An unexpected journey

I didn't spend the day the way I expected to today. I was off because it was Election Day, even though there were no major races this year. My plan was to spend the day at home, cleaning out a closet or two and hopefully, getting rid of a bunch of junk. Sometimes I watch "Hoarders" to inspire myself. But after going on the computer and checking my email, which included a special offer to try a gym and noting it was at the same intersection as the Brooklyn Trader Joe's, my mind started on a hitherto unexpected path. I saw on the map included that it was two miles from my home. "Why travel two miles to pay money to get some exercise, when I could just walk there for free?" Then shop at Trader Joe's!

Embarking on a two mile walk is not something I undertake lightly. The last time I walked from home to Atlantic Avenue was during the transit strike in 2005 and it was VERY cold that day. I saw on the Weather Bug on my computer that it was 69 degrees. In November! I could not waste a day like that digging through the effluvia in my closet.

So I don a light jacket and my most comfortable walking shoes and set out on my odyssey. Walking has become something of a lost art for me and I blame the MTA for those unlimited ride Metrocards. Once it would be normal to walk ten blocks or so to a destination, but in the interests of getting the most for my money I've gotten into the habit of jumping on a subway or bus for even the shortest trips. I also had a knee that would get strained on long walks, but I hadn't pushed it for a while.

It was a perfect day for being outdoors: not too hot, not too cold, bright and sunny. I started up Fourth Avenue and noted recently built apartment buildings. When I first came here there was virtually nothing above three stories in the vicinity, but now - eight, ten stories high! And many of the stores had been transformed -- old-fashioned bodegas and diners were now trendier, yuppier types of shops.

Over a mile and no pain in my knee! Finally reach Atlantic Avenue and turn left for the second leg of my journey. It's an area I've never explored on foot, usually going past on the bus. A lot of shops with Islamic signage. One place I stop in is the Salvation Army. There used to be one of their stores in my neighborhood, but the building was torn down. It was always fun to pop in and explore and try to discover some fascinating treasure. And sometimes drop off some of my own unwanted other people's future treasures.

After my brief detour, I resumed my trek, passing the Brooklyn Detention Center along the way. Finally I spy that Health Club that sent that offer earlier in the day. And across the street - -- Trader Joe's. Forty-five minutes later, I depart, laden down with two bags of groceries, to wait for the bus for my return trip. No way was I going to repeat that journey on foot, in the dark, with all those groceries. But maybe I'll try talking more walks around Brooklyn in the future.

Trying to understand my parents' lives, part 1

Things happen when we're children that we don't understand until many years later and as grownups we know more and can put things into context. I seem to spend a lot of time trying to make sense of events from my childhood.

When I was four years old my mother spent a week in Lenox Hill Hospital undergoing a series of tests. I don't remember that at all, but after my father died, one of of the things I found was the hospital report. It described her symptoms and listed the tests and concluded with a diagnosis of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. ALS. Lou Gehrig's Disease. Basically, a death sentence. I can't know how much of this was explained to my parents. To the doctors they were a poor, uneducated immigrant couple and maybe weren't told everything this diagnosis entailed. Or maybe they were. As a child I was never told my mother was dying. I knew she was "sick". That she couldn't get around like other people. For the last nine years of her life she was completely housebound. But I kept hoping they would find a cure for whatever it was. As I got older, she became feebler. For a while she could get around with a walker. Then eventually she could only stand and maybe take a step or two while leaning on the walker. Then she couldn't manage that much. But the prospect of her imminent death was not something that was a serious possibility. Yes, she was getting weaker, but there was no reason she wouldn't live a normal lifetime. Things in our home were always tense. My mother was invariably miserable and my father overwhelmed with the care she required.

And in the midst of her chronic condition, my mother had to undergo an emergency hysterectomy. I was ten years old at that time and had no idea what a uterus was. I was told she had a tumor in her stomach, but they did use the word "hysterectomy". It wasn't till a few years later that I learned what it was all about. It may not have been until after she had died. She was rushed to the hospital because of bleeding from what turned out to be a benign fibroid tumor and it was several weeks before she came home. I was sent to stay with relatives. My mother never fully recovered her strength and her decline progressed much more rapidly. I had naively hoped that when she was in the hospital they would figure out what was wrong with her and maybe cure her.

