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.

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.

Three Times Two

A low wall separated students as facile teachers moved about their classrooms dispensing knowledge. We children knew no better and probably thought that all schools resembled our country version of learning.

I shouldn't have been there at all. I was too young, an interloper. No Kindergarten class existed to welcome me. My parents knew that I was bored at home and they sought to remedy my plight.

Daddy was a member of the local school board. As the academic year approached, discussion centered around the lack of the required number of students needed to complete a first grade class. Daddy offered me to fill one of the vacant slots. Another girl, five months younger than myself, brought the class into compliance.



My parents were told that I could be withdrawn if school proved to be too daunting. It never was except perhaps years later when I began to freeze when faced with advanced math.

Pine Ridge School consisted of a two-story wood frame building. Two classrooms were situated on each of the floors. Two grades were taught in each classroom. The arrangement seemed perfectly normal to all the students and their teachers.


Sixty years ago this September, I rode the school bus from my front yard a mile or so to the school building. That first year there was no cafeteria on site. A brown paper bag contained my lunch. I have a vague memory of drinking a warm bottle of Pepsi at my desk, supplemented by a waxed paper wrapped sandwich.

As a poor relation to the much better funded schools of the nearby town, our classroom furniture tended to be antique. Desks were attached one to the other, made of some dark hardwood and featured a circular hole where one could place his ink bottle. Not useful for my generation but for others long before me. The top of the desk was hinged with ample space inside for books, papers, and pencils in the cavity beneath.

Mrs. Hays taught me in first and second grade. She was followed by Miss Furr for third and fourth grade. During the week, they lived with their fellow teachers in a small building on the school grounds. The 'teacherage' also housed the principal and her husband.



Even though the school lacked many basic amenities, students flourished in the instructional environment. A large lot adjacent to the school provided ample room for sports. Along with core subjects, an emphasis on art allowed us to expand our creativity. I can still visualize the much-too-skinny papier mache lion which I constructed. Music was introduced as we participated in a Rhythm Band. Outfits for the girls consisted of a short bright red taffetta skirt, topped by a sleeveless black taffetta top, trimmed with silver cord. Even in grade school, my non-musical self was evident. Thus, I was assigned to the triangle. I'm sure it was thought I'd do the least damage to the group with that instrument. The band performed at school assemblies and on occasion traveled to other country schools for concerts.

Mother became President of the PTA. Many nights were spent at the schoolhouse where potluck dinners raised money to buy equipment or send the students on field trips. With school bus windows lowered to catch damp breezes, we traveled overgrown vegetation shrouded narrow roads to Vicksburg and Jackson. National parks and museums provided culture to kids whose previous exposure, in most cases, was alarmingly low.

Students could join the 4-H Club, participate in Boy or Girl Scouts, take piano or voice lessons. Once a week, a bookmobile arrived on campus. As children grew a bit older, they might secure permission to walk to the nearby country store. In this unadorned concrete building, which my husband later compared to scenes in the movie "Deliverance," snacks could be purchased to supplement sack lunches. I developed a fondness for Zero candy bars and absurdly sugar-laden peanut patties.

Discipline was dispensed without regard to consequences or the rights of students. One day when I was in fifth grade and still adjusting to the concept of a male teacher, an unruly sixth grade boy refused to obey Mr. Bishop's direction. Soon the two grades sat still while the young man was chased around the room by the teacher, wielding a huge heavy yardstick. Determined to escape, the boy climbed out the back window and made his way across the roof of the building. Mr. Bishop followed in nimble pursuit. I remember nothing more about this incident but I'm confident that the student suffered from his actions both at school and later at home.

My classmates considered themselves enrolled in a proper school. Certainly its rural location limited our academic learning somewhat. When I finished the sixth grade, life changed dramatically. Two school districts melded together and I was destined to spend seventh grade, and all the succeeding grades, in town. I vividly recall being intimidated and filled with questions. What if I couldn't compete? How would I make new friends? Could I make the transition from two grades in one room to changing classes and teachers every period of the day?

