Love and Miracles

Today's story is brought to you by love and miracles, and it comes from beyond the grave. 

I know you may think what I'm saying sounds like a fairy tale. But it's true. 

Beginning at the beginning:

My husband got a package this week, a late Christmas present from his old friends Tom and Cathy. He opened it and then read the letter inside. The letter made him tear up (or try not to, as men will). "You have to see this," he said, and I hurried over to see what was affecting him so much. When I read the letter, I was affected too.

About ten years ago, one of my husband's best friends died suddenly and died young. Diabetes may have been a factor, but whatever the reason, it hit all his friends hard. 

"Grog," as he was known, was warm, bright, funny, and big-hearted. He loved his friends and he loved rock and roll. So it was no surprise that he had a custom bass (created for him by Wishbass).

When Grog died, his mother disposed of  his house, car and belongings quickly, so his friends never had a chance to choose or keep any mementos that would have been precious to them. A few weeks ago, one of Grog's friends (also a bass player, named Brett) started looking through Facebook Marketplace, to see if there were any Wish bass guitars on the market. And in a perfect "seek and ye shall find" moment, he found a Wish bass for sale. 

AND. It looked 

Just. Like. Grog's. Bass.

Because, of course, it was.

Brett called the owner and asked about the bass. As it happened, the owner had been tasked with clearing out Grog's home and was told to keep some of Grog's belongings if something appealed to him. Brett talked with the owner a few more times, and found out he had kept a number of things.

Brett told his friends Tom and Cathy about the situation, and they shared the news with their adult son Owen and daughter Ava. All had known Grog most of their lives. As the holidays approached, Owen drove to the Wish bass owner's house and bought the instrument. The seller gave him a number of other items for free, after learning about what happened.

Cathy and Tom woke up Christmas morning to see the bass under the tree, as well as Grog's precious walking stick, and other items. "Needless to say, a few tears of joy were shed, for sure," Tom wrote to my husband. Tom will fully restore the bass and the walking stick is now on display in Tom and Cathy's home. 

My husband received a picture of Jerry Garcia and a book about the history of the Grateful Dead--also part of Grog's belongings.

"Merry Christmas from Grog!" Tom wrote, making me tear up not only when I read it, but as I'm writing it now. 

The whole story reminded me of another friend who told us he had pawned his guitar due to money issues, and then found it again after a series of events that brought his guitar back to him. I am happy to say he still has the instrument and things are going much better.

So for all you cynics and doubters (and hey, I'm one of them), I can only say sometimes, like Mick Jagger, "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes...You get what you need."

Love and miracles, even ten years later.

They're out there.

Photo by Rahul Viswanath on Unsplash

Dramatis Personae

There are stories and then there are stories; but some are true, even though they don't seem that way.

When people ask me what my first get-your-feet-wet days in New York City were like, here is what I tell them:

I came to New York two years after graduating college. It was crowded, dirty, cold and LOUD. It was winter, and I had no job and was living with my parents. Somehow or other I found a roommate and a part-time job in a bookstore in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

I also got myself into a production of Marat/Sade in the chorus/ensemble. In rehearsal, I figured out we were in a drag bar and the name of the troupe was Dramatis Personae. The director's name was George but I can't remember his last name.

George was mostly a good director, but he also had a temper and played one of the nurses in the show. I recall watching him beat an actor one evening and it looked real enough to make me cry. I didn't really want to continue being in the play, but the actor assured me he was fine, so I stayed.

George had a tarantula that would crawl around the piano on days we'd be at his place to rehearse. The bar was dark and full of plush furniture, whips and chains. There was a "whipping boy" actor who pleaded with guests to whip him. He was really a sweet guy and I always thought he had a lot more talent than he was sharing. In fact all the performers were talented, and most could really sing.

What struck me about the performers was they were extremely dedicated to their work as singers and actors. Because most people perceived them as "different" they weren't given the respect they should have had for their talent and commitment. So they were almost confined into this specific world and yet watching their acts, you wanted the world to see what they could do and support them.

Meanwhile, I met some interesting people in the Marat/Sade cast, and one became a dear friend who I'd still know today if he hadn't got ill and died. His name was John Zaleski and he was a musician in the play. I would talk with him every now and again and one day he came into the theater and handed me a longish bag. "Tell no one," he said. 

I opened the bag and inside it was a rose. Some months later, I started writing songs with a guy I later married (for a time). John became the drummer in our band. He had a dark-chocolate voice and eyes and loved Houdini, which rubbed off on me so that now I love Houdini too. But that's another story.

The bar was owned by a guy named Amy, who used to fascinate me because they had such luxurious blonde waves and red lipstick, and came in every night at ten or so after the show. They never looked at the actors, which I didn't understand, but Amy and George seemed to get on very well.

