Autumn On Columbus Street

Autumn has arrived.  The first frost has come and gone.  The leaves are almost done falling off of the trees.  The neighborhood is abuzz with lawn tractors sweeping up the gold, orange and red here in Upstate N.Y.

Autumn looks and smells the same here as it did when I was a kid in Connecticut.  We just get it a week earlier here.

My father took care of the leaf raking on autumn weekends on Columbus Street.  I would help him when I was a little girl.  I don’t think I was much help.  Raking was rough on the shoulders and the hands.  But, I was an expert at burrowing deeply into a pile of leaves and pretending to be missing.

My father would turn for a minute to nibble at some cheese and crackers my mother had supplied him with.  He might crack open a beer.  He’d turn around to find me gone.

“Oh, my goodness.  I wonder where Little Girl has gone.  Could she be in the house?  Maybe she’s in the garage.  Maybe fairies have stolen her.” my Daddy would say to the pile of leaves.

He sounded a little worried.  So, I’d pop out of the pile and say “I’m right here, Daddy.  Don’t be scared.  Fairies aren’t even real you know.”

He’d give me a big dramatic sigh of relief and we’d have a  laugh.  I messed up his piles.  I wasn’t allowed to help with the burn barrel.  He kept me around for company I think.

“I’m too little to rake much, Daddy.  Why can’t I help by poking the burn barrel with a stick.  I think I’d be really good at that.” I would beg.

“No.  I promised your mother you wouldn’t go near the fire.  If you go near the fire I’ll have to send you in.” he’d reply.

“Why does Mom have rules against anything that is fun?” I’d ask.

He was a smart man.  He didn’t reply.  He’d just laugh and mess up my hair.

Autumn on Columbus Street also meant apples.  Oh, we had our own apple tree.  Those were mostly for throwing.  They were lopsided and the worms usually got to them first.

The apples came from a neighbor.  The grandparents had a farm with an orchard.  The whole neighborhood put in their orders for bushels of apples.  The call would go out that the apples had arrived.  The big baskets with handles lined the walls of their garage.

I’d be sent over with money in an envelope.  My mother would tell me not to drop any apples on the way home.  I’d grab a bag and head out the door.

“What’s the bag for, Little Girl?” my father would ask.

“They fill those bushels to overflowing, Daddy.  I’ll put the ones on top into the bag so I don’t lose any in the street.” I would reply.

“Are you sure you don’t want to be an engi……….”my father would almost get out.  I’d interrupt.  “No, Daddy.  Yet again.  I don’t want to be an engineer when I grow up.”

He’d go to open his mouth once more.  “Yes, I know.  I think like one.  I am going to be a writer and a Domestic Goddess.” That answer left his mouth hanging open.

Daddy would put the apples in the cellar hatchway.  He grew up with a root cellar.  The stairs going from outside to the basement were as close as he could get.

“There’s going to be a freeze tonight, Little Girl.  Move my beer and the apples into the cellar.” he’d say by the middle of October.

My mother and I would turn those apples into pies.  And turnovers.  Applesauce to go with pork chops.  They would also find their way into our school lunches.  I’ve never tasted better apples.  The Golden Delicious?  Well, really, really delicious.

Autumn also meant Halloween.

I loved Halloween as a kid on Columbus Street.  We all did.  I spent weeks decorating my room with crayon drawings of fences and Jack-o-lanterns.  Witches and black cats.

Candy was paramount in anticipating this holiday.

My father did everything early.  He arrived a half an hour early for doctor appointments.  We got our pick of pews in church because we arrived with the altar boys.  He bought our Halloween candy early.

Then he would hide it.

The hiding wasn’t his idea.  My mother would eye the bags of Hershey Bars and Almond Joys and moan.  “Why, oh why can’t you buy candy that I don’t like so I won’t be tempted, Ralph!”

He’d remark that he had never come across any candy that she didn’t like.  She’d swat him with her dish towel and tell him to hide it.  “Hide it good.  And, not near the washer and dryer.  I practically live down there.” she’d whine.

About a week later my mother would groan that she had a headache.  The only thing that cured her headaches was a dose of chocolate.

“Don’t you give me that look!” she’d say to me.  “It really works.  Go find your father’s hiding spot.  Bring me two pieces.  And don’t you dare tell me where it’s hidden.” she’d say as she pressed a heating pad to her forehead.

My searches went from the attic crawl space to his basement work bench.  Shelves of paint in the garage might have bags of chocolates living amongst them.  It never took me more than five minutes.

“He hid it in the garage this year?” she’d say as she fed her mouth with chocolate.  She never even moved the heating pad.  “When he gets home from the store, tell him to move it.  Oh, thank God.  It’s working already.”

My father would arrive home from Stop and Shop.

“Do you have another load, Daddy?  Yes?  Well, move the candy while you’re out there.  Mom has a headache and I had to find your hiding spot.” I’d report.

He would roll his eyes at me.

“Daddy!  Don’t roll your eyes at me!  It was a medical emergency!  She has one of her headaches.” I’d retort with my hands on my hips.

He would go and find a new hiding spot.  Inside the cooler was a pretty good one.  That one took me ten minutes to find when her next headache hit.

My kids had plastic pails that looked like pumpkins when they went Trick-or-Treating.  I told them I used to use a pillow case when I was a child.

“Why?  Because there was no such thing as “Fun Sized” candy bars back when I was a kid.  We got the full sized variety when we went door to door.  And, hand made popcorn balls wrapped in waxed paper.  And, big shiny apples.  Sometimes we stopped at home to dump half way through the evening because the pillow case was getting so full.”

