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.

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.

Why I'm not like a unicorn

It's funny how, as you get older, things that never caused problems, suddenly cause problems.

Like your eyes.

Most people who know me have never even seen me with glasses on. I've been lucky; I was only slightly near-sighted and only needed to wear glasses for viewing things at a distance. I don't drive, so that's one instance that I didn't need to wear them. Mostly just when I'm at the theater and want a clearer version of what's happening on stage. During my childhood I never had glasses at all, and it was only in my mid-20s when I was watching an opera telecast and had trouble reading the subtitles did I finally see an eye doctor. For a while I'd get a new pair every two years (it was covered by insurance at work) and once or twice had to have a slightly stronger prescription. After changing jobs and not having eyeglass coverage I went about ten years using the same glasses.

But now I have a nice civil service job with nice health benefits so I figured I'd treat myself to a comprehensive eye exam. I had been noticing a little trouble focusing on words close up and suspected I might be a candidate for reading glasses. I went to the SUNY College of Optometry in Manhattan and got a real thorough going-over. I was in that place for almost three hours. I was in the hands of a pleasant young woman who had a tag that said "Intern" and just before we went to the exam room a young man asked if he could shadow her. She asked if I was agreeable and I thought "the more, the merrier!". So I sat in the exam chair for the next hour as we alternated having her peer at my eyes through various devices and my looking at letters projected on the wall and trying to make them out as they changed sizes, shapes, and fuzziness. I've been having a bit of dental work lately (another benefit of the aging process) and this was definitely more fun and much less painful. Periodically, she would scoot out of the room to confer with her supervisor. At first I was slightly uneasy; did she see symptoms of something serious: signs of a brain tumor...incipient blindness... and want to find out how to break it to me? But after a while it seemed like it was just part of her training process and her repetitions of "very good...very good!" as I distinguished an "S" from a "5" were reassuring. The culmination of this phase was the administration of dilating eyedrops into my eyes and then being sent back to the waiting room to allow twenty-five minutes for the drops to do their job.

Forty-five minutes later, she returned to fetch me for the next phase. I was taken to a different room for more peering into my eyes. And then the supervisor himself appeared. A middle-aged man (probably younger than me, though!) he was a jolly sort who probably was a lot of fun as a teacher. They compared findings and he referred to class lectures to demonstrate points to her. I felt honored to be a part of the learning process. He seemed very impressed with my lenses, saying they were in very good condition, though pointing out his four-year-old son had better lenses. But mine were very good for my age. I wasn't sure how to take that part, but decided to accept it as a compliment (no point being competitive with a four-year-old I'd never even met). No signs of glaucoma; no beginnings of cataracts. He asked about my family history and I said my father had cataracts removed when he was around eighty. He seemed pleased with this and said I should live long enough to have cataracts. A strange blessing to bestow!

Then we came to my main problem: dry eye disease (yes; it's a disease!) and a plan of attack. He discussed the pros and cons of using antibiotic drops (they can run about $60 a bottle; that's a big con) but thought we'd try other types of drops first. Artificial tears and an oil-based emollient (Hail , Soothe XP...divine emollient! That's a reference to the chorus "Hail poetry from "Pirates of Penzance") during the day and Lacrilube, an ointment, at night. Not everybody likes putting that stuff in their eyes at bedtime, but if I'm game it should go a long way to making my eyeballs as dewy moist as any four-year old's.

So as we age, we don't just need to use lotion on our hands and moisturizer on our faces, but emollients in our eyes. At least, us women. Apparently it's a by-product of dropping estrogen levels as we enter the peri- and post-menopausal phases. The senior doctor said that men with dry eyes were like unicorns. He had never seen one.

The new Yankee Stadium

Okay; it's my fault they lost. The Yankees were leading 3-0 until I started to leave. Just before I left the Angels suddenly get a run. During the course of my subway ride home, the Angels get three more runs. Another extra-inning marathon, but this time the Yankees lost.

On the bright side, I did get a chance to see the new stadium. I work at the Bronx Supreme Courthouse, two blocks from both Yankee Stadiums and had not been to the new one yet. One of my co-workers spread the word that they were letting people in free that afternoon to watch the playoff game. The fact that the teams were 3000 miles away was merely a minor drawback. The game was being shown on the giant screen over the outfield and fans were allowed to sit in the usually pricey seats to watch the oversized, two-dimensional version of the game. It was strange to see the field uninhabited, but the fans were as enthusiastic as if their favorites were there in person, cheering homers by Jeter, A-Rod, and Damon.

Julie, my co-worker said she wanted to leave by 6:00 so I went along. We got a good look-see around the shiny new stadium and sat for a while in seats halfway back from right behind home plate. That area, as well as the pitching mound were covered by tarps and none of the bases were on the field. Most of the food concessions were open and doing terrific business, as was the souvenir shop. Some day I'd like to watch a game there with the teams actually on the field.

foot in mouth epidemic

What is going on lately? Is there some weird astrological configuration causing a disconnect between people's brains and mouths? It's the ongoing epidemic of foot in mouth disease:

1. The "you lie!" congressman... first it was town halls, now it's happening in joint sessions of Congress. Someone in the audience disagrees with a speaker and they feel free to shout out at them. As Craig Ferguson said, it's not the Jerry Springer Show...it's Congress!

