Driving Miss Julie (and Mr. Sheridan)

Spring House

Just got in from driving Miss Julie to work at Spring House Estates (it’s a retirement community; she’s a waitress) for the umpteenth time. The car could drive itself there by now. But these days are numbered, as Jules goes for her driving test tomorrow morning. She can’t wait and, frankly, neither can I. I remember with fondness the halcyon days when Evan, Rosie and PJ were newly licensed drivers. “Mom, may I go to the store for you to pick up milk?” “Mom, the car needs gas. Let me go get some for you.” And, best of all, “I’ll pick up (fill in sibling name) from school for you.” With joy I would hand over the car keys; with joy they would receive them.  It was the quintessential win/win.  

Sheridan at Grace

As Julie is my baby, you’d think I’d be at least a little nostalgic, saying farewell to my days as the chauffeur. But no! Sheridan to the rescue! For some reason, many classical musicians do not drive (maybe because most are big city dwellers), and my oldest son is no exception. Most of the time this is not my problem, because he is an absolute whiz at navigating the public transportation system. However, there are a few pesky locations where getting a ride is a necessity. One of these is the Lutheran church in suburban Wyndmoor where Sher is music director. Once or twice a week, Steve or myself are dispatched to Grace Church for a pickup or a drop off. Sheridan swears he will learn to drive one of these days, but frankly his work schedule is so intense that I’m not sure when he’d find the time right now. 

It’s a bit of a pain to be on call for these repetitive jaunts. But, I have to admit, there is a part of me that will miss it when the last of the brood is licensed.  It’s a rare thing to be needed these days, and quite nice for this veteran mom. I’ll miss their company on the road, and especially miss our conversations. Don’t know what it is about a car that loosens their tongues, but we’ve had some of our very best talks during these rides. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m not looking at them (safety first!) that frees them up to share more than usual. It was in the car that I have heard about teacher troubles, secret crushes and so much more. And it’s even better when driving a group of their friends! I am instantly rendered invisible as they babble on, seemingly unaware of me at all. But there I am, a fly on the steering wheel, so to speak, and what I’ve heard! Let’s just say I feel well equipped to pen an Upper Dublin tell-all (and I do mean ALL) book.  

My home away from home

One of these days, soon, it will be just me and NPR on the road. No more car seats. No more bickering.

I’ll enjoy the peace and quiet.

Maybe.

Spring Forward

I sometimes feel like the character in the movie Atlantic City who said, nostalgically, that the ocean wasn’t what it used to be. In this case it’s true: spring ain’t what it used to be, at least from my point of view. Back in the day, my sisters and I would be taken to Best’s Department Store in NYC to be outfitted with spring coats—lightweight pastel numbers suitable for the cool and pleasant days of the season. And then there was spring cleaning! Polishing the windows, changing heavy for gauzy drapes, beating the rugs. Of course, spring cleaning never happened in any of my childhood abodes—we were lucky if the house got an annual vacuuming. But I certainly heard of this ritual practiced in other homes.

Our crazy weather patterns in recent years have been bringing us gray sleet switching to sticky mid-90s, with precious little in between. Flowers blossom and die in the style of time-lapse photography.  All of a sudden we wake up and it’s summer. And summer lasts a lifetime: hot hot humid days and nights. Fall and winter are no slouches either—they linger, with their spates of nasty rain and snow and bone-chilling cold. Spring is like a newborn baby—beautiful and growing all too fast. No pictures can really do it justice, this tender and fleeting time. You have to be there, really be there—feel the breeze, check out the daffodils, relish the sight of the bluest sky.

And this year, we just might have a real spring. We’ve had fabulous weather all this past week, and I have to keep checking the calendar to remind myself it's still March. Even when the temp dips at night, most of the days have been really gorgeous and mild. The birds are chirping away, the crocuses are in full bloom. Daylight savings time began yesterday, giving us another hour of twilight.