After a few more years it got to the point where my father couldn't handle caring for her. Just lifting her out of bed several time a day was quite a strain as she was as tall as he was and outweighed him. We had to place her in a nursing home. A few weeks later she was hospitalized after having a stroke and pneumonia. While she was there the doctors said she probably didn't have ALS because she would have died sooner. They still had no idea what was wrong and mentioned the possibility her condition was psychosomatic. If they thought that, they made no efforts to try to treat her. She recovered enough to be sent back to the nursing home, where she finally died a few weeks later.

To lose your mother when you are fifteen is an overpowering blow. I spent years absorbing the loss, trying to cope with it and understand it. Then after dwelling on her illness and death for so long I started trying to understand her life. And I feel cheated that I never had the chance to talk with her as a grownup and ask her things. Like how she really came to marry my father and leave her family and her country and come to the US to be the wife of a man she had known when they were children. Did she regret it? I always understood that she loved him more than he loved her. If he did love her. He was not one to show affection to wife or daughter and that made me angry with him. Again, it was only many years later that considering his life caused me to give him a break. When he was three years old, his mother died. Not having the benefit of a mother's love and having a stern, critical father probably kept him from learning to love and be loved. His father took him back to Europe, where he remarried and started a new family. When my father was sixteen he was encouraged to go back to America. Was this a rejection by his father? Maybe not, but he might have perceived it as such. Maybe my grandfather thought his son would have a better life back in America.Maybe his new wife didn't like her stepson. In any case, my father came back to the US in 1929, just in time for the depression.

Filling in the gaps since summer 2010

I'm a bit abashed that I've let an entire year go by without posting here. Not that it's been an uneventful year. Last September I finally got my long awaited promotion to the lofty title of Senior Court Clerk and am working in my old office in the Jury Division at New York County Clerk. Very happy to say farewell to the Bronx. A few months later a bit of a scare when the massive budget cut to the Judiciary led to layoffs and rollbacks (the polite term for demotions). Was afraid I could be sent back to the Bronx, but I was spared that fate.

Another G&S Festival in Gettysburg this summer.  A lot of fun and hoping there will be another festival next year, but as it's been a big money loser, that's still in doubt.

Last week was one for the history books. First there was an earthquake that was felt in NYC. To me it just seemed like the rumble of the subway that runs underneath my building.

Hard to believe an earthquake in NYC would turn out NOT to be the big story of the week. But we didn't reckon with a hurricane called Irene talking a turn in our direction and the entire east coast felt her wrath (why wrath? what's she got to be so mad about anyway?). Even in Vermont, which has not normally been the go-to place for hurricanes suffered major flooding. Was lucky not to suffer major ill-effects here. After the "micro-burst" tornado that swept through here last year, blowing a trunk (yes, a TRUNK!) off my balcony, I had plenty of time to batten down the hatches.

Finally, the new season of the Gilbert & Sullivan Society will be starting soon and I will once more be president. This year the Society marks its 75th anniversary and appropriate celebrations must be planned. Let's hope we can do the occasion justice.

My lack of drive

Car driving. Never bothered learning how. I grew up in a working class neighborhood without a family car. None of my relatives had a car. Don't know if any of the neighbors in my apartment building had cars. None that I knew of. Living in Brooklyn we got around by subway and bus and on special occasions (coming home from foot surgery) took a taxi. There was no driver's education in my high school and in later years never had the motivation to take lessons. In my usual day-to-day dealings with other denizens of the Big Apple it doesn't usually cause much stir if I mention that I don't drive. In the course of my job I ask people to show me some form of ID and though the most frequent is a driver's license, state ID cards (non-driver IDs) are shown almost as often, as well as passports, resident alien cards and employee IDs. So in New York I'm not a weirdo.

But travel outside the five boroughs and I suddenly become a freak of nature. I recently attended a Gilbert & Sullivan Festival in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania and discovered it is not accessible by public transportation. There is no direct train service to this historic town. Closest rail stops are in Harrisburg or Baltimore. And there are no buses there to take you to Gettysburg; you have to arrange to be driven. This situation was discussed on Savoynet, the online G&S group and one of the writers, a driver from Connecticut referred to someone who had "admitted he/she does not drive". Of course she was referring to me. Very considerate of her to shield my identity with the ambiguous "he/she", unless she (there, at least I'm being specific!) isn't sure of my gender. Curious choice of verbs; why not "mentioned" or "stated" or even plain old "said"? "Admitted" gives the connotation of confessing to some shameful secret, like preferring Andrew Lloyd Webber to G&S.

