STAGEWORK IN CHICAGO

My biggest dream was to be in the chorus of a Broadway musical which came true when I appeared in “Annie Get Your Gun”. I never had any aspirations further than that. However, after being in the show, I came to the conclusion that I could have played one of the major parts.  So the following year I tried out for the second lead in “Silk Stockings” and won the part.

I will tell you that even though I was second lead, I got the best reviews from the local papers.  Each of the northwest suburbs in Chicago had a weekly paper that came out on Thursday with all the local news, grocery ads and actual theatrical reviews.  Our local critic called me “downright startling”, all the others raved about me but didn’t mention anyone else in the cast including the leading lady.  I was so embarrassed that I didn’t even save those.  How I regret that decision.

I only worked backstage on the next show. In addition to building and painting sets I also worked with the lighting crew on the catwalk in the ceiling above the audience.  When I climbed down at the end of the show, there were two high school students waiting to ask for my autograph.  I told them I wasn’t in the show, but they said “yes, but you were in the last one”.

SLEIGH RIDE

From the time I was a little girl I always wanted to ride in a sleigh with the snow falling about me gently in the silence of the night except for the sleigh bells ringing and the sound of the horse hoofs in the deep snow. You need lots of snow on the ground for a smooth ride and your tracks are the only ones that can be seen on the narrow trail.  I see myself in a fur-trimmed parka looking beautiful like Sonja Henie with the moon shining down and everything serene.  Being a little girl, I always thought of myself in the sleigh alone, because I couldn’t picture a boy in the sleigh with me.  The driver was some anonymous male and he would be cracking the whip, gently of course. He was probably an employee of my family, if my family ever had enough money to own a farm.

As I grew older, I would see movies with farm families going to church at Christmas in a large sleigh pulled by swift horses, the passengers filled with the joy of the season.  Wow! I wished that could be me. I would be laughing and singing carols and hymns, loving all of it just as they were.

 I had never personally seen a sleigh when I was child. However at the age of 17, a friend of the boy I was dating invited us to his girlfriend’s house.  She lived on a farm and we were to go for a ride in her sleigh. In my excitement, I dressed in what I thought appropriate, although at that time I didn’t have a parka with a fur trimmed hood.  By the time we got there the snow had turned to slush. I was totally devastated. I never even got to the barn to see the sleigh and besides I had ruined my new suede shoes.

I guess the only time I saw a real sleigh up close was when we lived in Chicago and our neighbor won the grand prize at the opening of “Santa’s Village”   Their prize was a sleigh fill with toys to be delivered the week before Christmas.  A large van parked on the main road at the foot of our street and a sleigh and reindeer were lifted out.  It was cold and miserable when Santa came down our ice covered street in the sleigh pulled by a reindeer that kept slipping and sliding and had to be held up by the crew.  All the neighbors got to be on television that night.  The family with five kids had a joyous Christmas that year. All I remember is the fake Santa and the slipping and sliding of the reindeer.  My children tell me they remember that day, even the family’s name and how jealous they were of the many presents their friends got. All this had happened over forty years ago.

I never did ride in a sleigh but I don’t think I suffered because of it. I still have wonderful pictures in my mind of what it would have been like.  Maybe the experience wouldn’t have been as great as my imagination and I would be left with disappointment.  Isn’t that what happens in life?

I’ve always been a nostalgic kind of person and I long for the old days, real and imagined. I can still see myself in our family room in Pittsburgh with the lights dimmed and looking out our French doors at the winter snow covered landscape.  Since we now live in Florida, nothing thrills me more than a Budweiser Commercial featuring the Clydesdale Horses pulling a large sleigh with the sound of their bells ringing, hoofs clip-clopping and the snow falling gently on the ground.

AFTER THOUGHT  (regarding the more serious accident)

In my remembering that Sunday in July, I discovered I had never put everything in prospective.  I had never really thought about myself and just remembered looking at my Mother and not knowing what to do. I didn’t cry, I don’t think.  I know the staff explained everything to me and I did meet the surgeon who put the pins in her hip.  I found out later he was not very capable.

I must have walked home told my young brothers and called my Grandmother and older brother who lived with her.  He was out of school and had a full time job at the Post Office and I know he contributed some money toward Mom’s bill.  He very seldom came to see her because like my Grandfather he was terrified to visit a hospital and actually felt faint when he came to see her. Even later he wouldn’t go into the hospital when he had chest pains which ultimately led to his death at 62.

We had a cleaning lady who had been coming in once a week.  I had no money except for what I earned so I couldn’t afford to pay her. My youngest brother stayed with my Grandmother part of the time.  Somebody must have paid the rent and I think some people brought food but I don’t remember. I’m positive that my Mother’s sisters also came to help. I do know that I did most of the cooking then and when my Mother came home. She was on crutches for quite awhile.

