Month: June 2019

Michael, Agnes of God, and The Miracle Worker/3

When Michael was a senior in high school the director of Barnstormers decided to stage The Miracle Worker, the story of Helen Keller. And for the first time, Michael was going to be on stage. He had the part of James Keller, Helen’s older brother.

This is going to be a short entry. Michael’s part was not big but he did appear in several emotional scenes; in one he had a comical line and he delivered it perfectly. It was, as usual, overwhelming for us.

After the play was over the director came to me and looked at me in this starry-eyed way, saying “Wasn’t he wonderful?!” We just stared at each other.

Anybody who is reading these stories could maybe feel–“Isn’t this all a bit much?” Yes, it probably is but as Michael’s pediatrician told me…”You’ve got a tiger by the tail.”

Michael, Agnes of God, and The Miracle Worker/2

I want to start this memoir by saying that I always had incredibly high standards for myself as a mother. I knew very well the kind of mother I wanted to be and–thank God–I got my chance with Michael.

Barnstormers was putting on the play, Agnes of God, which was turned into a movie. As usual, Michael was not on stage but had taken over all of the lighting of this production.

The drive to Barnstormers was awkward and long; once you got there you had to either drive all the way home again after a brief amount of time and then go back, or hang around the theater, trying to find something to do while Michael rehearsed. There was no shopping mall, library, bookstore in the whole area. Nevertheless, one night I decided to stay in the area of Barnstormers and wait.

This is where my high standards came into play. Once my son was inside the theater I waited in my car, then very quietly crept into the theater, hid myself in a shadowed area, and watched and listened. I normally would never do this…spying on Michael. But I had this one chance which probably wouldn’t come again…what parent wouldn’t to see what went on with her son?

What I saw made me spellbound and to this day I can’t really describe it. Agnes of God is a serious play with many emotional tones and moods; the lighting has to reflect that. Michael couldn’t see me–he was high up in a gallery–so I could watch him making subtle changes in his lighting throughout the rehearsal. He had some instruction from somebody but in Agnes of God he was on his own, creating his own mood-changing light patterns and colors. It was so beautiful, so adult and professional that I couldn’t breathe. I still get choked with emotion about that night.

And when we went to see the production of the play I just cried and cried. P understood how I felt, thank God. He was overwhelmed, too.

 

Theater,  Agnes of God, and The Miracle Worker/1

When Michael entered ninth grade, his first year of high school, he fell in love with the theater. He joined the student theater group and from ninth grade on, we attended every play he was involved in. It’s interesting to note that he was never on the stage during this time; he was the prop man, arranger of lighting, prompter in case somebody forgot his lines. Life got kind of hectic around our house when Michael was helping to produce a play; lots of late nights, having to get homework done, driving him back and forth to rehearsals. But P and I cooperated all we could and never complained. P and I are both involved in the arts–we were then, too–and we wanted to nurture any of Michael’s dreams.

School involvement in the theater led to his participation in local theater as well. There’s a community theater near where we lived called Barnstormers;  lovers of acting and plays performed there for no money, just for the love of doing it. When Michael began going there he was the only young person involved ; all others were adults. Very heady stuff for a 16-year-old, to be accepted into the group of adults–there were even later nights of rehearsals and Michael didn’t get his drivers’ license until he turned 18 so we drove him, again, back and forth. The time he spent with the Barnstormers people and their inclusion of him became part of his coming into manhood. I sensed this; I was somewhat troubled about what could happen; but I had to let go and trust that he would be OK and emerge a more talented and mature young man.

With his  good looks, supple and strong body, phenomenal memory, bubbling personality, ability to lay his hands on any prop that was needed, his throwing himself into the whole gestalt of the theater–of course the adult actors and directors adored him. I was used to Michael and I wasn’t surprised.

End of Part 1

A Functional Family/This is Us

During Michael’s early childhood he was quiet, playing by himself a lot, creating a “town” called “Stewartville” in the basement out of Legos and little bits of other toys. He spent hours like this. Of course, I worried–that he had no playmates, didn’t play baseball out on the street, etc. My childhood had been so happy, plenty of fun, people who liked me. Michael was probably miserable, right?