So I was inspired to do a little survey. The population I queried was the Lefferts 1969 Clubhouse group on Facebook. Members are classmates and friends of classmates of mine who grew up in the same area in Brooklyn and attended the same schools I did. A rather small sample, only sixteen members, and only nine responded, so the results may be faulty. The questions I posed were:

1. Did your family have a car when you were a child?

2. When (if ever) did you learn to drive?

3. Do you currently live where driving is necessary to get around?

The results showed I'm still a bit of a weirdo after all. I'm the only one who never learned to drive. For #1 there were four whose families never had a car. For #2, three learned in their teens (from car owning families), five in their 20s, and one at over 30. But most of the responders said they live in places where they do need a car to get around. Two said a car was not necessary, but was helpful. Only one lives in New York City, and he/she (I can be coy, too!) lives in Staten Island, which to the other four boroughs, doesn't really count.

The most interesting comment was from Amy Friedman:

"Driving is an odd activity - both meditative and demanding tremendous concentration. Kinda like video games."

The Savoynet motorist recently mentioned driving six hours to attend a gathering in Baltimore. To me that seems incredible. To spend such a long time in a vehicle seems bad enough. At least on a train, one could read or nap. But to spend that time actively engaged in operating the vehicle seems a terrible waste of time and effort. I'll stick with the train. And if it's not going there, neither am I.

Visiting Gettysburg

Back from Gettysburg today. In better spirits than Robert E. Lee on departing. Why Gettysburg? The (first annual) Gilbert & Sullivan Festival in Gettysburg, of course. Interesting little town. Its entire raison d'etre seems to be to commemorate the site of the greatest battle of the Civil War. Every shop sells Civil War memorabilia, practically every building bears a plaque that says "Civil War House". Driving from the hotel to the downtown area one passes through vast fields that were where ferocious fighting took place almost a century and a half ago.

American history was not what drew me there, though. It was the celebration of British musical theatre of the late 19th century. General Lee might have enjoyed the performance of HMS Pinafore, but alas, it hadn't been written yet when he visited Gettysburg in 1863. It wouldn't be till 1871 that Gilbert & Sullivan first collaborated and 1875 when they really got down to business with Trial by Jury.

The Festival was a whirl of activity and the chance to meet old friends was priceless. The first performance we saw upon arrival was The Lamplighters (of San Francisco) doing a show called "The Story of Gilbert & Sullivan". A biographical framework with musical interludes, well sung and well staged. From this sample of their handiwork, I'd love to see a full production by The Lamplighters.

A wonderfully entertaining production of The Sorcerer by "Peggy Sue" (Philadelphia Gilbert & Sullivan Union, a collaboration by several Philadelphia area companies) set the action in Buxton (home of the International G&S Festival) with the chorus dressed and made up as various G&S characters milling around the local pub, owned by Sir Marmaduke. An excellent cast all round, but for me the most memorable performance was by Julie May, in the usually inconsequential role of Mrs. Partlet. Often cast with the second string contralto or mezzo, she usually fades into the background. Not this time! A brilliant singer/actress/comedienne, Julie commanded attention from her first appearance and was hilarious in the second act when she and Marmaduke were literally all over each other (while under the influence of the love potion). The biggest oversight in the awards presentation was the omission of her unforgettable performance. Maybe the proper British adjudicator couldn't appreciate the broad slapstick humor of her portrayal. Anyway, count me a Julie May fan now!

Elise Curran is not human. Her endless energy, buoyant spirits and limitless talents do not fall within the parameters of the normal human condition. Her attire consistently maintained a color scheme of red and black, but red and blue would have been more appropriate. For certainly if she were to remove her blouse (assuming that consisted with her maidenly modesty) a big red "S" would surely have been revealed. Running the souvenir concession at performances, playing clarinet in the youth orchestra and giving rides to car-less friends were but side activities for this dynamo. One of the high points of the week was her vocal recital /tribute to soprano Ruth Vincent (foolishly scheduled at 10:30 in the morning). A talented raconteur and singer, she had the audience in the palm of her hand the entire time.