I got a call from the pastor of our church one Sunday afternoon. My brothers and I knew the priest very well and he said he would like to visit us and he came right over.  Fortunately, the day before I had cleaned the whole apartment and everything was spotless for which I was thankful. We had a nice visit.  I was told later that my grandmother’s sister who lived close to our home had called the priest and told him she didn’t think I was capable of handling all that was going on and he should do something about it.  He called her and told her everything was under control. I think my aunts and grandmother were upset with her meddling.

In thinking back about all that happened, I find myself crying for myself. I was so young and I don’t remember anyone ever thanking me or praising me for what did.  Someone should have taken care of me and I never thought about that at the time.

PROMISE KEPT

For Christmas one year we got a card from our number three daughter with a written promise saying that one day we would really be proud of her. It was no secret that we had enormous differences of opinion.

She fulfilled that promise by starting college while taking care of her two children and her husband. After graduating with a 4.0, she started a fulfilling career teaching special education students as well as earning her master’s degree again graduating with highest honors.

This was not something we had pushed for, we just wanted her to achieve her own potential. The goals she obtained were something she already had inside of her and we were extremely proud but no one can be prouder than she is of herself.

I would hope that one day her own daughter would send her the same message, just a few words. “Mom, I promise someday you will be really proud of me”

A MORE SERIOUS ACCIDENT

Our phone rang early on a Sunday morning.  The caller said there had been an accident and my mother was in the hospital.  The previous evening she had gone out to celebrate her birthday with friends.  I was just eighteen years of age and really irked because I thought that after I had walked about two or more miles uphill to the hospital that she would be all right and there was no reason for me being there. I arrived at the emergency room and they showed me where she was.  I saw this smashed up woman and said that’s not my mother, then I saw the pearl ring on her finger and realized that it really was. She was unconscious. I just stood there not knowing what to do.

I was told she probably fell asleep at the wheel and smashed into a tree.  They didn’t know how long she had been there before being found.  Her right side, from head to toe had been smashed.  When they took her into the operating room the next day to wire her jaw shut, they found the upper jaw had been broken into so many pieces they cancelled the operation and returned her to her room.  The surgeon then formulated a plan to make a plate to fit roof of the mouth which had little hooks on the outside, he then circled her head with a plaster cast, put little hooks in that and had tight rubber bands put on the hooks to hold the plate rigid.

A friend of mine who was a nursing student told me that their entire class was ordered to view the operation which had never been done before. Mom’s right hip had also been crushed and the emergency room doctor had placed in a lot of screws to hold it together. A year later she had radical surgery on the hip again by a more experienced surgeon in another hospital where after a long recovery she was able to walk without a limp.

My aunt’s brother-in-law was a surgeon and he filled me in on all that was taking place.  A nurse cousin did private duty care during the night.  They helped take the pressure off me and were very kind. Every day after work I walked to the hospital to visit. I also took care of our apartment and my younger brothers. Naturally family did visit when they could.  My grandmother came often when she could get a ride with relatives. About two or more weeks later Mom returned home in an ambulance.

Mom’s insurance didn’t cover all the costs, naturally, so it seemed every time I visited the hospital I was told to visit the bookkeeper’s office. I was always asked when payments would be made on the enormous amount owed. Actually, anyone visiting her was asked the same thing.  Even her divorced husband, my father, was furious when they spoke to him although it didn’t seem to bother him that I was being harassed.

Another little fact, the hospital head bookkeeper was also the sister of the head bookkeeper in my own office so they both knew my whole family situation. I think the hospital eventually just wrote the whole thing off.

THE ACCIDENT

In our home in Atlanta one evening I looked out the front upstairs window and saw blinking police car lights where our residential street intersected with the main road. My husband was playing poker with our pastor and several other parishioners at the priest’s house, so I mentioned to my youngest that it looked like an accident had happened. She knew I was prone to be an ambulance chaser and was joking with me as we started walking up our street.  The police car left as did a tow truck so my daughter said she was going home but I continued on.  As I kept on walking in the dark someone came toward me.  A voice said “Mom?” I said “Chuck?” Then I asked if it was my car being towed and sure enough it was. It was a used car that had been purchased only two weeks before.

We walked home where I called the parish house and broke the news to my husband. A fellow poker player who was an insurance agent said for our son not to admit guilt even though I said he was definitely in the wrong. He had pulled out onto the main road and into traffic figuring he could beat the oncoming car.  It’s a good thing the other driver wasn’t going fast because Chuck could have been killed.

The next day Chuck and I went to the towing garage and met with the insurance agent who said the car was totaled. Fortunately our insurance would cover the loss. As we left, Chuck thanked me for not being angry with him. I vividly remember telling him I could always get another car but I couldn’t get another son. That day he learned he wasn’t invincible.

The insurance company gave us a check for only $100 less than we had paid. The accident was kind-of a blessing in disguise. We discovered we had bought a lemon and it was burning an enormous amount of oil.

Chuck had to go to traffic court.  The judge said “How do you plead?”  Chuck said “Not guilty” at which point the judge berated him and said “How could you plead not guilty when you definitely are?”  It’s possible he told the judge that his Mother told him to say that, but I’m not sure.  Anyway, I’ve always been glad I handled everything else the way I did.