In my graduate school years I had a psychology class and we talked about coming of age. I learned that boys, between the ages of 9 – 14, show beginning signs of adolescent behaviors, become more curious about the world around them. I always tell people who ask me about my wonderful, accomplished son that on the exact date that Michael turned 9, he was a young adult or at least a teenager. He volunteered to work for the Democrats in Media, PA…with his father’s encouragement. In other major ways, he was evolving.

This was the start of what I call the “ten years.” Ten isn’t exactly correct, it was more like nine, that we began to have one of the most joyous times in our lives. I’m going to brag now. Most families can look back on a period of time–a vacation, etc.–when all was well and everybody had fun and got along well. Our lives were like that only they stayed that way for  almost a decade. Our weekends were hilarious, full of fun and lots of movies and junk food but most important–we began to watch the movies we loved and take out certain words and phrases. We ended up with a “lexicon” of at least fifty secret words and phrases that we dropped into the conversation, causing us to laugh long and sometimes almost hysterically. It was obvious at this point that Michael was brilliant with an IQ of at least 180; I realized, in retrospect, that his first-class mind was the reason for his quiet childhood. He was bored and waiting to grow up.

Were we intellectual snobs? Yeah, in a way, because if anybody visited us we couldn’t hold back from dropping one or two of “our secret words” into the conversation. We were Shakespeare-lovers, had watched Kenneth Branagh’s film versions of Much Ado About Nothing and Henry V and took some of our phrases from them. In restaurants we used to laugh so hard that people noticed us but for once I didn’t care.

So everything was fun for ten years. When I took Michael shopping for school clothes I stayed on the perimeter of the boys’ sections and let him pick out his own clothes.

Finally, we used to call ourselves a “functional family.” We loved being together; if one of us needed solitude and quiet, the two others would respect that and go away and have some fun doing something else.

A Hungry Woman Gets Fed

For better or worse I have the ability to push the past behind me and throw myself into a new form of existence. When Mark, my first husband, and I read all about astrology, he told me I fitted the description of Aries, my sun sign. Headstrong. But I don’t believe in that.

Peter was very funny and jolly, Italian. Since I don’t want to write long blogs–it’s a good challenge for a writer to keep things concise–I’ll say a few words about food.

This is strictly my opinion. However, I’ll write it and hope that nobody’s offended. I always knew that Jewish people loved good food, loved going out to fine restaurants and being served quickly and skillfully. But Italians in general–AT LEAST THE ITALIANS I’VE KNOWN–adore food, worship it, express love with it. My mother-in-law hated eating in restaurants and thought her food was better than anything you could get outside her kitchen. She was both extremely graceful and humble about food. Peter learned to cook from her.

My mother-in-law made such delicious fruitcake at Christmas. During one Christmas season (not all in one day) I ate a whole one, all by myself.

The first thing I learned from Peter–eating is FUN. It was liberation, exhilaration, relaxation.

After all, it all started at a brunch.

An Angry Woman Falls in Love with A Man Who Makes Omelets

I like this photo of Peter because although you can’t see his sparkling blue eyes, he looks kind of meditative. This was on the plane home from Taos.

I met Peter in March of 1976. Meeting him marked the end of a long period of grief, confusion, bad luck. With one (young) marriage behind me I wasn’t so much depressed as I was furiously angry at life and I was making plans to move to Israel and work on a kibbutz.

I met him at a brunch and he was making omelets for everybody. That was my first sight of him and he was so happy and merry, all his vegetables minced and organized; I was through with men but I thought I could be his friend. So I came up to him and the first words I said to him were: “Can I help you?” This has been pointed out to me multitudes of times over the last 43 years. His answer was “You could cut up the mushrooms.” Seeing that his cooking skills were advanced and meticulous, I very carefully sliced the mushrooms.

By the end of this brunch I was saying to myself: I can’t lose this guy. I don’t want another failed romance but he seems as if he’d be such a great friend.

