for everything whether a social engagement or to catch a flight. This time we have overreached and are approximately 3.45 hours ahead of the performers. It was not our intention to languish so long in the excessively warm evening for an outdoor event. But for her, we gladly waited. Ives Concert Park on the campus of Western Connecticut State University is a tranquil space. A watery border defines the stage while rickety chairs sit haphazardly on a small hill. A low fence separates some ticket holders from those who prefer, or weren't able to obtain other billets, spreading out on the grass. Carol and Steve are happily in the latter contingent. They've come with folding chairs and bug repellent. Both are essential this starry night. Rather than looking at the performers live, they'll be gazing at a gigantic screen.
Parking is directed by Connecticut State Police. They're polite but firm. We're able to secure a premium spot easily and join the line of fans who await the opening of the park. Once inside, the alphabet is divided for 'will call' customers and we're delighted to see that the S-Z portion is relatively light. Henry gives his name and a staffer searches for our tickets. Behind us, a tall, early thirties lady overhears him. She asks immediately, "Is your name Henry?" Receiving an affirmative, she says that her son shares the name. Then she suggests that we walk a few paces to his stroller and take a look at his tee shirt. It proudly proclaims "100% Henry." Wow! Cool!! No photo captures this special moment as cameras are verboten at the concert.
With so much time to absorb, Carol and I wander the food circle. Interestingly, it consists of movable kitchens owned by local restaurants. Very impressive. There's even a pizza oven and a bar-be-que pit. We're not hungry but do try the fresh apple cider and pronounce it refreshing. Perhaps its flavor was enhanced by the mini donut samples.
The concert begins 40 minutes late. Nobody seems in a hurry. We are perplexed by this approach and the seemingly indifference shown the audience. People are still arriving long after the posted start time.
All the frustrations evaporate when she takes the stage with her band. Alison Krauss is legendary. Her music melds country and bluegrass as she effortlessly fiddles and sings with a tone so pure it just simply can't be real. Even a tone deaf person such as myself recognizes the clarity and perfection she evokes. We've seen her once before in a casino concert close to home. Is it possible that she's even better this time? People around me float away and Alison commands my whole being. She's Henry's particular favorite performer and he is equally enchanted.
I look at this elfin lady with her tiny black skirt and super tall boots and I wonder if she has a personal battery pack. How can she sing and play so profoundly? Union Station, her band, is immensely talented. Each member is featured as the show progresses. I'm especially fond of the songs from "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" The words and notes are haunting as a bright moon provides an ethereal light for this unique night. The crowd responds enthusiastically to a ninety minute set and is rewarded with multiple encores. We walk into the darkness with lyrics surrounding us. Alison's leaving in a colossal tour bus, trailing sounds as she goes.
They were both young, one still a teen-ager. It was 1965, summer in White Plains. The elder's group was already famous and a favorite of the generation. So many decades later, he's a single, savoring those pristine years with fans who remember fondly. Universal Preservation Hall in Saratoga Springs seems perfect for reuniting the fan with the famous. We've traveled across the country to catch John Sebastian, founder of the Lovin' Spoonful, in solo concert.
The venue is a former AME church built in 1871. Rescued in 2006 by a group of determined individuals, the building was close to being demolished due to its deteriorating condition. Only four elderly African-American ladies remained of a once prospering congregation. Through intensive negotiations, the title to the building passed to a non-profit organization. We meet Teddy Foster (truly, that is her name) who serves as Chair of the group. She gives us a private tour of the edifice and talks about renovations which are on-going. Still needed are an elevator, air conditioning and heating. It's rustic but promising. Below the former sanctuary, a small chapel has been set aside. Here, every Sunday, the ancient congregants worship. Their minister is 94.
A few original pews are placed around the cavernous room. The altar is backlight and resembles a witch's house on Halloween. Whether that is the intention, we don't know. Folding chairs complete the seating options. We're in the front row. Next to us, curiously, is a couple from northern California. He's a nurse, she's a realtor. They're on a musical tour, too. Going to an Irish music festival. Both are performers at clubs near their home. Age contemporaries, we talk 60's music without having to explain any names.