I know.  Hard to believe now.  But, you remember this too if you lived during the 60’s on Columbus Street.

I’d give the popcorn balls to friends who liked them.  I never could digest popcorn, even back then.  The apples went into a big bowl.  My mother would wait a few days and make them into a pie.  And, no.  She never found a razor blade.

One neighbor gave out pencils one year.  We forgave her.

Our cat Goldie had the run of our house, our yard and our neighborhood.  But, on Halloween she was locked up in the basement.  My mother had read somewhere about cats being tortured by occultists on All Hallows Eve.  Poor Goldie.  She mewed and screeched for hours on the top basement stair.

“Mom!  That cat is not fond of the basement.  How about I put her in my bedroom where she can be comfy on my bed?  I’ll shut the door so she doesn’t try to escape.” I’d plead.

I got permission to do this.  Goldie repaid my kindness by taking a poop in the middle of my pillow that Halloween.

Costumes were important to some kids.  They worked all month with their mothers at the sewing machine.  It wasn’t that important to me.  I had a Casper the Ghost costume that came in a box from King’s Department store.  I’m sure it wasn’t fire retardant back then but then I wasn’t prone to playing with fire.  The plastic masks were hot and the elastic bands were aggravating.  Those masks spent most of the night sitting on top of heads staring up at the stars.

My mother made me a witch costume that saw service for a few Halloweens.  I was about twelve when I shortened the skirt.  I put on a pair of fish net stockings and some black lipstick.  I believe I used a whole tube of mascara in one sitting.  I topped off the look with  black boots.

My mother took one look at me and pointed towards my bedroom.

“You are not leaving this house looking like a Witchy Whore.  Not, while I live and breathe.  Don’t make me get your father involved.  One look at you looking like this he may have a heart attack and die on Halloween.  Is that what you want?  To kill your poor innocent father dead on Halloween?  Put on a pair of pants and wipe that crap off of your face.  I’m going to count to ten.  MOVE!” she screeched.

I moved.

I  dressed up as Elvira when I was about thirty and married.  I sent my mother a photo just for fun.  She sent the photo back with an inscription on the back.  “You’re not my problem anymore.”  she wrote.

God!  That woman could make me laugh.

My mother counted her eggs on Halloween morning.  She checked the count again before my brother left the house as the evening turned to darkness.  I don’t know why.  I’m sure there was history behind that.  She would narrow her eyes at him and say “Don’t you boys go and buy eggs.  These streets have eyes.  You throw one egg at a house or a car?  I’ll know about it before you even get home.”

Like I said, my mother had rules that sometimes sucked all the fun out of a situation.

Sometimes you just had to stand back and watch eggs being thrown rather than throw them yourself.  Self preservation.  She was quite capable of taking your whole Halloween stash and throwing it into the garbage can.  She’d make you watch.

I didn’t throw eggs.

There was a house on the curve of Bolton Street.  That whole family got in on the act.  The windows flickered with orange lights.  You were invited in by a tall man dressed as Frankenstein.  A witch cackled from a chair.  She sat in front of a cauldron that must have had some dry ice inside.  Other family members were in costume and leaned in doorways.  The setting was scary.  But, the characters were friendly so as to not frighten the little ones.

We loved that place.  One year we just couldn’t wait.  We redid out route planning to get to that house first.  They weren’t ready yet.  A half dressed witch answered the door.

“Come back in an hour, sweeties.  Jesus!  I just got home from work.  We haven’t eaten dinner yet.  Have you noticed it’s not even dark yet? she said as she shut the door in our faces.

We didn’t bother going back.  That witch was just a crabby overworked Mom like all the others.  We had robbed ourselves of the magic by being the early birds.

September of this year was an extension of summer.  October has slowly come around to being autumn.  Halloween is just around the corner.  I sniff the leaves being burnt by my neighbors out here in the country.  Pumpkins are sitting on the front porches waiting to be carved.  Fall wreaths decorate doorways.

What I wouldn’t give to be searching high and low for my father’s hidden candy in a little house on Columbus Street right about now.

 

 

 

For Mrs. Halloran of Bolton Street

I’ve been writing in a blog for nine months now.  I started out in a flurry.  The stories of my childhood lined up in my head.  They came fast and furious.  Sometimes two a day.  Dirty laundry piled up.  Pizza was ordered as I ignored the pork chops and their expiration date in the refrigerator.

I posted my memories of Columbus Street on a Facebook page called Grew Up In Manchester.  I got a lot of feedback and almost all of it was positive.  It was nice to be told to “keep on writing” or “you have a gift” or  “your memories make me remember my own” over and over.

Childhood friends messaged me.  I got to see their dear faces in tiny little Facebook squares.  We caught up on years of news.  We consoled each other in the losses of our childhood homes and our parents.

There are many perks to writing and posting on the Manchester page.

There were times when I needed to take a break.  I would be shocked at the sight of my 58 year old face in the mirror after three days of remembering and writing about being a 13 year old brat.

I do laugh and I cry while writing these stories.  I am back in the Columbus Street kitchen sitting at a small maple table.  My mother and father are with me again.  I see the curtains at the window and my mother’s knick knacks on the window sill.  I can smell her beef stew simmering on the stove.

I hear their voices.

A story is finished.  I walk away for an hour.  I physically shake myself out of it.  I stretch towards the ceiling and I walk from room to room.  I come back to upstate NY.   I return to the computer and fix mistakes in my writing.