The most professional thing to come out of the play was a showcase I did with two other cast mates, Taylor and Kristi. I loved having a speaking part and feeling like I was doing more than just singing in the chorus, so. If you are ever cast in an ensemble, just recognize it can lead to something else so can be worth the time you spend on it.

All of these things happened some time between January and June in my first year of being in New York. I'm telling you this because I tend to have the type of look that makes people think I work in a health food store--or so they tell me. *Wholesome* (ugh)

What I mainly want you to know is that everyone has a story, right? And the cool part of that is, you can never tell what a person's gone through by their looks--unless you ask.

Drag stars: Les Chatfield

A Tale of Two Burger Joints

Childhood snapshot. 

On Sunday mornings my mother set out a huge spread: eggs, whitefish, bagels, lox and cream cheese. She cooked dinner and made lunches and breakfasts the rest of the week, but Sunday night had found its way to being burger night--and those came from a spot in Fort Lee, NJ called Hiram's.

I have no idea who originally selected Hiram's (I have a feeling it was my dad) but every Sunday evening, without fail, this is what we had--burgers and buns, relish (bought at the store), ketchup and French Fries. 

Though my mom was a really good cook (much better than her daughters), I loved those burger nights. Things seemed less stressful, somehow, when all you had to do was pick up burgers. I used to love riding with my dad to get them in the car.

Then one night, a funny thing happened. Hiram's, for whatever reason, was temporarily closed. We knew it wasn't long-term (and I shudder to think why, these were not the world's cleanest burger joints) -- but no one was getting into Hiram's that night.

Instead, my father bought our burgers from a place called Callahan's, that was right next door. I have to say it was a big, big deal and we weren't sure any of us would survive -- being something patrons didn't do at either place.

WHY there were two burger joints right next to each other, I will never know--and how did they stay supported? Was it that Irish Catholics went to Callahan's and Jewish people went to Hiram's? Where did the Christian/Hindu/Buddhist/Mormon/Sikh people go? I'm assuming Fort Lee had those and more.

As I recall, the burgers at Callahan's were a little tastier than the ones at Hiram's -- but that could have been the quote-unquote novelty. I guess it was more or less like Burger King and McDonald's being right across the parking lot from each other. But I've never had a burger from either of those two places that came close to Hiram's or Callahan's.

I found out that Callahan's closed in 2006, and Hiram's was actually owned by Catholics, so my Jewish theory was wrong. I do know that people who ate at Hiram's wouldn't set foot in Callahan's and the Callahan's peeps wouldn't go to Hiram's. And Hiram's was more or less the classic roadhouse while Callahan's went a bit more upscale.

I take a teeny bit of comfort in knowing Hiram's is still open, but I would honestly have been OK if Hiram's had closed and Callahan's had stayed. I just want one of them to stay open in this Burger-King world. And if I ever do get back to Fort Lee NJ, I think I'll have to at least stop in, though I'm not sure I'd have a burger.

I'll always love my Sunday night memories, though. And I'm glad I got to try both--shhh! As long as you don't tell anyone. 

Found a great article about Hiram's and Callahan's here.

Burger Joint Photo:  Damian Gadal

Sticky Moments

Opening night at any one of my plays always feels like Thanksgiving.

This time of year I can't help but remember a lot of dinners where people talk about what they're thankful for. It makes me think instead of moments that stayed with me, good and bad. I call them Sticky Moments, and here are a few:

1. The first moment happened this week when driving on a dark stretch of road near my house. A large buck appeared with huge antlers, speeding across the road with one or two other does. It was so dark it seemed like they appeared out of nowhere. I slammed on the brakes and luckily, we had no snow on the ground and all of us survived to tell you this tale. 

2. I was walking toward the subway one night in New York City and passed Godiva Chocolatier. I decided to go inside and, though I had barely $10 to my name, spent $5 on five little chocolate bars. I ate them immediately and the whole time I was eating them I felt immortal, like nothing bad would ever happen to me again. The feeling ended as soon as I finished the last chocolate bar -- but I didn't care.

3. Favorite sign ever, seen in a New York subway tunnel: "Hold on to your hopes, your dreams, and the handrails." Yes.

4. Favorite moments throughout my playwriting career happen when I sit down in the audience on opening night in a dark room, waiting for the play to start. It can either be in New York or Canada or Minnesota or L. A. or Wisconsin, doesn't matter, Just that first moment in the dark before the lights come up on the actors feels like I won the lottery.

5.  Trying to convince a guy who liked me that dating was not a good idea. I was just coming off a divorce and was trying to hold my life together as single mom. I'd just gone out for coffee with this man, who was taller and better looking than I remembered when I opened the door that night. Even though we'd had a great time, I was still pretty skittish. "I bet you have a lot of girls you could go out with," I said.

"I'm looking for someone to stay in with," he replied. I had to smile. As a writer I can't help but admire when someone shares a great phrase.