In theory, we should have had a couple of major snowstorms in the past month. And I realize we’re not out of the woods yet—we’ve had significant snow in April several times over the years. But I didn’t just write that. I don’t want to jinx the gift we have been given by Mother Nature (a.k.a. God).

Predicting the weather is a lot like predicting life...we may have the general idea, but are constantly thrown curve balls when it comes to the specifics. From the Farmer’s Almanac to Punxutawney Phil to Glenn “Hurricane” Schwartz on TV, everyone has their guess as to what the morrow will bring, climatically speaking. On other fronts, pundits prognosticate about the economy, the political scene, the progress of war…but bottom line, we none of us really know what’s around the corner.

All I know is, today has been a beautiful springlike day. A day that’s brought back memories of a little girl wearing a robin’s egg blue coat, walking in the sunshine with her sisters. A little girl I used to know, a long time ago.

Life with Stevo

Julie recently found (and posted on Facebook) an absolutely hilarious YouTube video of a baby falling asleep sitting bolt upright. He would nod off, head would drop drop drop then UP it would go, eyes would open, awake again…but in a second, sleep would overtake him once more. Julie’s caption? “Dad as a baby.”

We’re quite used to Dad dropping off this way, so exhausted is he by his ridiculous schedule. He swears he is adequately rested, yet how can he be with a 4 AM awakening? He goes downstairs, on to a day that includes officework, a rehearsal and one or two performances. No wonder he’s off to Dreamland the minute he hits the sofa at night. But I got a kick out of Julie’s affectionate teasing, and Steve did too. 

My Favorite Fairy Godmother

The kids are also used to a father who often wears dresses—in his children’s shows, I hasten to add.  He is an unattractive but fabulously funny Delmarva the wicked stepsister in Cinderella, Glinda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz. His shows, almost 30 in all, are so beloved by our offspring that they can—and do—quote chapter and verse. They’ve been discussing getting a sibling tattoo (we shall see), and have tentatively chosen the line “No, that’s definitely an arm,” (you had to be there) which they plan to have inked on body parts OTHER than their arms. They have, to a person, inherited Steve’s great—and goofy—sense of humor.

Another area where Dad comes in for a ribbing: his musical pursuits. What he lacks in talent, he more than makes up in verve. His repertoire begins with The Kingston Trio and ends with Peter, Paul and Mary—and just a few selections from both. There are times I fervently wish I’d thought to hide the guitar as I hear the unmistakable chords of “Charlie and the MTA” for the umpteenth time. 

My Stevo

Steve has a colorful vocabulary, which has never been directed at any of us, but is a regular feature of his interactions with inanimate objects—computer, copier, printer, car. Most of his comments are not fit for a family blog, but when he’s at his very angriest, what emerges from his mouth is not another profanity but: “You dirty dog!”— clearly, the ultimate epithet. We tease him about this too, and about his propensity for leaving the house and returning multiple times for forgotten items—keys, phone, briefcase. Indeed, when Sher was only about 4, he had a routine of coming in, slamming the door, running out, coming in, etc. saying “I’m bein’ Daddy.”

All kidding aside, his children adore him, and so do I. They have the utmost respect for his tremendous work ethic, his loyalty, and his love for them, and I know they will always remember those things about their father. I believe they will also remember the laughter that rings through our house, thanks in large part to their goofy, tired, wonderful dad—the ultimate good sport.

Rules of the Game

Reading the newpaper and The Rules (the 1996 best-seller on how to land your man) the same evening, got me thinking.  It’s primary season and the GOP candidates are out there killing themselves in hopes of wooing voters. I’m a Democrat, and nobody asked me, but they are going about this all wrong!  

Mitt, Rick, Newt, Ron: listen up!  Here are Rules to Win By:

Rule #1: You Are Each a Creature Unlike Any Other—You are demure, and a bit mysterious. Don’t volunteer a lot of information about yourself (your tax returns, mistresses, etc.)—let us wonder! 