I hit the publish button once I’m satisfied. My forehead hits my folded arms in front of the computer.  I cry because I was just in the company of my parents.  But, now I have to live through them really, really being gone all over again.

Some days it takes a lot out of me.

But, I’m in the writing mode.  I veer off into fiction about an elf that my family has loved for years and years.  I escape my renewed grief by visiting the North Pole for a while.  Because, a writer has to write.

Sometimes I feel that I’m on empty.  I have nothing left to say.  I’m all done.  My memory has been squeezed dry.

I know that is not true.

A smell can get me going.  A song.  A piece of furniture in an antique store.  A doll for sale on Ebay.  The sound of a lawn mower starting up.  Memory is a precious thing.  But, sometimes a memory crashes in and I don’t have time for it.  I’m busy doing other things. I’m performing in a show and I have to leave in 45 minutes to get to the theater on time.  I may jot down that idea.

That story should have been written then.  Now, the notation does nothing for me.  The moment of memory meeting my story telling abilities has gone.  It may come back.  It may not.  It may be lost.  I feel it’s loss.

The story telling began as a way to preserve my childhood.  A way to acknowledge the people that my parents were.  But, it veers off into other directions quite often.

Sometimes a story is a gift.  I will actually get a message on Facebook …………….could you tell a story about my mother?  Could you tell a story about my grandmother…………..and I usually do.

This person tells me how much they miss their mother or grandmother.  The hardest part of missing them for so long……………their memories are drying up.  They’re not remembering anything new.  Their lost loved one is getting further away.  Could I do them the huge favor of giving them one of my memories.  Would I write a story.  They will print it out and cherish it forever.

I never let them wait for it.  My fingers fly over the keyboard and I write a story with their loved one smack in the middle of it.

Or, I see a childhood friend on Facebook.  We’ve newly connected through their reading my stories.  I notice photos of them celebrating a birthday with their elderly mother.  I see photos of them cleaning out their childhood home for sale.

I’ve been there.  I’ve done that.  My heart goes out to them.  I know what they’re feeling right now.

I remember all the days I was welcomed into their home.  Their parents were wonderfully warm people.  I’m sad that their childhood home is being sold.

Mrs. Halloran was wonderful to me.  She taught me how to thread a needle and sew a seam when I was a little girl.  She helped me make clothing for my Barbie doll.  She taught me how to make a tuna fish sandwich.  You don’t just dump the fish and add the mayonnaise!  You use your fingers to break up all the little clumps of tuna.  That way you bring all the flavor out.

She lent me a long dress for a special event when I didn’t have one.  She took me into her bedroom and pulled dresses out of her closet.  She held them up against me and picked out the color that would match my eyes.  She got on her knees and rummaged around and found silver sandals to match.

Years and years went by.  I visited my parents on Columbus Street and it was Halloween.  My little girl was three years old and my mother and I dressed her as a little witch.  A pointy hat and a cape.  Grammy Ellie painted her little face up with bright red cheeks.  I took my little girl around my childhood neighborhood for trick or treating.

I got to Mrs. Halloran’s house and she opened the front door.  She had a bowl of candy in her hand.  She took one look at me and recognized me immediately. It had been many years since we’d seen each other last.

“Oh, my goodness!  Darlene!  And, this little witch must be your Chrissy!  She’s the spitting image of you when you were a girl!  Get in here right now!” she said as she pulled us into her living room for a visit.

Mrs. Halloran made a big fuss over my little girl.  She threw treat after treat into her plastic jack-o-lantern.  She grabbed my little girl’s face and kissed her fat cheeks.  Chrissy didn’t seem to mind because she knew this stranger loved her.

“Did you make her witch costume?  It’s wonderful!” asked Mrs. Halloran.

“My mother and I did.  I didn’t expect to be here for trick or treating.  But, my husband is stuck at work.  We live out in the country where there is no trick or treating.  So, I decided at the last minute to spend the night on Columbus Street.  My mother dragged out my old witch hat from the basement.  Took out her sewing machine and an hour later Chrissy had a Halloween costume.” I explained as Mrs. Halloran had Chrissy twirling in front of her.

Mrs. Halloran sighed with happiness as she gazed at the two of us.

“Do you remember?  No, you wouldn’t remember…………do you remember the night we went into my bedroom and I dressed you all up for some event?  You wore my long green dress and my silver sandals.  You looked like a princess.” Mrs. Halloran said quietly.

“Oh, yes.  I remember.” I replied.

 

 

 

 

We’ve Got This, Ladies

I was a shy little girl.

I know what the people that know me now are thinking.  “I don’t believe it!  No, way!” But, yet it is true.  I wasn’t shy because I thought I was unworthy of the attention of those around me.  I wasn’t slow.  I was listening.  I was learning.

I was a shy little girl that was soaking it all in.  I noticed what I liked about certain people.  I made up my mind what I didn’t like.  I learned to listen to my gut feelings.  I disliked small talk that ran other people down.  I liked people that could laugh at themselves.  I paid attention.

I came from a family with a strong mother figure.  She noticed me noticing.  She’d discuss things with me even when I had to sit on a big fat phone book to reach the table.  She was a self educated woman and she was astute at people reading.

When she said “I can read you like a book!” she meant it.  I wasn’t the only one she was reading.

My father was an educated man.  He had a deep respect for women.  I can still spot a man that grew up with a strong mother and was surrounded by sisters.  They get women.  They want to be around them.  They listen and they learn.  I had such a father.