2. I only have the vaguest idea of who Kanye West is, but the story of his actions at whatever that award show is, was pretty shocking. Over the many years of many award shows I've seen, the basic tenet of behavior has always been being a good sport. But interrupting someone's acceptance speech to declare that one of the losing nominees was more deserving of the award is another new one.

3. Serena Williams' blow-up at the US Open. Nothing new to those who remember John McEnroe is his heyday. Just another example of the epidemic.

In truth, I could go on much further; but behold; I have said enough.

You may allow your attention to wander.

revisiting old friends

Periodically I like to re-read books by my favorite authors. I'll do a Jane Austen cycle, a Betty Smith cycle, a Heinlein cycle. Right now I'm becoming reacquainted with Helene Hanff. Best known (if known at all) for 84 Charing Cross Road, a collection of letters between Hanff and a London bookshop. A spunky, struggling New York based writer, she had a love of antiquarian books and wrote cheeky letters, trying to puncture the shopkeepers' proper British reserve. This book has inspired a very small, but very devoted cult following. It was made into TV, stage, and film versions, with actors such as Anne Bancroft, Anthony Hopkins and Judi Dench in various roles.

Hanff had a lifelong yearning to visit London, but financial considerations prevented her until "84" was published. That visit yielded another book: Duchess of Bloomsbury Street, about her whirlwind trip to London, where she was wined and dined by fans of the book, including playwright Mark Connolly and entertainer Joyce Grenfell.

But Hanff's greatest passion was her hometown of New York. In 1976 she was contracted to write text for a collection of photos of New York. But her text was not your typical picture book set of captions. Her text became the story of her tour of New York, seeing the sights that were to be pictured in the book. As a typical native, she had never visited most of the "must see" tourist attractions: the Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Grant's Tomb, etc. And poignantly, the World Trade Center. The story of her misadventures as she traipsed about town, with her friend Patsy, in tow makes for delightful reading. The book, entitled Apple of My Eye was published in the US in hardcover, complete with accompanying photos. Ironically, when it was published in the UK, the pictures were omitted. A small paperback, the story of her research for a book of photos.... and they left out the photos!

more perspective

At some point, I don't know when, there are now more people in the world that are younger than me. This year there is now a president who is younger than me. The president was always a father figure; the first one I remember was Kennedy and until Clinton every president was old enough to be my father. We've had two presidents born in the 1940s, none from the 1950s and now one born in 1961. I'm now part of the older generation.

The touchstone memory for everyone used to be the JFK assassination. "Where were you?" or "What were you doing when..." Now there are more people alive who hadn't even been born yet. But we have another touchstone now: 9/11. Before I was born it was Pearl Harbor.

The 20th century fades further into the past.

anniversary of a new beginning

Last week I marked the fifth anniversary of the end of my career in classical music publicity. Today was the fifth anniversary of the start of my career in the New York State Court System. Career-wise it's been the best five years of my life. I've had two promotions already and am on the list for the next step up: the exalted rank of Senior Court Clerk. The Fairy Queen in Iolanthe would approve, as promotion is by competitive examination and test taking is something I've always done well at. I was a bit nervous that day five years ago, embarking on a new career in civil service, as I'd heard some nightmare stories from people who'd worked in other branches. Maybe I've been exceptionally lucky, but so far I have only met with courtesy and respect from supervisors and co-workers. Unlike at my previous jobs. It's also been a series of changes, as opposed to my stints of nine years and seventeen years in the same place. I spent one year at my first post at New York Civil Court in the title of "Court Office Assistant/Keyboarding". I didn't really do much typing there; mostly pulling files and a little data entry. It was also a pleasant change to have an office full of people to interact with instead of spending the entire day alone with one often cranky elderly woman. After the first year I moved up to "Senior Court Office Assistant" (note the absence of keyboarding in this title). At first I found myself at Queens Criminal Court through a sneaky bit of bait-and-switch. I interviewed at Criminal Court and told there were openings in Manhattan and Brooklyn; they couldn't tell me where I would be assigned before accepting. As either location would have been fine with me, I accepted, only to find, on reporting, that I was being sent to Queens. I was rather cross at this development, but I was able to apply for transfer and fortunately an opening at County Clerk in Manhattan came through within two months.

I spent a lovely year and a half in the Juror Division at County Clerk, processing questionnaires from prospective jurors. Got a few celebrities, including Alec Baldwin, who responded rather rudely, writing "Idiot!" on his response. Another person who was a British resident alien was annoyed at having to mail back questionnaires every few years with proof of non-citizenship. He quoted the lyrics to "He is an Englishman" which I sang to the other staff members in my department.