Rule #2: Don’t Talk to Us First—And don’t ask us to dance.  Let us approach you, the demure, mysterious candidates. Be friendly, but don’t betray a lot of interest in us.  Above all, don’t ask us to vote for you!

Rule #3 Don’t Stare at Us or Talk Too Much—We don’t want a long song and dance about what changes you will make in military spending or health care. We prefer our candidates to just stand there, aloof.  Let us draw you out!

Rule #4 Don’t Go Dutch—Let us pay! Oh, wait—you already do this. Never mind. 

Rule #5 Don’t Call Us and Rarely Return our Calls—The robocalls? Forget about’em! They make you appear needy and desperate! Wait for us to contact you—then don’t call us back. We love it when our candidates play hard to get!

Rule #6 Always End Phone Calls First—When we do call your office with a complaint or concern, cut us off! A good phrase to use: “I’ve got a million things to do!” You’re busy politicians! You don’t have time to listen to our every petty little gripe! Trust us, it’ll just make us love you more.

Rule #7 Don’t Accept a Saturday Night Date after Wednesday—If you are invited to speak at a function in a hotly-contested primary state, and the event is coming up soon, you have other fish to fry that night. Even if you have to sit home alone watching Fox News, you have your pride!

Rule #13 Don’t See Us More than Once or Twice a Week—Honestly, you have been wearing out your welcome, with your nonstop appearances, speeches, debates.  Disappear from our radar screen. Let us get a little jealous, wondering what you’re doing and who you’re with! When we are together, keep things light. When we ask about your foreign policy, laugh and say, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

If you follow The Rules, I can pretty much guarantee that one of you will win the nomination, if not the whole shebang. You’ll definitely win hearts. And you’ll do it with your self-respect intact, knowing you never groveled for voter attention, never pandered to our desire for facts and figures, that you maintained that bewitching, enigmatic air that drew folks to you in the first place. 

Super Tuesday is up next week. Don’t you have something to do in Bermuda?

Cousins

Cunninghams and Berrigans Easter Egg Hunt

I have 5 cousins. That's it.

Steve has 65 first cousins. That's ridiculous.

Steve's parents were each one of 10 children, so do the math. My hubby does not even know many of these cousins, and has remained in close touch with none of them. Not to judge: I have no idea what I would have done with this largesse. What you have in abundance, you tend to take for granted.

Two weeks ago, Steve and I traveled up to Rye, NY to say goodbye to Uncle Gerry, Mom's brother. He lost a valiant fight against pancreatic cancer on a Sunday morning, and that Wednesday was his funeral. He was buried from the Church of the Resurrection, where he and Aunt Rosemary were married, and where he was a daily communicant for many years. My admiration for my uncle knows no bounds, and it was a privilege to be there with his children, three of my cousins: Meg, Gerry and Michele.

When we left the cemetery, we all went to Westchester Country Club for lunch. We were joined by my Uncle Jack, the sole surviving member of that generation of Berrigans. I can't imagine how Jack felt, all alone with memories no one else is left on earth to share. Jack and Gerry were as close as my Sheridan and Evan, and it tears at my heart to think of any of them without their "other."

At lunch, Meg and Michele told me that from now on they'd be relying on my sister and me as repositories of the Berrigan stories. This makes me panic a bit, and wish I'd written these tales, told often by Mom, down, rather than assuming I'd always remember. C has better recall than I do, but we're still woefully short of knowing the whole saga. Just being together that day helped bring back a few gems I thought were forever lost, and that's a very good thing.

My cousins are all younger than me, and their oldest children are the age of my youngest. We see each other, alas, mostly at weddings and funerals, and despite our vows to get the kids together it never seems to happen. This time, we swore on parting, would be different. We would see each other again soon, under much happier circumstances. And maybe it will happen. Who knows?

