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.

visiting heavenly South Pacific

It's a bit late in the day to be reviewing the Lincoln Center revival of "South Pacific". But as I only just saw this almost two year old production last night, I wanted to toss in my belated two cents.

I've long loved this show, but it's been mostly a theoretical love. I love the score and the story and the characters, but none of the productions I've seen has measured up to the greatness inherent in the material. I wasn't around back then when Mary Martin and Ezio Pinza were dazzling audiences and subsequent versions have been pleasant but not the exhilarating experience this show was. And I wasn't even seeing the first string stars, as Kelli O'Hara has left the show and Paolo Szot was not in it last night. No matter. Laura Osnes and William Michals were just dandy. Vocally, dramatically, in every way, they filled the bill. Supporting actors Danny Burstein as Billis and Loretta Ables Sayre as Bloody Mary were as splendid as they've been acclaimed to be. Smaller roles were also filled most capably.

Much of the credit goes to the director Bartlett Sher, who trusted the material and guided his cast wisely. Nothing gimmicky; no original concepts. Some new emphases on lines that gave the characters a slightly different spin. Nellie's reaction to learning that Emile had a relationship with a woman of color showed more of the racism beneath the surface than is usually portrayed. Her instantaneous turning on Emile was more than usually unsettling.

The crowning glory of this operation is the orchestra. A full thirty-piece orchestra sounding as wonderful as can be. And it was live, in person, not piped in from a room on the fifth floor and filtered through blaring loudspeakers. As the overture began, a portion of the orchestra was visible in the pit below the stage. Then, suddenly the front part of the stage that was over the orchestra pit started pulling back, to reveal the entire contingent. The audience, stunned to see this wonderful assemblage, started applauding right in the middle of the overture. It was a treat to see these usual unseen artists (as well as hear them unimpeded) and as the overture drew to its close, I could see the percussionist poised with his cymbals, ready for that climactic clashing, and I had the thrill of anticipating it seconds before I saw and heard it. No wonder classical music fans love to WATCH concerts as well as hear them.

As the music for the first scene started, the stage moved forward, once more sheltering the orchestra, but we knew they were still there and their handiwork throughout the evening made the experience all the more thrilling. This is one of the great advantages of live theater --- live musicians, playing real instruments. I've been attending theater for nearly forty years, a lot of it small scale productions with piano or small combos and I've enjoyed them. But nothing tops the experience of a show with a full orchestra and I still haven't gotten blase about it. Every time it's like I'm fourteen again, seeing my first Broadway show.

Setting the time machine for 1969

Recently I reconnected on Facebook with some friends from junior high school days. It's a little strange; in my mind they're frozen in 1969 as gangly adolescents. In reality, of course, they're forty years older (as I am) and have led lives I know nothing about.

So I find myself mentally traveling back to 1967-69, my years at Lefferts Junior High. In the world at large, these were tumultuous years. The war in Vietnam dragged on and the protest movement grew. Civil rights was another touchy topic. Assassinations stunned the nation: first Martin Luther King Jr. and while we were still reeling from that, Bobby Kennedy too was shot dead. We were of an age to recall his brother's murder as the first big shocker of our lives. The world was a scary and unstable place.

Our neighborhood was in transition; white flight had been going on for a while and each year some of our classmates would move away to the "safety" of Queens or Long Island. At the time it wasn't too noticeable or threatening. But within a few years the white kids had become the minority and felt increasingly targeted by bullies.

My class was the "two year SP" a special program for particularly bright kids to do three years of junior high work in two years. There was also a three year SP, where they took the standard amount of time, but supposedly had some "enrichment" programs.

The years of junior high are probably the most traumatic in even the best of circumstances. It's the period of transition from childhood to young adult and each of us made that trip at a different pace. Looking at the class photo there are some who were already physically mature young women while others still looked like grade schoolers. It's hard to believe we're all the same age; one would guess the ages as ranging from ten to twenty. We probably all felt self-conscious about whatever stage we were at.

Reading the various messages has been fascinating. Everyone seems to have a different view on those times. Recollections of harassments and shakedowns, on the one hand; ugly gymsuits and teachers' eccentricities on the other. Sometimes just a general rose-colored glasses tinged nostalgia; sometimes a grim pride about just having survived those years. Landmark incidents are recalled in very different terms. Like the "sewing machine" affair. Did one of our classmates actually heft a sewing machine out a window? Memories differ; maybe it was just some parts were tossed out. All in all, what was memorable to one person was totally forgotten by another.

One thing that hasn't come up so far in our discussion is the boys (at that age they're still called boys). They were overwhelmingly outnumbered in our class. The first year there were six boys to over twenty girls and in the second year two of those boys had gone. To make up for that disadvantage, they compensated by being incredibly obnoxious. One in particular did his best to try the patience of our ever-cheery ninth grade English teacher. Academically he was brilliant; personality-wise he was bucking for ostracism at best and jail time at worst. I would not be surprised to hear he was either a leading scientist at MIT or a prisoner in Sing Sing.

Uterine Nostalgia

Since my last adventure at the eye doctor's I've had a few sessions at the dentist. Not nearly as much fun. Had a root canal on a back molar, which was to be followed by the administration of a crown. Turns out my roots were found wanting, and before my coronation I had to go through a process called a crown lengthening. If you'd like to check out the icky details (complete with photos) here's a link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crown_lengthening

So visits with cutting, poking, taking impressions. All leading up to the ultimate coronation, now set for next week.

Meanwhile, my trip into menopause took a slight detour. After over a year's hiatus, my uterus suddenly ceased being dormant. A trip to the doctor removed fears of any serious problems. I think it was just a case of my uterus getting sentimental. Last month was the 40th anniversary of the onset of my puberty and I think my uterus was just wanted to mark that event with one last splurge for old time's sake. Maybe I should have worn some bell bottoms to commemorate the anniversary. Or a mini-skirt.