Another exam, another high score, another promotion, to the title "Court Assistant" (which is much better than "Court OFFICE Assistant"). And another exile to a remote location. At the interview for Civil Court they said the openings were in Manhattan, Brooklyn and the Bronx. And again they could not (or would not) say where I would be assigned before I accepted. I decided to take a chance, hoping that the fact my former boss in Manhattan was one of the interviewers would have him choose me. Turns out the choice was made by HIS superior, who decided where to send out the six new hires. So I wound up in the Bronx, much to my initial disappointment, but it has turned out to be a very nice place to work. My supervisor is about the nicest boss I've ever had, who appreciates my abilities and been a kindly mentor as I learned the in's and out's of court procedures.

Last year was the Court Clerk exam. This involved several months worth of classes and many hours studying Civil, Criminal and Family Court regulations. Managed to pass with a respectable grade and am #178 on the statewide list. So far they've reached about the first 100, so I should be expecting to move up within a year. So it looks like I'm settling in till retirement. I'm very grateful to have found my niche. A secure job is much appreciated these days and people are suing each other at an ever-increasing rate.

just maintain a true perspective...

It's funny how perceptions can shift as perspectives change. The other day I wrote about my renewed appreciation for Judy Garland's talents. Originally I admired her with the undiscerning appreciation of a child; now as a mature adult with a wide experience of watching and listening to many different performers my admiration has more weight behind it.

Re-reading favorite books or re-watching old TV shows and movies can also yield either fuller appreciation or unhappily, disillusionment with one's youthful favorites. I am pleased that my favorite authors have been able to withstand the test of reacquaintance and I still savor reading through Jane Austen and Betty Smith. Old sitcoms don't always wear well though. A few years ago a cable channel was running episodes of My Mother the Car, a show I loved at age seven. I think I particularly enjoyed singing along with the theme song; the lyrics appeared at the bottom of the screen with a bouncing ball leading the way. Surprisingly, forty years later I found the show just silly and not very clever.

the nature of talent

Recently I've become reacquainted with Judy Garland. I'd been a fan of hers since my childhood, being devoted to the film "The Wizard of Oz" and her one season TV variety series. Back then there were no home videos, so the annual showing of "Wizard" on TV was quite an event. I loved her voice and felt a kindred spirit in her Dorothy. Over later years I saw most of her other films at various times, covering the range from childhood to teen years and young woman and finally her TV appearances during the 60s.

Over the last few days I've discovered that I had had only the most superficial appreciation of her talents. I watched her final film "I Could Go On Singing" and was taken aback by the depth of her acting ability. Even if one just assumes she was playing herself in this story, the emotions she was able to expose were amazing. And her vocal talents were still top notch.

Then I watched a bit of one of her mid-career films "In The Good Old Summertime" and her perplexity at finding herself in love with Van Johnson whom she had detested earlier was delightful. Afterwards it was back to later-day Garland and a one-woman concert performance in her 1963-64 series. Vocally again she was superb and the emotions she put into her songs were never the shallow histrionics that other singers were wont to indulge in. Watching and listening to her you believed every word she sang. Her rendition of "America" at the end of the show was beautifully heartfelt.

The talent this woman possessed was amazing. Was being the keeper of this gift too much of a burden to bear up under? That she died at the age of only 47 seems so unfair; to her and to the world. She gave so much to her audiences that she seemed to keep nothing in reserve for herself. Did her gift come at too high a price?

Mediocrity may have its compensations.

Too darn hot

It's been uncomfortably hot this week. Just my luck that instead of spending the days in my air-conditioned office I scheduled this week for some vacation time. I don't have air-conditioning in my apartment. Just never bothered. Except for maybe one or two weeks a summer when it goes over 90 degrees, my assortment of fans (window, Vornado and rotating types) are sufficient to keep things fairly comfortable. Plopping down a couple of hundred dollars and losing access to a window (or two) to stay comfortable for those two weeks never seemed worthwhile.

My father didn't believe in air-conditioning. Oh, he didn't deny its existence; he just felt no need of it. He grew up in the old days (he'd be 96 years old now if he hadn't died already) and never got used to new-fangled technology like color TVs and touch-tone phones. He was still using a rotary phone and only gave up on black & white TV because he couldn't find another 22 inch black & white when the old one gave out. It is a bit mind-boggling to contemplate how much life in general changed over the course of his lifetime. I don't think he ever did understand what e-mail was or how people communicated by computer. As far as I know, he never even traveled by airplane. He was born in the US and went back and forth to Europe a couple of times, but always by ship. During WWII he might have been flown somewhere at some point, but I don't know.

PS 161, Class 6-1, 1967

I recently uploaded my sixth grade class picture to Facebook and Classmates.com, and now here. Why? Why not? Just to wax nostalgic, perhaps? Sixth grade seemed so mature at the time. The last year of elementary school. After being with the same bunch of kids for most of the last five years we would be dispersed to different junior high and then high schools. Some of them I would never see again. Some would remain friends for a few more years, but eventually I would lose touch with all of them. One I would re-connect with forty years later through Facebook. Looking at those faces I wonder what's become of them. The blond haired boy in front was the smartest kid in class. Looks and brains...did it take him far? I know the girl with the bangs and pigtails in front has become an artist and had gallery showings. My Facebook friend is a prominent music writer and been a panelist on the Metropolitan Opera quiz. What about the rest? Have any died? Are they leading happy, useful lives? Have they made their childhood dreams come true? Are they still trying to?