It's hot in here. Windows are closed, no air moves. Soon the man himself is on stage. He has two guitars and a harmonica. More than enough for tonight. Songs are interspersed with stories. Henry knows John's voice isn't the same but the words and notes are what matter.
We learn the history of the most famous tunes with Greenwich Village playing a prominent part. John Sebastian's dad was a famous concert harmonicist. Music measured his son's life and although John once gave up the harmonica (at 5), he relented and mastered the instrument. We're treated to awesome sounds as sweat overcomes his cotton shirt and drips from his face.
There are no screaming fans, no groupies swaying to his spell. We're all older, more sedate, moving and clapping in our seats. I can almost see long hair, tie-dyed shirts and ballooning pants of varying colors adorning bodies with taut skin and eyes focused on the freedom music unfurls. Youth recedes but never surrenders.
We know the words and I joyfully sing along (very badly) to "Do You Believe in Magic?," "You Didn't Have To Be So Nice," "Younger Girl," "Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind?" and "Nashville Cats." Listening to those seminal songs in the 60's I never imagined I'd hear them in person.
Too soon, he's done. Exhausted, spent. We have a poster for him to sign and we buy his latest CD. John Sebastian's in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as he so richly deserves. His iconic music resonates for new generations.
Theatres are stories themselves. Richly decorated, imminently cool, lush and anticipating words or music or sometimes both. Through the years, we've seen memorable plays as well as some so slight as to be easily erased. Often it is the cast that beckons or maybe a revival that struggles to replicate the glory of earlier renditions. Now and then the result is fractured but never is it not worthwhile.
With half-price ducats in hand, we have little time to find our seats for "Baby It's You." Spinning the story of a Passaic, New Jersey housewife who recognizes the talent of four African-American teen-agers and crafts them into chart-topping stylists, the play is rich with tunes.
From the beginning, we realize that the cast is hard-working, fresh and eager. No familiar names grace the stage but these are serious thespians whose renditions of The Shirells's hits enliven the audience. We're treated to "He's So Fine," "It's My Party," "Twist and Shout," "Mama Said," and "Soldier Boy."
Woven into Florence Greenberg's amazing rise as a record and concert producer is her collaboration with songwriter Luther Dixon. The interracial personal relationship between these two artistic people during the 1950's and '60's provides a tension-filled backdrop as the most talented girl singing group ever loses its grip on the feckless public.
We caught Cole in London in 1997. His lyrics remain snappy though some references are likely to be obscure or unfathomable to modern audiences. Madcap mayhem predominates his plays and the story is sublimated by exquisite songs and choreographic feats that leave performers breathless and seem implausibly difficult.
Sutton Foster is a star of brightest magnitude. She's long and lovely, contains no extra ounces, controls her limbs as if there's a tiny computer in each one and the mechanism works flawlessly. She sings. She dances. She acts. She smiles and occasionally, just talks. There's an accent in which I detect a tiny bit of Southern that hasn't been extracted. I decide she's keeping that twinge to remind her of her roots. We're totally enchanted and can't see her enough. This is our third evening with the inestimable Ms. Foster.
Approaching the theater, early as usual, we learn that we're in time for a treat. It's the Tuesday Theater Talk on the mezzanine. While cast members practice in street clothes on stage, we listen raptly as an extremely knowledgeable man discusses the provenance of "Anything Goes." Cole Porter was king in the '30's. He made no changes to his material for anyone. Except, that is, Miss Ethel Merman, who had no vocal training at all. The incubation of the play lasted a long time and with no second act in sight, a cast member remarked that "anything goes." These prophetic words found their way to the title and onto the most memorable music of the play.
This year's version is blessed not only with the divine Ms. F. but also Kathleen Marshall as the director/choreographer. Charmingly unforgettable is the legendary Joel Grey who, at eighty, can teach the youngsters a thing or two. Often there is a standing ovation at the end of Act I and the beginning of Act II. The main character is based on two real people--the evangelist Amy Semple McPherson and Texas Diamond Lil. We're told to watch Sutton's breathing as she sings and dances for what seems like forever. No previous leading ladies have attempted this feat.