Almost seamlessly, Braden became my new school sanctuary. I discovered that I was well-prepared and that friends were easily attained. Some of the people I met that year remain a part of my life today. Moving from one classroom to another gave me a sense of maturity rather than fright. Pine Ridge remains my firm foundation and still resonates in my memory.

Turned Out

I'm a spectator, not an athlete. I live with someone who played hard and won often. A person who chose to crash into a brick wall using his wrists to cushion (???) the impact rather than allow his opponent to win a race. The victor broke both wrists. Decades later, he says he'd do it again. From time to time, he's tried to explain the mystique of team culture. Locker room bonding, the joy of physical exertion. I believe him, totally, but I remain mostly sedentary. Not so long ago, our daughter, previously a non-athlete, announced that she'd joined a roller derby team. I gasped in surprise and not a little bit of fear for her safety. She overcame her lack of years in sports and conquered the flat track. Then, wisely, she retired her skates at twenty-six.

So it may seem a bit incongruous that I devoted four years to a fictitious team in a make-believe town in football fanatic Texas. What drew me to this story was not a devotion to pigskin but rather to the people who played and those who watched. Most especially I grew to admire the coach and the life lessons he dispensed weekly. His brand of teaching resonates because of its truthfulness and the standards to which he held himself and his students.

With unflinching focus, the camera captured a nightmare in the very first episode. A perfect sports specimen, one Jason Street, quarterback extraordinaire, super popular, smart, a good-looking young man is tragically injured in the big game. He never walks again. From that unlikely beginning Fridays are never the same.

Coach Taylor has a family anchored by the indomitable Tammy who's first depicted as a high school counselor and later the principal. She, too, embodies an ethical standard that parents seek from school leaders and students, though they might protest otherwise, soon realize will help to chart their life's journey. Together as a couple, these two imagined people demonstrate that self-confidence can be modeled and that fun need not be abandoned in the process.

As characters appeared, encountered crises, conquered faulty family environments and personal challenges, I was drawn to the legitimancy of their stories. I never felt that the intelligence of the audience was being ignored but rather that it was acknowledged and awarded by scripts that often soared far beyond the norm.

Not everything turned out perfectly. Not every game was won. Not every person was nice or dealt with fairly. Compromises laced the stories together, along with plenty of forgiveness. Redemption and respect coursed through the hallways and onto the playing field.

As graduation brought departures, new characters arrived. I barely missed the familiar faces as fresh ones captured my attention. I grew to admire so many students--Landry, Matt, Amy, Tyra, Smash, Lyla, Vince, Tim, Luke and Becky. I reveled in the resilience of Vince's mom and shook my head at Buddy, portrayed as the ultimate football fan for whom no ethical compromise was too great. I saw Matt's grandmother struggle with a fading memory and watched her face as she shared her grandson's triumphs.

I could recount a litany of compassionate acts by Coach Taylor as he expected the best from his young players, just as he demanded of himself. I do not doubt that his impact on those young men, and to some extent their families, was profound. He faced professional adversity with grace and dignity.

Two days ago, I watched the final episode of "Friday Night Lights" with a teary face. I welcomed back players from past seasons and smiled a bit as Coach Taylor abandoned Texas for a greater love, his wife. Tammy's new job as Dean of Students at a Philadelphia college threatened to separate the family. Of course it didn't. There's high school football in Pennsylvania, too.

The final scene shows Coach with his northeast team. They look a bit baffled as did their Texas counterparts every fall. He begins to talk to them about his mantra: "Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose." All eyes stare at him, not understanding his meaning. He's not phased at all and calmly says, "You'll get it." He knows that even losing is often winning.

Though I've never been part of an athletic team, I realize that I'm a partner on the very best team possible. The other member shares my address and my life. I've learned innumerable lessons from him and the impact has been profound. He's my permanent life coach.