Uncle Gerry

What I do know is that we are all aging, faster than we’d like. We are now the older folks, the memory keepers. Those of us who don’t resort to the dye bottle (I do) have gray streaks; we all sport a wrinkle or two. As the years gallop by (Mom used to say that, for older people, the weeks become weekends), we need to lasso the moments and savor them. Savor the laughter, and tears, of a shared past. We are children of parents who had the same mom and dad. We are lucky to have each other, we cousins.

May I never take my cousins for granted.  

My Guide to Oscar Night

Once more on Sunday evening, Billy Crystal will take to the stage in L.A. to emcee the Academy Award ceremony. Unlike the Super Bowl, I’ve always enjoyed the Oscars. Many years in the past, I saw most, if not all, of the nominated films in advance. This adds immeasurably to the excitement, as you can imagine. 

This year, I realized, to my dismay, that I have not seen a single picture that is in the running for an Oscar. I haven’t even really paid attention to the reviews, so the honored movies are just names to me. I’m a pretty good guesser, however, so herewith I offer my description of the Best Picture roster. Armed with this, you can tune in to the show assured that you are “in the know.”

The Descendants: George Clooney plays lead guitar, and the son of Grace Slick, in a band of 40-somethings, each of whom is descended from a different rock legend. Band members include Brad Pitt as Ringo Starr’s wisecracking drummer son Groucho. 

The Tree of Life: Brad Pitt plays Adam in this imaginative retelling of Genesis. Pitt’s ex, Jennifer Aniston, is a convincing Eve. Meryl Streep is expected to get a Best Actress nod as God. Watch for a star turn by Danny DeVito as the serpent. 

Money Ball: A story about debutante dances among New York’s elite. Two wealthy families vie for the same designer dress for their daughters. Starrring Brad Pitt as the father of Dakota Fanning and George Clooney as Emma Watson’s dad. 

Hugo: Two Hugos, Chavez and Victor, take center stage in this stirring time-travel saga of modern-day Venezuela and 19^th century France. George Clooney and Brad Pitt co-star. John Williams provided the score.

The Artist: Brad Pitt shines as a struggling sculptor who works exclusively with butter. His first solo exhibit is destroyed when the gallery heat is turned on. Meryl Streep plays the jealous saboteur. Watch for a Clooney cameo as the opportunistic pastry chef who comes in to “clean up.”

The Help: A madcap comedy set in the Dell customer service center in Cairo, Egypt. Thanks to a language barrier, one million American callers are instructed to soak their malfunctioning laptops in a warm bath. Pitt and Clooney are in fine form as computer executives assigned to damage control.

War Horse:  A musical tale of ancient Troy, told in flashback by 2,500 year old Helen (a tour de force by Meryl Streep).  Oscar-nominated score by John Williams.

Midnight in Paris: Wisecracking Woody Allen strolls around Paris with his movie star buddies, Clooney and Pitt, trying to pick up Dakota Fanning, Emma Watson and Jennifer Aniston.  He is shot down. That’s the entire plot. 

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close: A Michael Moore documentary on the life of Danny DeVito.

So fire up that TV on the 26^th, and see who wins the Academy's vote! In entertainment, as in politics, an informed electorate makes all the difference, don’t you think?

             There’s no need to thank me.             

Are you there, Elise? It's Me, God.

Christ's Lutheran Confirmation 2008

Among the Commandments I break with regularity, #3 is a weekly offense. "Keeping the Sabbath holy" is tough for me, because I work in a church. You'd think it'd be a piece of cake--I'm in a house of worship every week at this time, so what's the problem?

I am the problem, or rather, my scattered brain is. The Sunday School hour is busy in the extreme (I try to arrive at church at least an hour early to prepare for the onslaught of little darlings at 9, and I still feel unready, often). Up until this year, I co-taught Confirmation in the morning too. We recently moved that class to Sunday evenings, which involves staying geared up for the entire day.