WRITING

I think I’ll reveal to you something I don’t think I ever told anyone. As a child I always wanted to write short stories. In class when we read aloud what we had written, the other kids always said mine were the best. I usually put in that extra twist.  You’ve probably noticed I’m still doing it.

For years I always gravitated to short stories in magazines and to books of short stories.  As I got older I decided to educate myself and started to read through Dickens.  After a couple of his books I became depressed with his writing. My life was depressing enough without adding more to it so I stopped and ended up reading modern novels.

My mother loved to read and she would get books from a rental library at a low daily cost.  After she finished them, I read them very quickly because every day cost money. That may be the reason I became a speed reader.

In high school I couldn’t understand kids who hated to read and complained about having to write a book report. English was always my best subject and I got A’s on my report card.  When I was a junior, my teacher asked why my name wasn’t on the honor roll and I told her it was because she was the only one to give me an A.  After that I never got another A even though I was the best student in her class.

For years I would wake in the middle of the night and compose in my mind what I would like to say about something that was bothering me. I came to realize the early hours were the best time for me to use that creative side of my brain.  But it would take awhile before I would put anything in writing and a lot of my ideas I just left slide. I finally answered a call that came in the middle of the night and told myself I would write about my thoughts the next day. That’s when I wrote “Sleigh Ride”.

As a result my son gave me this “blog” and I now have the opportunity to do something I never thought possible and that’s the ability to say something and have people pay attention.  He may have created a monster but I thank him from the bottom of my heart.

THE LONG GOODBYE

THE LONG GOODBYE

It all started in March when family and friends got together to celebrate an 80^th birthday at the outside eating area of a restaurant on Lake Tarpon in Tarpon Springs, Florida and culminated the first week of November on the lake in Mt. Dora, Florida.

Both experiences ended with “the long goodbye” as are all our large family get-togethers.  Everyone hugging a kissing and saying we’d miss each other and promising to keep in touch and then sadness that our time together was over.

However the long goodbye in Mt. Dora was something altogether different. All fifteen of us, missing the four oldest grandchildren who couldn’t be there, gathered together on a street corner, very jubilant, laughing and hugging and kissing filled with the joyful knowledge that we would be together again next month. I thought to myself it doesn’t get any better than this. Amen

MY LIBRARIAN FRIEND

Her name was Miss Catherine Makepeace and I always thought how perfect a name it was for our town librarian. About sixty years old and extremely proper, she addressed me as Mrs. Miller and to me she was always Miss Makepeace.

Our library was an old English style mansion either donated by the former owners or sold to our town.  The dark brick manor house was three stories high, the first floor contained all the books, the second was used for offices and storage and the entire third floor was a magnificent ball room.  The second and third floors as well as the rear garden were not open to the public.

There was a wing on the first floor exclusively for children and their books were checked out by a young librarian who was very impressed with our children especially the youngest who refused help in choosing her own books even though she couldn’t read. When she was able to sign her name she was awarded her own library card.

The garden of the mansion was surrounded by high brick walls and the entire rear wall which was covered by dried ivy vines had a narrow roof that extended over a tea garden complete with a few rustic tables and chairs. The large grass covered area had a non-functioning fountain in its center and there was a paved path encircling it. You could always admire the well kept garden area through the beautiful but locked French doors in the rear of the first floor.

One summer the library board decided to do a series of cultural events in the rear garden. The Dayton Ballet Company was invited to do a presentation and that was done in the grassy area in front of one long brick wall.  Chairs were set up and the public was invited.  A chamber music group entertained there on another evening,

Our local civic theater of which I was president was also asked to participate.  My partner and I reenacted a dramatic scene which we planned to enter in our regional theater competitions. We performed on the path around the fountain. Others from our theater did two comedy radio scripts and these were presented at the tables in the tea garden.  We were highly complemented for our efforts and the whole summer series was a huge success.

The next time I entered the library I was greeted as “Mary Jane” by the librarian.  This was one of the biggest thrills of my life.  After that I was always “Mary Jane” but she   still remained Miss Makepeace to me.

(In case you’re wondering, the scene I was in did not go to regional competitions because my partner was not available to attend)

THE FOREIGNER IN OUR MIDST

Our granddaughter had a bi-continental relationship with a young man who worked in London while she worked in New York.  He would travel to New York then she would visit him in London.  She’d met his family who lived in a large converted mill built over a small narrow river in Cambridge.  Since his work mostly involved using the internet he could work anywhere and she was able to travel to London on business for her company as well as spent vacations there.

Two years ago our family numbering about 20 plus our foreign visitor spent the days before Christmas in a resort on Siesta Key.  This was our first meeting with the young gentleman. Everyone was so excited to finally meet him. We had heard he was very quiet and soft-spoken.  We met him for the first time at the resort and we all circled him moving in close to hear what he had to say because he really was soft-spoken. Can you imagine being surrounded by about twenty people you have never met? We loved to hear his accent and were constantly leaning into him.