What can I tell you? Reader, I married him.

6. One of my favorite roles as an actor was playing Heloise in a traveling company in New Hampshire. One night while I was doing a scene with the actor playing Abelard, I realized his sleeve was on fire. Not smoking and not popping a few embers, but really on fire. I was about to ask the audience for help when he beat out the fire with the opposite hand and continued the scene without missing a beat. By the time we went offstage, I could hardly believe what had happened. Meanwhile, no one in the audience had a clue.

7. Moments when my middle-grade/YA novel series wins an award or gets a great review are always sticky moments, whenever they happen.

8. My college roommate and I were painting our first apartment in Boston and got stuck inside when the door expanded due to the humidity. We had to call down to an older gentleman we noticed on the street as he walked by. We convinced him to come and muscle the door open, and I think he actually left at that point after saving us. I hope the rest of his day was wonderful.

9. My friend Gabriel came from Athens and we were sitting in a coffee house one afternoon, just shooting the breeze with each other. Gabriel asked if I wanted to play a game and I immediately said yes, without even knowing what it was. He said he would write down what he was thinking in Greek and I would need to write down what I was thinking in another language too. I wrote down my thought in Hebrew and we kept at this for the next five minutes. When we translated the conversation for each other, it turned out whatever we had written actually connected to each other's thoughts. We could have been talking in English. I still have no idea why.

10. Watching my son play Seymour in Little Shop of Horrors one night brought me a beautiful moment. It was during the intermission before the play was about to start again; he was addressing the audience. I can't remember why, but as people applauded him he tapped his heart and then pointed to them. I'm not describing it accurately, but it seemed like one of the most graceful things I'd ever seen--just purely from the heart. It had been a tough few months and I wasn't exactly happy with some of his recent choices Yet, seeing that gesture made me believe he was on the right track again--and as it turned out, I was right.

Hope your Thanksgiving is perfect - and you find a lot of Sticky Moments through the year.

Father's Day Morning: a Remembrance

My father died on March 18, 2008. We both said we were 39, though he was 93. I don't have the feeling of raw grief I had when I first lost him, but I do "see" him unexpectedly, here and there, on any given day. Memories can make me smile or hit me unexpectedly, with the sweetness of remembrance and sharp little pangs of sorrow.

I think of his face the day I told him my (former) husband had proposed. My uncles Archie and Sy were visiting with their wives, Helen and Vivian. My mother must have expressed some frustration that I was living with someone and not getting married, because when we told them, standing together at the basement bar while my father made drinks, my Aunt Vivian said, "See?" to my mother. "I told you it would happen."

My dad almost froze, mid pour, and I will never forget how still he became. I don't know if it was that he didn't like my choice or that he wasn't ready for his daughter to be married, but that stillness was one of the most endearing things I ever saw him do. And he did a lot of them.

I think of how wonderful my father was with my son Josh when he was a little boy. On one particular day, said little boy's mama was beyond exhausted, and we were visiting my parents, and my super-energetic two year old wanted mama to play. I asked my dad if he would hang with my son while I took a nap.

My dad readily agreed, and no sooner did I close my bedroom door than I heard immense and heartbreaking wails coming from my son. Luckily, my father wasn't freaked by them, and started to talk to Josh about someone named Ambrose. "We have to find him," my father said, because otherwise he'll lose our treasure. And I promise you. He HAS our treasure.

Somehow, after talking passionately and persistently to Josh for at least seven minutes, my dad got his grandson to stop crying and to become interested in finding Ambrose. They actually went out looking for him, though I have no idea how my father finessed the fact that Ambrose didn't exist and therefore, couldn't be found.

My son didn't seem to notice it. When they returned from their walk, my father made a snack for both of them, and by the time I woke up from my nap (which may have been about 45 minutes), my son's eyes were dry and he was having a wonderful time.

I understand. I always had a wonderful time with my dad. There was nothing he could say or do that wasn't interesting. His voice was gravelly and warm (and I have never found anything I loved nearly as much), his eyes twinkly and his humor always on point. On this Father's Day, as on every one I've seen since he died in 2008, I think of him (and on a lot of other days, besides).

He passed on his red hair (from his mother), his sense of fun, his love of reading and walking and nature. When I remarried to my new husband who happens to be of a different faith, he said only, "I like him. And I can see how good he is for you." If I close my eyes, I can almost see the kindness in his eyes.

I have to close my eyes, though. I understand we none of us can live forever. I am grateful I got to have this man in my life, but I can't help missing him, and there's nothing to be done with that. My character Ruby in The Beat on Ruby's Street is crazy about her dad, and of course, she would have to be.

Another bit of sweetness that I got to manifest, through my writing. Sweetness and a pang.


Father's Day Pie: Jim the Photographer