This was not enough of a triumph for our heroine, though. Super-Soprano flew to the rescue for the last performance of the week, the Ridgewood Grand Duke. Eileen Karlson, who was to have sung the cameo role of the Herald, after a valiant battle with laryngitis, finally lost her voice the day of the performance. Who could possibly jump in at short notice and take on the role? With one brief rehearsal that afternoon, Elise jumped in and took possession of the role as if she'd been doing it for weeks. Smart and saucy, she was a delight. Definitely NOT human.

Lots of other lovely performances: two Gilbert plays: Engaged (always hilarious and very well performed by members of the Victorian Lyric Opera Company, who also presented HMS Pinafore) and Sweethearts, a surprisingly uncynical and more heartfelt work by Gilbert. A British amateur company, Derby G&S, presented a Mikado that was "traditional" (in the very best sense) and well drilled and entertaining.

The good news at the end of the week was the announcement that the G&S Festival would be back in Gettysburg next year. I can hardly wait!

Ways to arrange people

Besides the pleasure of communicating with old friends from my all too distant youth, my recent Facebook chats have given me some new food for thought for my neglected blog. Today's topic concerns ways to arrange people.

You can't just let people congregate willy-nilly, without some structure to the assemblage. In elementary school, it was popular to arrange kids by size order. What the purpose of this method has yet to be revealed; the original inspiration may be lost back in the mists of the 20th century. But each class would be directed to line up with the shortest kid in front and the tallest in the back, with everyone taking their proper position in between. Now if we were going into battle, having the little kids in front would be foolish strategy indeed. It seems it would be much more sensible to have the big kids lead the way, protecting the small and the vulnerable. Maybe it was aesthetic considerations: having the gradually curving line of the tops of our heads creating a graceful effect. The Rockettes are arranged with the tallest in the middle and gradually tapering down each side to the shortest.

One side effect of this plan was the jockeying for position in the line. Nobody wanted the infamy of being the very shortest (I was usually #3 in the line of girls; of course there were separate lines of boys and girls) and there would be a lot of back to back challenges as contenders asserted their position in the great framework of our society. I myself was protective of my position, insisting that the two shorter girls definitely belonged in front of me and keeping on the lookout from girls behind me that I might have surpassed height-wise. My best friends were usually among the taller girls, so we were usually much separated at these times. Also, the shortest girl in my class was rather sickly and absent a great deal, causing me to be closer to the front than I really belonged. Heaven forbid if both shorties were out and I was at the very front of the line!

Fortunately I had the ultimate revenge: I kept growing long after most of the others had stopped. While my classmates had reached full growth by 13 or 14, I kept chugging along, at a steady two inches a year; no rapid growth spurts for me! And like the story of the tortoise and the hare, I gradually snuck past many of them, still growing while in college. I even learned recently that I at some point I had eked out yet another inch without knowing it. I was having a bone density test and when my height was measured I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I was just a smidge under 5 ' 5". Let's get together and line up now!

By high school, size place lining up seems to have fallen out of favor and the preferred method of arranging people become alphabetical order. Whenever names for something would be called, they would begin with names starting with the letter "A" and proceed on through the alphabet. This time my problem was the reverse. Having a name starting with "Y" would put me toward the end of every list. Not the VERY last; there would usually be a "Young" or "Ziff" following me, but I would have to wait while everybody else got called for whatever goody was being handed out, either diplomas or paychecks. Wonder how the shortest girl in my second grade class felt about all this? Her last name was Ziff.

21st century multi-tasking

None of this would have been possible when I was a kid. Young people nowadays would find life back then equivalent to the horse-and-buggy days. This evening I've been watching The Westminster Dog Show on TV, pausing, fast forwarding and rewinding at will, while on line swapping e-mails and Facebook messages with friends from virtually every period of my life. A friend from Junior High who I haven't seen in 40 years and we're bantering back and forth... sharing photos with the woman who beat me on Jeopardy 13 years ago... a singer I currently work with on G&S projects, and also keeping up on postings from an assorted horde of others. I've got 80 friends on Facebook, which seems a lot to keep up with, but others have hundreds and one has over 3,000. That boggles my mind.

Of course to anyone reading this, all this is old hat. But if you're over 50 I bet you still stop and marvel at it all.