Our seats are front row. We can see everything perfectly. Sutton is sensational. Joel is adorable. The story is raffish, the lyrics often wry. We're transfixed and want to stay put for Act I to one hundred. During intermission, the couple to my left remarks that they are not impressed. They're seeing six plays in a week and already think some are better than this one. We are aghast, incredulous. They're obviously mistaken. With two Tonys already, Sutton Foster seems invincible. Ethel who????
A quartet of singular musical performances. Nights to note.
Parking is directed by Connecticut State Police. They're polite but firm. We're able to secure a premium spot easily and join the line of fans who await the opening of the park. Once inside, the alphabet is divided for 'will call' customers and we're delighted to see that the S-Z portion is relatively light. Henry gives his name and a staffer searches for our tickets. Behind us, a tall, early thirties lady overhears him. She asks immediately, "Is your name Henry?" Receiving an affirmative, she says that her son shares the name. Then she suggests that we walk a few paces to his stroller and take a look at his tee shirt. It proudly proclaims "100% Henry." Wow! Cool!! No photo captures this special moment as cameras are verboten at the concert.
With so much time to absorb, Carol and I wander the food circle. Interestingly, it consists of movable kitchens owned by local restaurants. Very impressive. There's even a pizza oven and a bar-be-que pit. We're not hungry but do try the fresh apple cider and pronounce it refreshing. Perhaps its flavor was enhanced by the mini donut samples.
The concert begins 40 minutes late. Nobody seems in a hurry. We are perplexed by this approach and the seemingly indifference shown the audience. People are still arriving long after the posted start time.
All the frustrations evaporate when she takes the stage with her band. Alison Krauss is legendary. Her music melds country and bluegrass as she effortlessly fiddles and sings with a tone so pure it just simply can't be real. Even a tone deaf person such as myself recognizes the clarity and perfection she evokes. We've seen her once before in a casino concert close to home. Is it possible that she's even better this time? People around me float away and Alison commands my whole being. She's Henry's particular favorite performer and he is equally enchanted.
I look at this elfin lady with her tiny black skirt and super tall boots and I wonder if she has a personal battery pack. How can she sing and play so profoundly? Union Station, her band, is immensely talented. Each member is featured as the show progresses. I'm especially fond of the songs from "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" The words and notes are haunting as a bright moon provides an ethereal light for this unique night. The crowd responds enthusiastically to a ninety minute set and is rewarded with multiple encores. We walk into the darkness with lyrics surrounding us. Alison's leaving in a colossal tour bus, trailing sounds as she goes.
They were both young, one still a teen-ager. It was 1965, summer in White Plains. The elder's group was already famous and a favorite of the generation. So many decades later, he's a single, savoring those pristine years with fans who remember fondly. Universal Preservation Hall in Saratoga Springs seems perfect for reuniting the fan with the famous. We've traveled across the country to catch John Sebastian, founder of the Lovin' Spoonful, in solo concert.
The venue is a former AME church built in 1871. Rescued in 2006 by a group of determined individuals, the building was close to being demolished due to its deteriorating condition. Only four elderly African-American ladies remained of a once prospering congregation. Through intensive negotiations, the title to the building passed to a non-profit organization. We meet Teddy Foster (truly, that is her name) who serves as Chair of the group. She gives us a private tour of the edifice and talks about renovations which are on-going. Still needed are an elevator, air conditioning and heating. It's rustic but promising. Below the former sanctuary, a small chapel has been set aside. Here, every Sunday, the ancient congregants worship. Their minister is 94.
A few original pews are placed around the cavernous room. The altar is backlight and resembles a witch's house on Halloween. Whether that is the intention, we don't know. Folding chairs complete the seating options. We're in the front row. Next to us, curiously, is a couple from northern California. He's a nurse, she's a realtor. They're on a musical tour, too. Going to an Irish music festival. Both are performers at clubs near their home. Age contemporaries, we talk 60's music without having to explain any names.
It's hot in here. Windows are closed, no air moves. Soon the man himself is on stage. He has two guitars and a harmonica. More than enough for tonight. Songs are interspersed with stories. Henry knows John's voice isn't the same but the words and notes are what matter.
We learn the history of the most famous tunes with Greenwich Village playing a prominent part. John Sebastian's dad was a famous concert harmonicist. Music measured his son's life and although John once gave up the harmonica (at 5), he relented and mastered the instrument. We're treated to awesome sounds as sweat overcomes his cotton shirt and drips from his face.