We found him dignified as well as delightful but I felt that our large boisterous family was probably bewildering to him. I think he was happy when we went our separate ways as we walked the beach.

They eventually dissolved their romance although both were unhappy with the breakup. He disliked New York and while she loved London, having spent a semester there while in college, she didn’t want to live there.

I hope this year we get to meet her new friend who is a talented musician and is currently composing an opera and lives within walking distance.

I CANT BELIEVE IT! (The Perfect Summer)

I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!  (The Perfect Summer)

The two oldest were in high school, one in middle school, one in grade school when we had the perfect summer and not one remembers the swimming pool.  They all remember the ice cream cones but my husband tells me the town was Covington not Coventry.  They also remember going through the underpass where the two year old would always yell “two” and the rest joined in.  Half didn’t remember the convertible.  The oldest said it must have been her delivering instant coffee as she would be the only one allowed to do it.

At least they didn’t hold it against me that they had to clean their rooms.

A PERFECT SUMMER

A PERFECT SUMMER

I’ll always remember that perfect summer when I felt my role as a mother was fulfilled.  Our days were simple but memorable.  We had a gray Pontiac Catalina Convertible with leather seats. (The seven of us had actually driven in it from Ohio to Florida so we could spend Thanksgiving vacation at the beach)

The following summer after the Florida trip we joined a swim club which was about 25 minutes away from our home. Every weekday I had possession of the convertible to drive the five kids to enjoy the day at the pool.  We packed a lunch and snacks and returned home in time to have dinner ready for Dad. On the way to the pool with the top down we went through an underpass. The kids always screamed to make a loud echoing sound and did the same on the way back. How they loved that.

We then returned home to our immaculate house, they all played or watched television and I cooked dinner.

After dinner, they all said “Can we go to Coventry?’ The seven of us would pile in the convertible again for huge cones of homemade ice cream in the little town of Coventry. Every one of them remembers those happy times that were so perfect for us all.

I, myself, remember them because I had so organized everything in those days, that everything fell into place and I took enormous pride in my accomplishments. Although I might sound like a slave driver, the kids were very agreeable to the arrangements.

Here’s how I did it.  Every morning when we woke up, the oldest brought me a cup of coffee and the morning paper to my bed. I have never started my day without a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper, I can’t function without that routine.  Each of the five cleaned up their rooms and with the upstairs finished we all went downstairs. The kids had their breakfast while I did all the preparations for making dinner when we returned home.  Lunch was packed, downstairs was cleaned and we were off by 10 o’clock.  They met with their friends and had great times everyday. I would show off my dives (they loved that) and then I would settle down to my favorite pastime, reading. We returned home by 4:00.

As I said, it was truly a perfect summer. That’s the way I remember it. I’d be interested to find out if the little ones remember it the same way.

A BACK STORY

A BACK STORY

In 1997 I had written a longer version of “The Ring”.  I found this and more of my musings in a folder I had from the time I did my cooking memoir/cook book. For many years I was so filled with frustration in handling my mother’s problems that they seemed to consume my life.

 In spite of my despair, I had one saving grace. I was able to spend days with two of our grandchildren, Lauren and Alex who lived only ten minutes away. Sometimes I’d take them to visit my mother when she was still in assisted living and then into the nursing section with the result that all the staff knew them both.  Mom knew them too, for a short time. When Lauren started pre-school, I would take only Alex who was about one year old. The residents as well as the staff always welcomed him by name and spoiled him when they had ice cream socials.

Another of my writings was entitled “Mama’s Bank Account” about the fact she could never balance her bank checking account and was constantly bouncing checks. This was something that has affected both my brothers and me to this day.

THE RING

THE RING (1997) 

I wear the ring. Not proudly. Not happily.  Not often.  It’s not even legally mine.  It belongs to my 91 year old mother who is a nursing home and I’ve been in a quandary as to what to do with it.  She doesn’t know I have it or even asks about it.

After Mom was put in the psychiatric wing of the local hospital, I visited her the next day.  She was under heavy medication and could barely talk.  I remembered she had her diamond ring on when I left her there and in the turmoil I had forgotten to take it. Now it was missing.  The day staff did not remember it, but a night staff person remembered seeing one of the other patients wearing such a ring on his little finger.  Mom was in such a stupor she probably handed it to him not knowing what she was doing.

Every day I visited her for about five days as they tried to adjust her drugs and she was becoming more and more lucid.  Now the problem was to find a nursing home which would be covered by her HMO.  She wasn’t qualified for most because she could dress and feed herself.

I called the social services person at her former retirement community who had become a friend to ask for advice.  He said remove her from her HMO, get her reinstated on Social Security and she could move back and into their nursing facility because they knew her and felt it could work.

When she was released from the hospital, I drove directly to the Social Security office where a clerk came to the car to get her signature, she was immediately reinstated and I returned her to the place she had left two weeks before.  We had come full circle and she was very happy to be back.  She stayed in the same nursing unit until her death.