I was never a Donald Trump fan.  I never watched his Apprentice show.  I thought he was an ass years ago.  I haven’t changed my mind.

I haven’t had much to say about his running for President.  I still have a little of that shy little girl that is hanging back and watching in me.  I truly think that the main populace of this country see him for what he is.  He will be told to go back to his tower on election day.

But, “locker room talk”?  Really.  Oh, give me a break Orange Man.

If my husband put up with locker room talk…………..well, he’d never have been my husband.  I’m sure this stuff makes my son in law sick to his stomach.  My own son?  If he ever, ever talked about a woman like that …………he would find his clothing on the front lawn and the locks changed.

But, I don’t need to worry about that.  I was a shy little girl that learned to read people.  And, I am surrounded by the best.  Especially, my men.

I know there are men out there that creep me out.  They stand too close during a conversation.  I’m all grown up now.  “Back up, buddy.  You’re invading my space and I think you know it.”I say.

“Oh, you don’t really want to put your hand on my shoulder, now do you?  Do you want to lose it?” is an example of me in a close situation.

I have never been easy to flirt with.

I was in a musical once.  The entrance to stage right was a steep long staircase.  A large group of actors stood in the dark waiting for the overture to reach a certain point.

I felt a hand go up my dress.

I turned around in the pitch black and grabbed a throat.  I banged a head against the cement block wall.  I hissed loudly.

“If anyone has a flashlight…………put it on now.” I said in a loud whisper.

A flashlight came on and illuminated a mans face in my hands.

“If you ever, ever come near me again I will hurt you.  I have a thirteen year old daughter in this show.  If you come within ten feet of her I will kill you.  I’m not screwing around here.  I will see you dead.  Do you understand me?” I asked in a low whisper with his face lit up by a mini spot light.

“And, I’ll hide the body!” said another female from within the darkened staircase.

“I’ll fight you for the shovel.” said another high pitched voice.

So, on election day?  We’ve had a life time of “locker room” talk, Mr. Trump.  And, we’re not putting up with it.

You are going to hear the women roar!  And,  we won’t be chanting your name.

We’ve got this, ladies.

 

 

 

 

My Review on Reviewers

Reviewer: A person who writes critical appraisals of books, plays, movies, etc. for publication.

This is a review on reviewers I suppose.  Back in the day a bad review in a New York publication could close a play or musical over night.  Those days of a reviewer’s power are over I think.

Yeah.  That’s your opinion, Mr. Reviewer people say.  I’ll decide for myself is what folks think now.  A person sitting in a plush velvet seat now has the power to Tweet and Facebook.  They’re taking selfies as the actor is pouring his heart out in the big 11th hour number.

“It was wonderful!  Or, not worth the money!  Get yourself a ticket before it closes!  Or,  wait for the video!” are all over the internet before the bus pulls away from the curb for the trip home.

Our local paper had a dear man do reviews of local theater for many years.  I read his reviews.  I saw the shows.  Time after time my opinion lined up with his.  It took two of us to complete this equation.  We were like minded.  So, I read his opinions and I paid attention.

He wrote in old lady prose.  I can imagine that he also covered Ladies Garden Luncheons back in the day.  I wouldn’t be too far off thinking he ended a lot of those articles with “A good time was had by all.”

I’m an old fashioned ladies who lunch kind of gal I guess.  I enjoyed his reviews.  I believed him.

Now, I think the local publications hire any one to review a show, a movie or the opening of an art gallery.

“Hey, Joe!” yells the editor from his office.  It doesn’t pay to get caught at the water cooler too many times in an hour.  “Get in here.  Don’t bother closing the door.”

“Yeah, boss………….you needed something? ” says the thirsty writer.

“You’ve been to the theater once, haven’t you?  Your wife drags you a couple times a year?  Yes?  Well, I need someone to review the local theater’s new musical.  Just give me a couple hundred words so I can print it and pretend I give a crap about art in the area.  Don’t you roll your eyes at me.  Just get yourself over to that theater and write something.  Try to keep your smart ass personality out if it.  Can you do that?” asks the editor as he slams the office door shut with his big foot.

Yup.  That’s how I think it happens.  Over and over.

An imagined conversation with that reviewer.

Hey! Mr. Reviewer.  Start by giving me your credentials.  Oh! You were an English Major in college?  Yeah, so what.  So, was I.  You read a lot of books and were forced into identifying the symbolism.  Sometimes symbolism that wasn’t there.  Sometimes a green curtain blowing in the breeze of an open window is just that.  A green curtain in a window.

What do you know about musical theater?  Nothing?  Yeah, that was my guess.

What?  You hate musical theater?

“Just as they were getting somewhere they stopped and sang another freaking song!  Then some girl in a pink tutu and a white curtain on her head did a little dance behind a screen and I was completely lost.  But, I can’t admit I was completely lost.  So, I wrote in the review that I found the choreography to be totally inane and inappropriate.  I used the word inappropriate because my editor loves it when I use words with more than two syllables.  I mean if he reads this stuff before he prints it.  I have my doubts about that.”  says an honest reviewer over a drink.

This is my high opinion of reviewers lately.

There should be rules.  If you’re going to mention one name in a production team you must mention all the names.  But, that’s too much work.  And, besides he lost his program in the parking lot!

“I’m faking it here people!” an honest reviewer would say.

I could be an honest reviewer.  My review would have a paragraph at the top of every new column.