As I dart into church after leading the children's gathering, my pious thoughts run to my mic for the children's sermon (will it work?) and the $30 cash pressed into my hand as I pass a pew (for bingo? the youth group outing? our Sunday School charity project? Who just gave that money to me, anyway?) When Ken begins the organ prelude, I am still having whispered conversations about the bake sale after service. During the announcements, I'm always kicking myself for items I forgot to ask Pastor Kay to mention. The opening hymn is a fine time to wonder if I turned off the projector. And nothing like hearing the Gospel to remind me that I forgot to order new curriculum. At Communion, I reverently ponder whether I replaced the acolytes I'm taking to the mosque next week.

Many Sundays, I drive home and realize I've done everything at church BUT worship God.

I'm sure others have similar distractions at times, but for me this is an every Sunday problem. And it's further evidence that, so much of the time, I'm only half there, wherever I am. The rest of me is a) off in a mental corner, berating myself for my myriad missteps and mistakes b) making shopping lists c) generally woolgathering: hmmm, if I paint the kitchen cabinets white, the walls can't stay white...or can they?

Lord knows I try to focus (I really believe He does), but it feels like a losing battle, especially on the one day we are asked to step off the treadmill of the work week. All too soon, it’s Sunday night--I'm set to launch into another Monday, having taken no time to meditate or calm myself or even really think about my loving Creator.

I’ve (very) recently started taking Thursdays off. My goal on these days is to do no “church” work, but to read, write, have lunch with friends, etc. I sleep a little longer, and linger over my coffee. I’m thoroughly enjoying this total change of pace. And I’m wondering: can Thursday be my new Sunday? Can I stop beating myself up because it’s hard to focus on the “Sabbath,” and instead carve out my own moments to rest and spend some time with God?

Me, someday? Maybe?

Broadway Baby

One of these days, I am going to exhume my collection of Playbills in the attic. It will be such fun to revisit the incredible theatrical events I witnessed over the years--especially the early years of our marriage. Back then, we were too stupid to save our money, and blew it regularly--not only on rent and food (arguably not stupid expenses) but on plays, especially plays on and off-Broadway. At that time, I still thought of myself as an actress, albeit one with no ambition to star on the Great White Way (which should have tipped me off). Steve was a bona fide actor, and I'm sure he did envision himself trodding the boards at the Shubert Theatre someday. In any event, we'd often find ourselves standing in the freezing cold (it always seemed to be freezing cold there, even in May) in the Times Square half-price ticket line, hoping to score cheap seats for the matinee or the evening performance.

And what wonders we beheld! Zero Mostel in Fiddler on the Roof. Angela Lansbury and Len Cariou in Sweeney Todd. Diana Rigg and Alec McCowen in The Misanthrope. Peter Firth and Anthony Hopkins in Equus. The exhilarating 1974 revival of Bernstein's Candide. The opening week of A Chorus Line (and yes, we knew it was going to be a hit). Armed with our precious tickets, we entered incredible worlds of illusion, and, for two hours, were swept away.

The arrival of the children put a rather abrupt end to our New York theatregoing. Orchestra seats at the Winter Garden = three months’ worth of Pampers (and that doesn’t include parking and the babysitter). No contest. Attending plays was relegated to the archives of my life, something I no longer did.  When I was feeling wistful, I’d listen to the soundtrack of Company and pretend I was in Row D, soaking it all in.  

There was a brief flurry of off-Broadway activity back in the 90s when our show about Howard Hughes, Flight, had two staged readings in New York. At the time, a real production seemed feasible. Pretty naïve. Now, I realize that 99% of all current hit shows either a) feature big names from the movies or TV b) are revivals of past successes or c) both. As a writer, that’s discouraging, because I know there must be a huge number of wonderful scripts that will never see the light of day because Angelina Jolie has passed on them.

I wish we could have swung family trips to the Big Apple to take in some plays, but we couldn’t. But now the kids are at or near the point in life where they have some disposable income to see an occasional show, and I heartily encourage them to do so. Some of my fondest memories involve sitting in the balcony at the Helen Hayes Theatre, and feeling my heartbeat quicken as the house lights dimmed, the orchestra struck up the overture, the curtain rose.

Magic time.