(Regarding the diamond ring). This was the only thing my mother owned after 90 some years on this earth, so she would never ever consider parting with it which is why I felt so guilty having it in my possession. She descended into total dementia and died at the age of 96 not knowing who I was.  She ended up legally blind as well.)

MOVING ON WITH MOM

MOVING ON WITH MOM

When you last heard, Mom was ejected from the large assisted living community into a smaller facility and then ejected from her new place too. My only alternative was for her to seen by her physician.  My daughter came to aid me because I didn’t know if I could handle her myself when we took her to his office.  She actually was very calm.

The doctor suggested I take her to the psychiatric wing of the hospital for evaluation.  I dropped off my daughter and starting driving her alone. She was quiet and I chatted with her and got her something to eat as it was close to lunchtime. At the hospital I borrowed a wheelchair and followed directions to the Psych Unit. 

After being interviewed at length by the doctor, he told me she could no longer live in an ALF but would need a nursing home.  In the meantime she would have to be committed in order to get her on proper medication.  She had been docile up to this point, but when told she would be staying there, she proceeded to yell and fight to get out of her chair. So they used the Baker Act and committed her against her will and the doctor and nurses told me to leave and that I would be able to see her the next day.

I remember going to the elevator in tears and a gentleman who had witnessed this asked if he could be of help.  I pulled myself together, thanked him and proceeded to my car which, of course, didn’t start. It was now 6:00 pm.

I called the towing company and also called my husband who had left for golf before I got the morning call but had been receiving reports during the day.  He met me at the garage and I used his car to arrive home at 8:00 pm.

Naturally the story will continue in the next chapter.

Parris Island

Parris Island

Last week we had the pleasure to revisit the Marine Training Center on Parris Island.  In the Historic Museum, we met with two young recruits who would not finish training until November. They were on duty at the museum to answer questions from the guests and were absolutely the best ambassadors that our tour group could possibly meet.

After graduating in November they are being sent to Afghanistan.  I told them of the most meaningful experience our family had when our grandson graduated from training.  Everyone in the stands was in tears of joy at their pride in these young recruits as they marched by.  We couldn’t find our grandson in the multitude until his sister spotted him from the top row in the grandstand.  When the ceremony was over all the Marines ran into the stands to greet their families and although they weren’t allowed to look into the stands they all managed to somehow see them.  Our grandson said he spotted his sister in the top row.   

After graduation our grandson had further training and was sent to Fallujah, Iraq for a year.  In this new type of war where everyone had a cell phone, our 19 year old held up his phone so his mother could hear the flak flying over his head.

I didn’t tell this to the young recruits but instead told them I hoped they returned safe the same as our beloved grandson.

Another thing I didn’t tell them was how our whole family was against the war. I told our grandson that although we were opposed to the war, the soldiers still had our support.  He said he understood our stand.  His aunt and her daughter (his cousin) attended peace rallies where they were ridiculed for their beliefs.   

Everyday I looked at the pictures in the newspaper of young Marines, nineteen and twenty year olds who were killed in Iraq.  Each one could have been my grandson.

(As published in the St. Petersburg Times/ Letters to the Editor titled “A Stirring Reminder of Marines’ Service” Saturday October 23^rd. 2010)

ON SENILITY

ON SENILITY

One thing you should know about dealing with a person diagnosed with senility is that you can not reason with that person. You always try simply because they know who you are and can converse in a seemly manner.

My mother was such a person who agreed to take her meds and not use her walker to knock into the other residents on the elevator if she wanted to stay in the beautiful retirement community where she lived. After my brother and I along with our spouses talked to her for over an hour she happily agreed to the terms set by the administrator of the assisted living section of the building.  One hour later, the aide came in with her meds which she absolutely refused to take.

We now had to find a small assisted living facility that was willing to take her. Several days later she was taken out of the building, kicking and screaming and placed in wheel chair transport as my husband and I stood inside and watched out the window along with the residents and staff. 

Her new place held only about 12 residents. They all ate lunch together, played bingo and card games. It was all lovely and she seemed to do well for about two weeks.  Unfortunately, the new place felt she was doing so well that it wasn’t necessary to give her the meds that kept her on an even keel.

What happened? She went on a rampage in the middle of the night, knocked her television on the floor and scared the other residents so that one of them sat in the hall all night to protect the other residents.  This I was told when the owner called me the next morning and told me to remove her from the premises.

The moral is you can’t reason with a person with senility no matter how lucid they seem.

At least that has been my experience.

The lengthily outcome of the story I will tell in a forthcoming blog. Stay tuned.