It would say:

“I’m not an expert on anything.  I know a little about a lot of things.  I don’t know a lot about anything.  But, I do know what I like.  I know what I love.  I know when a voice touches my soul.  I know when a story stays with me forever.  And, I’m here to tell you all about it.  If you agree with me I would love to hear from you.  If you think I’m wrong,  please, just shut up.”

Would you like to hear from an honest reviewer like that?  Yes, me too.

Darlene’s Review of Romeo and Juliet: Shakespeare in the Park:

I brought my folding chair to the park.  I got there early.  I grabbed some great grass right in front of the stage.  Then the sound system started screeching and hissing.  I moved further back.  I don’t understand one word of Shakespeare so I figured there wouldn’t be any loss there.

I brought one of those sand chairs.  You know low to the ground so people behind me could see.  I forget that I’m pushing 60 years old and my ass is wide.  I begged a man sitting near me to haul me out of that chair about half way through Act 1.

I was so bored I wanted to get over to the cart that was selling Ben and Jerry’s ice cream bars before they ran out.  I figured a good ice cream on a stick just might save my evening.  The mosquitoes were ferocious.  No one was controlling their kids.  The park ducks were attacking people with picnics.

It was a very entertaining evening if you were there to people watch.  I still don’t know what Romeo and Juliet were whining about.  Anyone that says they enjoyed that show is just a big fat liar.

The ice cream was good.

The End.

See!  There is a short,  concise review written by me about Shakespeare in the Park.

Darlene’s Review of New York City Ballet at SPAC

My husband knows someone.  They usher at SPAC.  He came home with free tickets to the ballet and told me I had twenty minutes before we had to leave.

He said they were lawn seats.  I pretended that this was a great idea.  I grabbed a blanket and some bug spray and a few sweat shirts.  I hate it when he is spontaneous.

I know those dancers have trained their whole lives.  I’ve seen photos online of what their feet look like.  Those people have starved and tortured themselves so I can sit on this blanket and be in awe of their talent.

They are kind of far away and the mosquitoes are pretty bad.  I know they’re telling a story through dance but I am completely lost.  There is big man in front of me eating Cheetos and drinking really cheap boxed wine.  I don’t think that’s going to end well.  A baby has been screeching behind me for a half an hour.  I’m tempted to rock the little thing to sleep myself.

I put on a hoodie sweatshirt.  I pulled the hood up over my head and tied it really tight.  I shut my eyes against the sight of the cheeto eating wine drinking guy in front of me.  I can’t handle the view of his butt crack anymore.  Over the whine of mosquitoes I think that the orchestra that travels with the New York City Ballet is pretty superb.

I turn to say that to my husband.  He is laid out on the blanket.  His snores keep time to the music.

That’s an honest appraisal of my night at the ballet.  I think next time we’ll spring for actual seats near the stage.  I hear these dancers are pretty spectacular.

The End.

Darlene’s Review of Shrek at HMT: An Insider’s View

The audition announcement hit the internet.  Dawn Oesch would be directing. THE Dawn Oesch!  And, she put together a dream team on the production side.  I’m not good enough to get a part in this show.  Yes, I am.  No, I’m not.

Oh, hell.  I have to try.

Auditions ran like clock work.  People were treated with dignity and respect.  Callbacks were open.  It was like a talent show.  I was in awe of the singers and dancers around me.

I’ll never get a part.

I did.

A schedule arrived.  The theater stuck to it.  My time wasn’t wasted.  That’s weird but appreciated.

Now, picture a montage spanning six weeks of rehearsals.  It’s colorful and set to the catchy tunes of Shrek the Musical.  It’s fast.  Dancers tap across the stage.  Costumes are sewn in front of your own eyes by Sherry.  The musical director Carol never leaves the piano because she’s drilling harmonies into somebody.  Dawn the director roars with laughter and says “Keep it in!  I love it!”  The choreographer Melissa  whispers into an ear “I know you can do it.  It’s early days.  I just know you can do it!”

Opening night arrives and I’m so well rehearsed I don’t even bother getting nervous.

That hardly ever happens.

The opening night audience is pumped.  They are the people that love musical theater.  The people that love Shrek.  They have been waiting.  They’ve been crossing the days off on  their calendar.

They roar with laughter.  They interrupt dances and songs with applause.  The performers just smile bigger and keep going.  Every number is met with a wave of cheers and thunderous applause.

It’s warm work being a bear.  I’m hot wearing a fur Mama Bear hood.  I breathe through my mouth more than normal to make up for wearing a bear mask on my face.  I realize that much of the heat is coming at me not from the lighting…………..but from an audience on fire with appreciation.

That hardly ever happens.

Standing ovations have gone out of style.  A generation of hard to please people tried to make it a thing of the past.

But, with Shrek the Musical at HMT?  They just couldn’t help themselves.  They jumped to their feet.  A large crowd did it as one.  I’m glad that they did.  It proved that they were as big a part of the show as we on stage were.

It was a glorious moment of completion.

It’s the only review I need.

That hardly ever happens.

 

 

 

 

 

Apple Pies on Columbus Street

I’m baking an apple pie right now.  The aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg mixed with apples fills the house.  They say that smell is connected to memory.  I believe it.

The smell of a baking apple pie brings me back to a small kitchen on Columbus Street in Manchester, Ct.  I’m in the kitchen helping my mother peel apples.  She made me peel them because the peeler only liked me.

I know that sounds crazy.  But, it’s true.  She could scrape at an apple with that thing.  Nothing would happen.  I’d grab it and the peels would come off the apple in a perfect foot long curl.  It must have been the curve of my wrist that did the trick.