Back Room School

No photos of that day exist or at least, none that I've ever seen. Her dress remains a mystery although I can imagine it must have contained lots of lace, some satin, maybe a bit of beading. Once, too many years in the past, she took a box from the bottom of her armoire and gently lifted its lid. Nestled inside were pale ivory peau de soie shoes, barely worn. With French heels, discreet straps that fastened onto pearl buttons, and a rounded toe, they looked quite comfortable. Definitely stylish. For someone with the same size foot, these shoes could transcend decades or even a century plus. How I wish I had said I wanted the special footwear. Would she have parted with them immediately or said a daughter deserved their legacy, not someone from the next generation? I never saw the box or its contents again. When we lost her, inheriting her possessions became the purview of seven siblings.



Marrying on Valentine's Day reflects romance. Was the 14th chosen with emotion in mind or did it simply fall on a convenient day of the week in 1898? Already in their late twenties, the bride and groom might have been considered 'old' for their era.

They moved into a farmhouse perched on a slight knoll. Behind the site lay approximately 165 acres. Land marked by deep kudzu filled bayous, pastures bordered by thick forests, small hills sloping down to muddy ponds. Twenty additional acres across the narrow dirt road contained a sharp abyss covered in tangled foliage.

The land linked him to family four generations in the past, having been part of a Spanish grant in the 1780's. He bought it from a distant cousin and brought his bride there to begin a life together.

Rural and rustic with basic rooms, high ceilings, abundant windows and the blessed shade provided by ancient pecan trees, the house mirrored not the expansive home situated on the adjoining property but a much more functional style. Modest in its construction, nearly devoid of detail except for simple carvings around the front porch posts, the dwelling perfectly suited its setting.

Four large rooms were bifurcated by an ample hallway which ran the length of the center of the house. Its width measured approximately ten feet and easily accommodated many pieces of furniture and other accoutrements. An eat-in kitchen and adjacent pantry completed the space. At some time in the future, one room morphed into a bathroom. With intermittent running water, its usage was often precarious and unpredictable.

As the twosome expanded to include seven children, the necessity of more living space became paramount. In addition to gardens, livestock, fowl, horses and mules, the farm yielded revenue with its dairy. More income was desperately needed and fortunately in the early years of the twentieth century, the situation was eased when he became the local schoolmaster. Conveniently, the school district built a structure on the property across from the house.

When the teaching days ended, the building became surplus property and was offered to the family. Moving it must have been quite an undertaking. I can imagine that horses and many men were involved in that process. The rectangular shaped room was attached to the existing house. Its connection was not exactly precise and the whole room listed a bit to the west. I felt that the imperfection gave the room character.

I never met my Papa, the schoolmaster, as he died seven years before I was born. I failed to ask Granny about the room and its unusual origins. I always knew that it had been a schoolhouse even though my family referred to it as the 'junk' room or the 'back' room.

Two doors provided access. One opened from the screened-in back porch. The other provided entry into the pantry. Three sides of the room contained two large windows each. It was possible to stand at the end of the room and gaze beyond the first pond into the surrounding pasture. A scene of gentle tranquility. Looking toward the west, a huge chicken house anchored the grassy plot. Just beyond, a once red, but now weathered to rust, barn reached two stories with its hayloft overlooking a silent silo.



As I reached my teen years, Daddy decided I needed my own space for entertaining my friends. I must have strongly encouraged him towards this decision. The room was cleared of its accumulated debris and modernized into early '60's chic. Along one wall, a storage bench was built. It could serve as a seating area or place to house games and other party necessities. The walls received the requisite pine paneling, the floor's original oak planks were soon hidden behind what was, in retrospect, truly hideous brown speckled tile.

Near the pantry door there was room for a Hi-fi. My record collection included Elvis, Johnny Mathis, Nat King Cole, Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, The Kingston Trio, Duane Eddy and so many more. A set of bookshelves was built into the corner. Between the west windows, a faux fireplace with gas log promised warmth on winter nights. Cut into another wall, a room air conditioner helped erase humidity and seasonal heat.