There are no screaming fans, no groupies swaying to his spell. We're all older, more sedate, moving and clapping in our seats. I can almost see long hair, tie-dyed shirts and ballooning pants of varying colors adorning bodies with taut skin and eyes focused on the freedom music unfurls. Youth recedes but never surrenders.
We know the words and I joyfully sing along (very badly) to "Do You Believe in Magic?," "You Didn't Have To Be So Nice," "Younger Girl," "Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind?" and "Nashville Cats." Listening to those seminal songs in the 60's I never imagined I'd hear them in person.
Too soon, he's done. Exhausted, spent. We have a poster for him to sign and we buy his latest CD. John Sebastian's in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as he so richly deserves. His iconic music resonates for new generations.
Theatres are stories themselves. Richly decorated, imminently cool, lush and anticipating words or music or sometimes both. Through the years, we've seen memorable plays as well as some so slight as to be easily erased. Often it is the cast that beckons or maybe a revival that struggles to replicate the glory of earlier renditions. Now and then the result is fractured but never is it not worthwhile.
With half-price ducats in hand, we have little time to find our seats for "Baby It's You." Spinning the story of a Passaic, New Jersey housewife who recognizes the talent of four African-American teen-agers and crafts them into chart-topping stylists, the play is rich with tunes.
From the beginning, we realize that the cast is hard-working, fresh and eager. No familiar names grace the stage but these are serious thespians whose renditions of The Shirells's hits enliven the audience. We're treated to "He's So Fine," "It's My Party," "Twist and Shout," "Mama Said," and "Soldier Boy."
Woven into Florence Greenberg's amazing rise as a record and concert producer is her collaboration with songwriter Luther Dixon. The interracial personal relationship between these two artistic people during the 1950's and '60's provides a tension-filled backdrop as the most talented girl singing group ever loses its grip on the feckless public.
We caught Cole in London in 1997. His lyrics remain snappy though some references are likely to be obscure or unfathomable to modern audiences. Madcap mayhem predominates his plays and the story is sublimated by exquisite songs and choreographic feats that leave performers breathless and seem implausibly difficult.
Sutton Foster is a star of brightest magnitude. She's long and lovely, contains no extra ounces, controls her limbs as if there's a tiny computer in each one and the mechanism works flawlessly. She sings. She dances. She acts. She smiles and occasionally, just talks. There's an accent in which I detect a tiny bit of Southern that hasn't been extracted. I decide she's keeping that twinge to remind her of her roots. We're totally enchanted and can't see her enough. This is our third evening with the inestimable Ms. Foster.
Approaching the theater, early as usual, we learn that we're in time for a treat. It's the Tuesday Theater Talk on the mezzanine. While cast members practice in street clothes on stage, we listen raptly as an extremely knowledgeable man discusses the provenance of "Anything Goes." Cole Porter was king in the '30's. He made no changes to his material for anyone. Except, that is, Miss Ethel Merman, who had no vocal training at all. The incubation of the play lasted a long time and with no second act in sight, a cast member remarked that "anything goes." These prophetic words found their way to the title and onto the most memorable music of the play.
This year's version is blessed not only with the divine Ms. F. but also Kathleen Marshall as the director/choreographer. Charmingly unforgettable is the legendary Joel Grey who, at eighty, can teach the youngsters a thing or two. Often there is a standing ovation at the end of Act I and the beginning of Act II. The main character is based on two real people--the evangelist Amy Semple McPherson and Texas Diamond Lil. We're told to watch Sutton's breathing as she sings and dances for what seems like forever. No previous leading ladies have attempted this feat.
Our seats are front row. We can see everything perfectly. Sutton is sensational. Joel is adorable. The story is raffish, the lyrics often wry. We're transfixed and want to stay put for Act I to one hundred. During intermission, the couple to my left remarks that they are not impressed. They're seeing six plays in a week and already think some are better than this one. We are aghast, incredulous. They're obviously mistaken. With two Tonys already, Sutton Foster seems invincible. Ethel who????
A quartet of singular musical performances. Nights to note.
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