Principals of the Opera

Principals of the Opera

There was an ad in the newspaper about a newly formed opera workshop which was looking for singers.  It was not necessary to know Italian or French because you could be taught phonetically the French or Italian lyrics. Situated in a suburb of Chicago close to where we had just moved, others like myself were looking for a place to sing, so we all came together to rehearse in the home of it’s founders, a husband and wife who both sang with the Chicago Opera Company.   Entering through a side entrance we were told to proceed to their basement via a door off the kitchen. There was a couch with lamps on either side just before you climbed down the stairs.  The couch had a very shiny clear plastic slipcover and there were two large ornate lamps on which they had still kept the cellophane lampshade covers. Every rehearsal we followed the same route looking at the same plastic covered couch and wondered if anyone had ever sat on it or used one of the lamps which was in all probability dangerous because cellophane is prone to burn very fast.  We did joke when we were leaving rehearsals about sitting on it when the owners weren’t around to see us. This was the only part of the house we ever saw. The upstairs interior seemed small but the basement was actually very large.

The owners were an Italian soprano and a Danish baritone. I think their reason for starting the workshop was actually to recruit students for voice lessons. Their basement housed a full “summer kitchen”. In Italian homes I learned there is usually a full kitchen in the basement because there was virtually no air conditioning in the 1960’s and it was cooler to cook meals in the basement in the summer and use their regular upstairs kitchen in the winter. I still remember her showing us what she called a traditional Italian Easter cookie in which an unshelled uncooked egg was embedded in cookie dough then baked.  I have an everlasting memory of the bitter taste of the dough which she allowed us to try. It was flavored with wine and I don’t think any sugar was used.

We singers were seated at the other end of the basement close to their baby grand piano and were taught how to pronounce the lyrics. There were about 10 singers, men and women, who were to be directed by “The Maestro”. Maestro Tony was in his early thirties and he had studied singing as well as conducting. He had a beautiful tenor voice but unfortunately for him his mother usually accompanied him to our rehearsals.  We found out that he had rheumatic fever as a child and his domineering mother refused to allow him to find employment after he finished his education. In addition to being attractive he was also very nice, but he probably didn’t have much of a life. He was our pianist and conductor and we actually called him “The Maestro”.

The chorus worked phonetically on parts of Verdi’s Italian opera “The Masked Ball”.  Also in rehearsal was Gian Carlo Menotti’s one act comic opera “The Telephone” written in English and to be performed in our planned recital.  Its roles were to be sung by the Italian Soprano, the Danish baritone and their only student who had never before had a singing lesson.  We paid for our own music but the rented Marie Antoinette costumes and wigs for “The Masked Ball” were paid for by ticket sales. Costumes for “The Telephone” were just everyday dress to be worn by the three member cast.  When it came time for their student to sing her big solo, the soprano sang right along with her and drowned out her voice.  Everyone in the audience felt the whole program was a huge disaster and these people were actually our friends and families.

We were scheduled to start rehearsing the opera “Rigoletto” after our big debut.  I think this was to be a vehicle starring the Danish baritone.

Shortly thereafter, although we had already paid for the libretto of “Rigoletto” (I still have my copy if anyone wants it) the group fell apart after some harsh words, which I honestly had nothing to do with. We all left the Soprano and the Baritone but took with us the Maestro and started a new chorus which met for free in a local bank building.  We were able to pick up some new members and sang together for about six months entertaining for various social events before being assimilated into the new Broadway Show community.

I IS OK

I IS OK

When I sent my story called “Sleigh Ride” to my family and friends, my son called and said he thought I should have a blog so that I could continue the writing I’ve done the past several years.  My reaction was that I was computer illiterate and didn’t think I could handle such a thing.  I only had seen one blog which made no sense to me, the writer just rambled on with total nonsense about someone who had died and a recipe she was making.

The next thing I see is my blog complete with a picture I had painted. I was expected to come up with a title and start off running.  My writing would be typed on Word, cut, pasted then posted.  I had troubles doing attachments to e-mails so how could I function? I didn’t even know what cut and paste meant.

I’m not that familiar with Facebook, never having seen a page.  Our cell phone is mystery, I can’t take a picture or do a text message.  It always seemed to me these people are so self-absorbed they want to tell the world how remarkable they are.

 Now I’ve become one of them.  My first blog was so filled with I’s that I was ashamed yet, I didn’t know what to do.  I couldn’t write in the third person and had no other frame of reference.  Write about what you know is what all writers are told.  So I write about what I know and who I know and it’s all non-fiction.  The audience I’m writing for is my children and grandchildren and my future great-grandchildren because I want them to know me and who I am as a person.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s OK to use I’s.

The Guarantee

The Guarantee

There’s a guaranteed place for me in heaven.  I’m sure you’ll agree when you hear my story.

When my divorced mother moved us to the city, my brothers and I started Catholic School after being in public school for years.  I was delighted to attend First Friday Masses because we could carry breakfast and later eat at our desks which used up some of our class time. However, the best part of First Friday was we students got to sing the Mass in English and in Latin. I always was thrilled to be able to sing out loud.  Regular Masses on Sunday were sung by the male choir or the organist played in the background when the choir wasn’t there.