My mother was a housewife.  No, that is not a dirty word.  My father worked and brought home the paycheck.  My mother did everything else.  She was a decent enough cook.  She kept it simple.  Her best dishes were Irish in origins.  The cheaper the cut of meat?  The more tender and delicious was her meal.

She was not a natural baker.  That’s where I stepped in.  I can feel a dough for cookies or pies between my fingers.  I know instinctively that the bowl is calling out for a little more shortening or sugar.  I pay attention to the size of the eggs.  I don’t bake with an egg straight out of the refrigerator.

Cold shortening.  Room temperature eggs.

“How do you know this stuff?” my mother would ask me when I was ten years old.

“I don’t know.  I just do.” I’d reply.  Then she would cite relatives I must take after.

According to her baking was in my blood.  And, it came from the Anderson side of the family.

She was probably right.  I remember sitting around a makeshift Christmas table in the living room of Columbus Street.  There were relatives sitting around three tables in the small downstairs of that house.  Calling out to each other from room to room.

An uncle from my mother’s side of the family asked my Anderson grandmother how many different pies she knew how to bake.  The poor man was trying to make conversation with a woman that had no knack for small talk.

My grandmother grew up on a potato farm.  She was feeding a crew of potato harvesters when she was ten years old.  She gave him a strange look.  The look sort of said “That is the stupidest question any one has ever asked me.”

She didn’t even try to keep the contempt out of her voice when she answered.

“Two.  With tops and without.” she replied.

My mother owned a set of Wearever pots and pans that she was proud of.  She worked for Pratt and Whitney when she was a newlywed.  Back then salesmen went from door to door selling all kinds of different things.  The mail order catalogs took a back seat to a face to a face exchange.  She bought a satin bedspread that way.  Lamps.  End tables.  And, the aforementioned pots and pans.

Those pots and pans were bought with her first ever paycheck as an adult newlywed bride.

Her mother and father in law lived with my parents for a few years back then.  They transplanted themselves from Maine at age fifty to Connecticut because Pratt and Whitney was hiring after WWII.  The four adults in the house worked three different shifts at the jet engine factory.

My grandmother would watch the baby while every one else worked.  My mother would get tears in her eyes when she’d describe coming home from work to find the baby banging on her brand new pots and pans with a metal spoon.

She’d run her fingers over the dings in now thirty year old pots and pans and have a little weep.

“Mom?  You have to get over it.” I would say.

“Never!” she would reply.

I still own the 16″ x 12″ inch square pan from that set.  It was her favorite.  It went from Columbus Street to her summer house in Vermont every year.  She packed it along with her clothing.

She baked cakes in it.  She baked brownies in it.  She baked Shepherd’s Pie in it.

That is the pan we would fill with apple pie when I was a girl.

She would struggle with the pie dough to fill that enormous square pan.  I would take over when I was ten.  I’d feel the dough and add more shortening and water cooled down with ice cubes.  I’d roll it out on our floured little kitchen table.

I’d leave to do my paper route just as the aroma of apples would start to fill the house.

I’d return to find a 16″ x 12″ Wearever pan sitting on the stove.  Perfectly browned crust lined the edges.  The middle was totally gone.  It now lined my older brother’s stomach.  He didn’t eat crust.

I’d wail at the top of my lungs.

“Ma!  He ate the whole pie!  He didn’t even leave one piece.  Your son is a freaking pig!”I wailed from the kitchen as I threw my canvas paper bag across the room.

The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg and apples hung heavily in the air.  But, you can’t chew on that.

“You watch your language, young missy!” came at me from the living room where my mother was reading her newspaper.

I stood in the hall archway facing her reading chair.  I put my hands on my hips and glared at her.

“He’s a growing boy.  He just ate and ate and ate!  What was I supposed to do?  Grab the fork out of his hand?  Oh, get that look off of your face.  You ate enough apples when you were peeling them.” she whimpered out.

“Not the same Ma!  Now, is it?” I exclaimed.

I went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled up to the bedrooms.

“You are a pig!  You know that, right?  A freaking hog!” I screamed in the direction of my brother’s bedroom.

I got nothing back but a devious laugh and a big fat burp.

“Eat your meatloaf and be happy.” my mother said from behind her Hartford Courant.

“This house smells like apple pie not meatloaf.” I replied.

Her paper came down.  She peered at me over the edge of the newsprint.

“And, your point is?” she wondered.

“Daddy’s going to be home from work at 11:35 pm.  Brother dear and I will be in bed asleep dreaming about sugar plums and school.  You’ll have to tell Daddy why he smells apple pie but he doesn’t even get one piece.  I mean he paid for the apples.  He paid for the sugar.  He paid for the flour and shortening.  But, no!  Hog boy couldn’t even leave one piece for his father.  Good luck explaining that one.” I said as I went looking for meat loaf.

Apple pie was my father’s most favorite thing in this whole wide world.

The next thing I knew my mother had all the windows and doors open.  She stood at the back door waving the air back and forth with a large dish towel.  I ate luke warm meat loaf and cold green beans while I watched the show.

“Ma?  Give it up.  The smell of apple pie is in the walls.  It’s in the curtains.  It’s in his pillow.  Sniff!  Sniff!  Oh, Ellie, why oh why does my pillow smell like apple pie and I don’t even get one bite?” I imitated my father badly.

“Oh, Lord!  I do spoil your brother, don’t I?  I think it’s because he gets pneumonia every Christmas!” she said as she slammed the kitchen door shut against the cold fall evening.