Only Early American furniture would adorn this room. A brown muddled fabric, soft to the touch, covered the couch. The comfortable side chair featured a dark green version of this pattern. Tables were topped with matching lamps which today might cause endless smiles for seekers of '60's styles.

I loved every single inch of the room. I filled it with friends and even spent some evenings there with a boyfriend or two. I don't know that my younger brother ever enjoyed the room as much as I did. Once I moved away, it reverted to the previous status of 'junk' room. My parents moved the furniture to the hall, replacing older pieces as necessary.

The house is no longer ours but the room remains mine, safely ensconsed in memory. Occasionally I visualize my Papa standing behind his desk, educating children in multiple grades simultaneously. I've been told that he was stern, perhaps overly so. That characteristic may account for the brevity of his assignment. I focus not on those factors but on the room's story. Though silent, it speaks loudly to me of family and tradition.

YPCO

Three choices loomed. One promised adventure (a far away job), another acceleration (summer school). The last (going home), and least desired, offered basic bleakness. I hoped for the first, would settle for the second, and dreaded the third.

As the next-to-last born first cousin, I was accustomed to hearing about what seemed like exotic opportunities enjoyed by the elders of my generation. The boy cousins' stories especially intrigued me. A couple of brothers captured my struggling self with tales of piloting historic buses over Glacier National Park's glorious Going to the Sun Road. How could a kid from my small town hope to experience such spaces? I was, after all, a girl. Just eighteen, finishing my freshman year at a state women's college. My world was little, very proscribed.


Yet something called to me from vistas I could only imagine. Maybe my future would unfurl in a place where summer snow is not uncommon and animals generally only encountered in zoos, roam freely.

By the time I reached the age eligibility for such exploration, the boy cousins had finished medical school. I had not forgotten the almost mythic stories of their past summers and set about to replicate their tales.

I really wanted to work in the same park they had chosen but decided to also seek an alternate, just in case. To secure a spot for me, my dear daddy called upon his first cousin, the Speaker of the House of Representatives in our state. He, in turn, asked a favor of the state's senior U.S. Senator. A letter of recommendation was crafted and sent along with my application. I really don't know if this support was truly necessary but it couldn't have hurt my chances.

I never received a reply from my favored site, but delighted in acceptance from the alternate. My destiny was thus determined. Hired as a checker/cashier, I'd receive room and board and $90 a month for a six-day week. If I stayed the whole summer, I'd collect a bonus which could be used to offset transportation costs.

Did it bother me that the journey of thousands of miles probably cost more than I would earn in three months? Not in the least. I was focused. Ready to escape my environment, to test myself in another setting without family or friends. Me, alone. A near grown-up. I was absolutely unafraid of what I might discover or who might discover me.

For months I updated my parents on my progress toward the summer sojourn. On the day they drove me to the train station and I was about to eagerly alight, my mother looked at me and said, "I never believed you would do it. I thought you were just talking." Not for a minute. I waved without wavering and boarded without regret.

Riding on the City of New Orleans, I looked forward. First stop, Chicago, where a close high school friend was ending his own freshman year at the University of Chicago. We spent the day together. I rode the El to his campus without pausing to think of potential danger. That night, I returned to the train station, found my sleeper on the Great Northern Railway, and bid adieu to all that I knew.

So began my Yellowstone National Park days. In many ways, those months marked my life indelibly. I learned a lot about myself and set the course that would bring me, through many meanderings, to the joyful life I embrace today.

We were all young. Even the people we considered 'old' were not. I was assigned the cafeteria at Fishing Bridge. My dorm room was perched atop a rustic lodge where workers and guests gathered on nippy nights. Girls from many states and a few foreign countries crowded our narrow halls. Some had recently graduated from high school and seemed overwhelmed by the absence of the familiar.