Missions were held regularly in our church and the visiting priest/missionaries held morning and evening services for about five days. The congregation members listened to hellfire and brimstone sermons about all the evil in the world and that you must repent to save your immortal soul.  I only attended because I just wanted to sing.   I had planned to walk to the local drug store for a Coke after I was able to sing my heart out.  Unfortunately after listening to the sermon, I was so scared that when they passed the collection basket I dropped in the only money I had.

And that’s why I have a guaranteed place in heaven because I gave my last dime to the Church.

Meeting Old Friends

Last week we spent some time with two of our young grandchildren.  While in the car we talked with them about how much reading has meant to their grandfather and me. Sometimes we would run into a character that we have met in a previous book and recognize them as an old friend or someone we didn’t like.  But they somehow feel real to us though they are still fictitious.  Soap opera watchers sometimes think the actors are really the characters they portray.

I got caught up in such a situation many years ago. My mother and I were both avid readers and enjoyed some of the same authors, Pat Conroy being one of them.  We both had read “The Great Santini” and were familiar with Conroy’s background.  He had tremendous issues with both his parents as well as mental illness in his family.  Knowing this you feel his epic novels are really truthful events that are woven into his fiction writing.

My mother loved to play bingo at the Knights of Columbus Hall in Atlanta and I went with her one evening.  She pointed to a tall older gentleman who was working there and said “that’s the Great Santini”.  I said that’s not possible because he’s dead.  I was totally taken aback to realize that Conroy had portrayed his own personal anger and killed him off, yet his father took great pride in telling people he was “The Great Santini.” In the book he is portrayed as a totally mean bastard.  You’re really glad when he dies at the end.

Next week our vacation includes a tour of Historic Beaufort in South Carolina.  Many years ago when my husband had business in Beaufort, I went along for the ride.  The bank manager he was meeting with took us on a tour of the small beautiful city and pointed out the house where the movie “The Great Santini” was filmed.  I expect our tour guide on Tuesday will tell us the same thing.

How I Almost Had the Answer

Drinking has never been a problem for me. It’s very seldom that I have one even at a party.  I’ll have maybe a glass of wine although I really love anything frozen or with ice cream, but one drink can really affect me and a bottle of beer puts me to sleep. I can easily remember the two times I really got looped, once on New Year’s Eve and another after opening night of a play.  (I wasn’t in the play just worked back stage)

So what happened one night was a little different for me.  We attended a dinner dance and were with a large group of friends at a local country club.  I had several glasses of wine and everyone had left our table and began milling around except for myself and a woman acquaintance.  I’m not known for philosophizing, but the woman and I began this deep conversation on the real meaning of life.  Her claim to fame was as a contestant in the Miss America Pageant where she represented another state out west. She wasn’t the winner.  As we explored the depths of meaning, our words were becoming more slurred and I had this fantastic feeling that we were almost there, when all of a sudden her false eyelash fell off. She left the table and never came back. That’s how I almost had the answer.

About My Art

The first art class I attended was in 1944 my freshman year in high school. The other students in class were talented upperclassmen and while the instructor worked with them, I being the only freshman was given work to do without much direction. I also spent a great amount of time in a chair posing for the rest of the class. This was my introduction to art. Disillusioned, I quit after the first semester.

In the late 40’s I saw work’s by Grandma Moses in a magazine article. Her paintings were childhood memories of life on the farm. They intrigued me because the little things depicted in her paintings were things I associated my own grandmother and I really loved the style.

I decided to try art again about 14 years ago when my husband and I spent a month in Vermont. We visited a museum containing Grandma Moses’ paintings. I picked up her picture postcards and was once again inspired to do some artwork. At home I tried to draw such a scene in a sketch book and failed miserably.

Shortly thereafter, I found a damaged Folk Art poster marked down to 25 cents. After doing several large versions of that particular scene using inexpensive acrylic and poster boards, I found it too expensive to frame the large pictures so I started going to thrift shops and bought smaller frames and painted pictures to fit them. I was now painting every day. At Christmas my children paid for a series of art lessons at the art center where my daughter is an instructor. I was now going to have my second art class. Not wanting to embarrass Melissa, I chose a different teacher. After I got up the nerve, I took the next course from my daughter who proved to be a much better instructor.

I had found some 5” x 7” frames, fitted them with mats and began painting miniatures all in my own Grandma Moses style. A local art group was just forming and I joined them. Together we exhibited in many of the local libraries. The really experienced artists did large oil paintings and with space being limited, they were allowed to hang only one painting. In each library, my small paintings were put in their glass display cabinet, so there were always about twelve or more of mine on view. Even though other artists were far better painters than I, they were always very complimentary to me. A funny thing, my daughter was so well known that most of them had taken courses from her or knew of her reputation.

Although I did other types of paintings, the majority were in the Grandma Moses style. These usually contained a white steeple church, a large colonial home, a barn, cows, horses, sheep, maybe a grave yard and all with a mountain in the background with a blue sky and white clouds.

In the corner by my signature is a black sheep and on the back there is a stamp which say’s they’re from the Black Sheep Studio, which was actually my kitchen table. I exhibited in a lot of art shows, sold and gave away some to friends and family.