My brother had pneumonia at Christmas.  Once.

She glanced at the clock.  She had four hours until Daddy came home and started sniffing.

She looked me deeply in the eyes and smiled as I shoved a green bean in my mouth using my fingers.

Oh, no.

She turned and dialed the oven to bake.  She looked over her shoulder and asked me “425 degrees?”

“Sure, if you want to burn it.” I replied getting the message that I chose to ignore by pretending ignorance.

“Boy, I’m tired.” I said.  “School all day.  Baking a pie that I only get to sniff.  Paper route in the dark and cold.  Got lots and lots of homework tonight!” I exclaimed as I threw a potato skin from my shriveled baked potato into the trash.

“Sit.” my mother barked.

I sat.

“A small one.  A round one.  Not a big square one.  I’ll peel the apples with a knife because the peeler only works for you.  You make the crust.  One hour.  That’s all I ask.  I can help you with your homework if it’s math.  I have to have a pie when he walks through that door.  You know I can’t do it by myself.  It will come out like a soggy half baked rock.  He’ll smell the good pie and then I’ll put a horrible pie that I baked in front of him. ” my mother spoke very quickly.

I pretended to be unmoved.  Even at a young age I knew how to screw with her.

I let her squirm.  I never asked to be the favorite.  But, she let her son eat a whole 16×12 inch pie.  It just wasn’t right.

“What’s for dinner tomorrow night?” I asked.

“Corn Chowder.” she said.

“Nope.” I countered.

“Fish sticks.” she threw back at me.

“Dear, God. No!” I whispered as I stood to go to my room to start my homework.

“Beef Stew!  With lots of gravy!  And the potatoes cut really small.  And the carrots sliced thin.  And, that Italian Bread you like.  With lots of butter!” my mother threw her closing offer at me.

“Well, now you’re talking.” I said as I took down the flour and shortening.  I cracked the metal tray of ice cubes and floated some in a cup of water for the pie dough. I turned down the oven.  No matter how many times I told her…………..she forgot that her oven ran about 30 degrees too hot.

I made a round apple pie.  Not a big square one.  My mother took a hot pad and parked the perfectly golden pie on top of her dresser in her bedroom.  She closed the bedroom door behind her with a smile.  She filled the sink with soapy water and cleaned up my baking mess while I did my math homework at the kitchen table.

It’s almost fifty years later.  I have the smell of apple pie lingering in my house.  I take out my mother’s square Wearever pan from my own pantry to measure it for accuracy for this story I’m writing.

I have the memory of making pies with my mother.  I smell the apples.  The cinnamon.  The nutmeg.  Tears fill my eyes.

Apple pie? I can take it or leave it.  I preferred my mother’s beef stew even then.

I’ll never stop missing her.

Quirky

I like quirky.  I even like the word.  I like quirky stories and movies.  I like people with a little quirk in them.  I find too much of it to be tiresome though.  A little is enticing.

A one sided phone conversation can get my quirk meter going.  I’m listening to one end of someone’s phone call and I’m jumping around the room like I’m on fire.

The person in the room with me is on the phone.  They’re pacing and brightly saying things like “She didn’t.  She never.  Are you kidding me?  That never happened.  And, then what?  She didn’t.  Did the police come?  What did you say? You didn’t!  Did she listen?  No, I knew she wouldn’t.  Did she throw it hard? Oh, my God!”

I’m jumping around and trying to grab the phone out of that person’s hand.  I can’t handle it.  I need to know now.  They brush me away and turn their back on me.  They let me suffer.

I like quirky phone conversations.  As long as the phone is in my hand and up against my ear.

My mother in law and I are friends.  We’re email buddies.  We keep in touch by computer quite a bit.  But, lately we’re finding it easier to just pick up a phone.

She must like quirk too.  She seems to like talking to me.

Our conversations can go on for an hour or so.  My husband stands next to me and whispers “Who is that?”.  I whisper back “Your mother.”  He knows he’s lost me for the evening.  He gives me a kiss on the forehead and heads off to bed.

We catch up on family news first.  How is every one doing?  What are they doing?  And, then we jet around to a myriad of different topics.  I even wonder how certain topics initially came up when thinking about our conversation afterwards.

I think she had just finished telling me about the new flooring being put into her house.  Lots of tile and wooden floors in the bedrooms.

“Oh, you’ll have to get a small leaf blower for the floors.” I said.

“What?” she asked.

“A small leaf blower.  Not one of those monsters you have to wheel around.  Just a small one on a strap.  I bet you can get them at Sears.” I answered.

The phone went dead quiet.  I tend to lose her if another call beeps in.  But, no.  She was still there.

“Darlene.  We were talking about the new floors and then you went off onto the subject of leaf blowers.  Did I miss something?”  she queried.  I pictured her sitting on her bed banging the receiver with the heel of her hand.  Trying to smack some sense into the silly telephone.

“I know we were talking about tile and hardwood floors.  My best friend has a house with big rooms.  They’re all hardwood floors with  8×10 accent rugs in the middle of the rooms.  She has two dogs and a long haired cat.  Every Saturday she brings in her leaf blower and blows all the dust bunnies and fur onto the rug.  Then she vacuums it.  I suppose she must dust afterwards.” I explained.

I mean we all can agree to disagree about paper towels and toilet paper.  Do you have the paper coming from the top of the roll or underneath?  So, now you need to decide.  Do you dust before or after you clean your floors with a leaf blower?