Guys lived in their own dorm a short distance away. Because of an overflow, a few had been assigned to nearly primitive cabins generally rented to visitors. Wandering at will among the cabins were rather formidable brown bears. They were so prolific that we quickly learned to basically ignore them and stay out of their way.

Whoever chose the uniforms for the cafeteria workers must have possessed a macabre sense of humor. The material was thin, flimsy rayon. Its surface featured puckers and not in a positive way. Down the front, a white piping lent an air of lightness to the dress. Short sleeves, buttons hidden behind the white placket, and a slight A-line shape did nothing to enhance the outfit. The color can only be described as awful, pale mustard. I remember that uniform needed extensive hemming. No petites in the inventory apparently. It fit loosely and looked comical. I wish I still had a photo of this unlovely frock. A somewhat perky apron and plain tennies completed the ensemble.

Standing at the cash register, I added up whatever choices had been placed on the customer's tray. The bill was given to the cashier who then asked for payment. To my right, there was a long row of steam tables with meat, vegetables, desserts, rolls. No plastic gloves anywhere. Sanitation was scant. After a few weeks, I could barely tolerate seeing and smelling the food day after day.

Customers were often in family groups, sometimes tired, occasionally difficult. We offered a service for those who caught rainbow trout in nearby Yellowstone Lake. The kitchen would prepare the fish and serve it to the guest for a small fee. I still recall the excellent flavor of this fish which also appeared regularly on the staff menus.

As young people do, alliances formed quickly. Boys met girls. Dates ensued. Romances blossomed, though few were permanent. In addition to those who worked for Yellowstone Park Company, another group toiled for Hamilton Stores. Those enterprises offered clothing, camping supplies, groceries and restaurants featuring soda fountains.



Company buses offered transportation throughout the park. Traveling to other sites was simple enough. I marveled at the magnificence of Old Faithful and the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, walked carefully quite close to many geysers and hot pools, joined an excursion to the top of the highest point in the park, and ate my way from Canyon to West Thumb and Mammoth to Roosevelt. I reveled in light snow with my head protected by a pink plastic umbrella.


Bison moved in lumbering herds and seemed oblivious to passing cars and gawking tourists with cameras. Once, while exploring off the main road, a gigantic moose nearly collided with the hood of the car. It's difficult to say who was more startled. I often rode around the park with new friends and blithely stopped for bears. With Oreos in hand, we offered samples to these monstrous creatures. For fun, we'd drive to West Yellowstone late in the evening, park the car and watch grizzlies eat garbage. No fear fused through our minds. Did we feel invincible?


With only one free day a week but energy to spare, destinations outside the park beckoned. Over the circuitous road through Beartooth Pass, we exited to the east and visited Billings. I remember an almost empty theater where "The Parent Trap" was the feature. Down south to Teton National Park, a first attempt at sleeping outside at Gros Ventre Campground convinced me that I was not an outdoorsperson. The historical town of Cody offered a cute vaudeville show and huge, not so tender, steaks eaten at a rustic restaurant overlooking the frightening edge of a deep canyon.

Though my self-confidence was in its infancy, and I probably lacked any real courage, I must admit that several times I walked with a fellow female worker to the junction of the main road, stuck out my thumb and hitchhiked to another site within the park. The fact that these rides were totally uneventful must be attributed to simple luck. There is no other explanation, even in what seemed like halcyon days.

My favorite spot in the whole park was, and remains, the dining room at Lake Lodge. With an absolutely spectacular view of Lake Yellowstone, white tablecloth-covered tables, and college-age servers, it really didn't matter if the food were palatable. It was much more than that. I've rarely eaten more satisfying meals. In the background, young musicians played effortlessly and transformed the setting into the sublime.