One day I received a call from a reporter who asked if she could come and interview me. She had seen my miniatures and thought them charming. We talked for quite a while at my kitchen table where she took my picture working on a painting. In several of the weekend sections of the St. Petersburg Times, there was a large article about me. The headline read “Palm Harbor’s Own Grandma Moses” the story covering almost half a page.

The librarian at the Oldsmar Library where the reporter had seen my work had asked me to do another display in December, but I had to cancel. I had only been painting several years but had to quit because of arthritis in my hands.

Every once in a while I find something I’d like to paint and I’ll work on it. Most of my painting supplies I gave to my Granddaughter who plans to be an art major in college next year. But I have saved enough for myself if a spark reignites again.

My Life as an Opera Singer

Late last night I happened to see the Metropolitan Opera production of “Carmen” on one of our PBS stations and stayed awake until it was over at 2:00 AM. Why was I so spellbound? When I was seventeen my father, who was a lover of classical music, gave me a LP album of “Carmen”. Since the album contained the libretto, I was able to follow and sing along trying to learn the role. I missed a lot of the action listening to the recording so it was rather excited to finally see it. The production was astounding, not because of the music, but by the acting of the two principals and the magnificent stage sets. The singer playing Carmen was absolutely beautiful and the role called for her to be sexy which, believe me she carried it to the max. The fact that words in English flashed on with a brief description of each piece of music was a huge plus. After working on that opera for a long while, it became boring and I moved on to other music. My brothers got so tired of hearing me sing, they started to hide my albums.

Years later when my husband and I with our three children moved to Chicago, I started looking for a place to sing and there was an article in the paper about a local couple who were forming an opera workshop and looking for interested singers. It wasn’t necessary to know French or Italian and we would learn the music phonetically. I joined and immediately met some men and women looking for the same outlet. We worked on the short opera “A Masked Ball” as well as “The Telephone” which was written in English. The group rented a local school auditorium, as well as French Revolution costumes complete with enormous white wigs. We sold tickets and my husband attended along with a good friend. Later, they told me they ran out of the theater after the performance because the program was so bad they couldn’t stop laughing and didn’t want to face the other singers.

Shortly thereafter, our small group gave up on opera and formed our own community chorus. There was a group in the same town presenting operettas, which none of us were interested in. Inside the operetta group there were several people wanting to do Broadway musicals and they more or less forced them to do “The Music Man”. It was a huge success but the group still wanted to do operettas. So a small group of four people borrowed money to organize the BOB Players (Best Off Broadway) which would do only Broadway Musicals. Our little chorus joined them and became an integral part of the group. The premise of the new company was to do musicals with the same standards as professional companies. Our choreographer had been an assistant to Josh Logan on “South Pacific”, we had actors and singers and dancers who had been Broadway professionals. The directors, choreographers and musicians were the only one’s being paid. The scenery for our first production “Annie Get Your Gun” was designed by former professional and she taught me all the techniques for painting and building scenery and our costumes were designed and custom made for us. My daughter, a talented artist even at the age of twelve, drew the enormous horse for the living curtain which Frank Butler sat on for the finale. She and I painted the scenery on weekends. Everyone who participated was expected to work on production committees. We were a smash hit and the producers got their front money back. They had borrowed $3,000 which had been a big risk for them. Thereafter the company was self-sustaining. Ticket and advertising sales revenues were used to pay for future productions.

We did two productions a year and rehearsed for three months. I was on stage only once a year, but worked backstage for the other show. The reviews we received were wonderful and we were called the finest semi-professional company in the Chicago area. And that’s how I started my stage career in the 1960’s. I’m sure you’ll hear more of my theater years in forthcoming Blogs.

My First Blog

Last week I read in the newspaper about an acquaintance who was jailed for fraud which caused me to think about all the people, good and bad I have known through the years.

In the 59 years my husband and I have been married, we have met so many people who are dear to us as well as some strange ones whose memory will linger. Most people like to hear about the strange persons more.

You can’t fully know how people feel about you personally. Maybe they like you but still consider you strange. I know there are a lot of people who feel that way about me. However, I will tell of a remark made which I considered a nice compliment to me.

About 40 years ago, we were moving from Pittsburgh to Atlanta and my neighborhood bridge group gave a coffee for me. By tradition, when a member moved, you were given a coffee mug with a message written in indelible ink on the side. With repeated washing the message vanished along with the memory of their names. But one lingering memory I have is when a member told me that she would really miss me because I had such wonderful stories of people I knew. This was from a woman who was working on her doctorate in some “ology” field which I can’t remember, but whom I greatly admired. Her husband was a renowned specialist in a childhood disease and she’s saying she’d miss me. Wow!

You might not think this was a big thing, but as a high school graduate who retired when her first child was born, to be told that by such an educated person was truly meaningful to me.

In the 40 years since leaving Pittsburgh I’ve met many more wonderful people as well as “strange ducks” who will probably appear in my new blog. (I don’t have an old blog in case you’re wondering)