I think I put all of the above into the conversation.

She went quiet again.

“Your friend…………..uses a leaf blower…………instead of a dust mop.  She fires that thing up in the house and …………cut it out.  You’re making it up.” she said.

I laughed.

“Oh, no.  I’m not making it up.  It’s for real.  I mean I’ve never seen her do it.  But, she told me about it.  My first reaction was like yours.  But, I’ve seen her house.  Corners are clean.  I think it’s kind of brilliant, actually.” I replied.

“She must dust after.  Right?  I mean that thing must blow dog hair and dust all over the tables and things.” she wondered.

“I don’t know.  I’ll have to ask her.  Now, I know what to get you for Christmas.  A super duper little leaf blower.  I’ll have your name stenciled on it.” I replied.

“Oh, goodie.  Something to look forward to.” she said quietly.

She thought it was time to change the subject.

“So, how is the show going? Are you having fun?  Have you gotten your Mama Bear costume yet?  Does it fit nicely?  I know you hate it when you have to wear a costume that is too tight for you.” she fired at me.  I suppose she thought if she asked enough questions we could get off of the subject of what she did not want for Christmas.

I am after all the daughter in law that decorated her last Christmas present with a new vegetable peeler.  It was as pretty as a bow.  And, hey!  She needed one.

“I haven’t been fitted yet.  But, I’m sure the costumer will do a great job.  I trust her.  She’s always come through for me before.  And, she always thanks me for being nice to her.  Can you imagine?  She says thanks for being so nice.  I’m thinking people can get pretty ratty when someone else is dressing them.  But, then, I’m not a fashionista.  I’ve gotten to an age I hardly look in the mirror in the dressing room.  As long as I have my bear nose on straight……………I’m all good. ” I replied.

“You have to wear a bear nose?” she asked quietly.

“Well, of course I do.  There are actors out there wearing piggie noses.  Beaks.  Rabbit noses. Rats.  Mice……………you name it.  Hmmm…………I wonder what the Big Bad Wolf wears ; I mean besides ladies lingerie.  Anyways, I haven’t seen most of them yet. ” I explained.

She went a little quiet again.  I always give her a few seconds for the picture I paint with words to come to life in her head.  She was probably wondering about a bunch of adults that audition and fight for parts where they have to sing wearing rubber noses. She was also probably imagining a big hairy wolf wearing a red satin nightie.

“And, hey! As an extra added perk……….I don’t have to wear spanx in this show.  I’m actually going to be wearing a fat suit under my costume.  Warm but comfortable.” I assured her.

This conversation was going off in angles she hadn’t expected I suppose.

“So,  this costumer is a nice lady.” she said.  My conversations about theater can be pretty strange to someone that’s never been on stage.  It was nice that she wanted to keep it going.

“Oh, yes.  She has to dress 25 people.  And, some of us have lots of costume changes.  She comes through the door carrying big bags.  She fits and takes things home to work on.  She’s got some kind of system.  She has pins in her mouth but she can talk around them.  And, on nights that she has the kangaroo………..well, there is always someone willing to hold the kangaroo while she works.  I mean.  Can you imagine if that poor kangaroo got a pin stuck into it by mistake? ” I said as I stretched my back.  It had been a long phone call.

“Stop it.” she said.

“Stop what?” I asked.

“You’re making this up.” she said firmly.

“Making what up?” I questioned her.

“Your costumer……………walks through the theater door…………..carrying lots of bags of costumes.  And, a kangaroo?” she laughed a little through her nose.

“Oh, no.  She doesn’t carry the kangaroo.  He’s in a pouch hanging around her neck.  Sort of like a fabric baby carrier.” I explained in all earnestness.

First the leaf blower.  And, now this.

“You’re not making this up…………..?” she whispered.

“No.  It’s for real Mom.   We’re so used to it we don’t think of it as weird.  It’s just “Oh here comes the costumer and she has a kangaroo tonight.”  She takes turns watching baby roos for a wildlife preserve.  I guess the mothers refuse to care for them.  Must happen quite often.  She had one this summer at a pool party.  I hear that one almost hurdled a chain link fence.  But, someone grabbed it before it got away.” I said as I walked to stretch my legs.

“I wonder if it went for a swim…………….do kangaroos like water?” I pondered out loud.

The phone went quiet again.

She cleared her throat and then had a good laugh.

“You should put this stuff in the stories that you write.” she suggested.

“Oh, I don’t know.  Those nearest and dearest don’t always appreciate finding themselves in my stories.  Even people I haven’t seen in forty years?  They tend to hunt me down on Facebook if they think they’re in one of my stories.” I replied.

“But, you usually change the names and you never really say anything bad about anyone.” she suggested.

“Hmmmmm……………if a woman cleaning her house with a leaf blower gets into one of my stories…………don’t you think that friend will recognize herself?  If she doesn’t like it?  I can say, Oh!  that wasn’t about you!  It’s about another friend who fires up a lawn tool in the living room and gets all the neighborhood dogs barking.” I ran on at the mouth.

“And, the costumer with the kangaroo?  I can tell her that I can see how she was mistaken about being in one of my stories.  I know all kinds of costumers that do foster care for kangaroos.”I said with a laugh.

“You can’t let that stop you from writing.” my wise mother in law said.  “Are you only supposed to write about people that are dead and gone?”

“I’ll think about it.” I answered her.

“So, Christmas.  I can tell you don’t want a leaf blower.  How about a Kangaroo?” I kidded her.

The phone went quiet again.