In the decades since my park employment, I've returned multiple times to that place of astounding beauty. My husband and children agree that my assessment of Yellowstone is absolutely accurate. I've been pleased to observe that despite the years, increasing usage, and ravages of nature, the wonder has not diminished. Roads may be in need of repair, buildings have faded a bit or been razed. The college student workers continue the tradition of enthusiasm and energy. Yellowstone Park Company has been replaced by an absentee corporate landlord whose focus is finance not heritage. The park, however, still belongs to the people. May it ever be so.

As for me, I have only to look at this adorable face, and know that I found my future at Yellowstone National Park.

P.S. Love

Five years at most. That's what we said. After that, well, we weren't sure. Another place, another state, different careers. We were young thirty-somethings. Learning a life together, creating a future. He was undaunted, fearless. I was cautious, fearful. True I had abdicated my old self without regret. Friends and family members were stupefied and tried to stop me. I listened to no one but the voice inside that assured me I was right. And, of course, his voice.

So, we packed a U-Haul, a kid and two cars and crossed the desert to this place. Thirty-four years ago last month. So much for the five year residency. We've chosen to be here forever.

One of the statements I made early in our relationship centered on my hatred of heat. I declared that I'd move anywhere (almost anywhere) as long as it wasn't hotter than where I was already living. We moved. It is even hotter here. That's definitely not what I love about this location. I guess I could say it's what I loathe. Yet we're staying and I totally agree.

The other day I began thinking about why I do love this area. These thoughts emerged as the thermometer began its annual climb to frying numbers. I have somewhat adapted to the heat and know that it won't last forever. It will just seem that way. The absolute bliss of late fall, winter and spring will return to refresh my attitude and cool my soul. During those blissful months, I'll remark repeatedly that the day is glorious, the sky sublime, the air so dry the humidity can barely be measured. I'll be serene, suffused by temperatures that are simply perfect.

Until those favored days return, I shall focus on all there is to love about Palm Springs as it sizzles. My list includes:

.grey, purple mountains with smidges of green that provide a rocky barrier and signature landscape
.wide, clean streets made for walking or biking
.Spanish tiled roofs of houses old and new that herald a Southwest heritage
.seminal Mexican food at Las Casuelas, the original
.grilled shrimp tacos surrounded by chips (fries) that shouldn't, but will, be eaten at Fisherman's Market
.the deli crew at Ralph's who know I'll stop by at least twice a week for 1 1/4 pounds of Boar's Head low-sodium turkey, sliced extra thin
.whole wheat Omega-3 dinner rolls with flax seeds, adorned with oatmeal flakes from Aspen Mills Bakery
.orange and yellow lantana that relishes the heat and spreads across our xeriscape rock lawn
.our pool, complete with diving board and spa, which beckons the neighbor sisters and offers a wet escape in the evening when the water temperature approaches that of a tepid bath
.the convenience of an airport so close we could walk there, featuring desirable destinations and occasional reasonable fares
.wandering the aisles of the public library, searching for new titles as well as older tomes and trying not to lament how much it's changed since Henry retired
.leisurely lunches with sweet special friends--Lois, Denise, Josie, Susan
.non-blockbuster, but intellectually satisfying, movies at the Camelot Theater just down the street
.good enough, but not quite New York pizza, from Angelina's
.grilling turkey burgers and chicken on our patio
.driving down Palm Canyon with sparse traffic alongside me
.stopping at the Farmer's Market, relocated to the almost abandoned mall, and encountering the mother of Caitlin's very first friend from Kindergarten
.sharing these special places with family and friends who are astounded at the mountain vistas, the unique beauty of our desert and the hominess of our adopted town and who do not expire despite the temperatures
.the deep ripe orange of Mexican Bird of Paradise plants that languish in winter and thrive spectacularly in summer


Occasionally as we travel, people inquire about where we live. Most have heard of this place. Some have visited, though not in summer. Almost always there is astonishment that we are in residence year-round. Of course we are, this is home.


Yes, it is love, Palm Springs style. Even today when it's 118 degrees. I'll just concentrate on this photo.