I was right.

 

The Big Weekend

Here is a picture of my son Michael and Peter, my husband. This is one of a very few photos I have that show a part of our place plus the two of them together. This is not the best photo I have of them but they have their arms around each others’ shoulders and that’s what counts.

Peter’s birthday is July 2 and Michael was born on July 1. Five more hours of labor and the birthdays would have been the same.

So we’re going “downstate” from here to Phila. where Michael lives. For the first time in ages we’ll be together for their birthdays.

I’ve written so much about Pittsburgh and my own experiences there and I’ve never written down anything about our family life. The three of us together.  I don’t know why but it doesn’t come naturally to me and–oh yes–I actually do know why I can’t/don’t. I’m a timid kind of person and I’m always afraid of making myself stand out…being a “show-off.” This is because I have been so blessed, having both of them so close to me, that it’s going to feel like bragging…

 

 

Pittsburgh; the grey and silver rainbow.

Life flows on within you and without you. George Harrison

I grew up in Pittsburgh, PA in the 1950s; we lived high up on the crest of a steep hill of which there are many in Pittsburgh. Looking out of my bedroom window I could see the mills along with the Monogahela as it wound its way toward the Allegheny.

After the passing of the decades I see a picture in my mind of the turbulent mills at one end of an arch, shaped like a rainbow and the Cathedral of Learning—the second tallest academic building in our hemisphere, I’m told— of the University of Pittsburgh at the other end. We all lived our lives under the rainbow-shaped arch but this “rainbow’s” colors were variations on grey and dull silver, not the 7-colored spectrum; industry + learning = Pittsburgh…?

Many Pittsburgh writers have tried—and are still trying, probably—to express the effects of Pittsburgh’s singular terrain on its residents. I also have been trying for 18 years, since I began my writing career.

Against Pittsburgh’s unique backdrop many odd sights, scenes, and architectural details stand out. Looking at a book of photographs of Pittsburgh I learned that there are more sets of steps connecting streets in the neighborhoods there than in any other city. The high cliffs that connect the streets of a neighborhood make steps a necessity.

The mill workers walked to work and back, using these steps; for many families cars were both unaffordable and inconvenient.

Pittsburgh is a beautiful place but beauty is impossible to define. Because I grew up there I wasn’t able to appreciate its loveliness, as often happens. Even while typing these words I feel inadequate. The city’s heart-stopping qualities can’t be described fully. Out of Pittsburgh’s bridges my favorite is the Smithfield Street Bridge. It connects downtown Pittsburgh with the newly-developed Station Square area; this was once a railway stop devoted to manufacturing, now a “restaurant and shopping” locale. People continually walk on this bridge, every day, all day. It’s only a bridge and quite convenient. But what makes me stare at photographs of it? Why does it intrigue me?

These are Pittsburgh questions..

Downtown (business) + Station Square (pleasure) = Pittsburgh?

 

 

 

 

 

Danger

The untented Kosmos my abode/I pass, a willful stranger;

My master still the open road/And the bright eyes of danger.

Robert Louis Stevenson

When I write in parts or chapters I always use some kind of quotation—poetry or prose—to begin. I think it adds a certain amount of class to a piece of writing; the author has taken the time to research and find the words that best fits what follows.

Our danger was bright eyed…

I can’t write about my particular childhood without addressing this subject. At the end of (part 3) I mention the freedom we were accorded while at play. I also wrote that Shady Avenue Extension was similar to a humming hive, everyone busy with their tasks that had been set out for them. That, to me, is the closest I can come to defining the atmosphere of our street.

As I have already explained, our group of three girls was not entranced with femininity. Fortunately our mothers didn’t nag. If we were playing outside that was enough for them. This is a good place to note that being a housewife in the 1950s was hard work. (Physical strength, cooking, cleaning, and management comprised this difficult role. Fewer “instant” foods. Most households had a cleaning woman who came once a week to do the “heavy work.” But remember: there were no automatic washer/dryers, no polyester which meant ironing everything, no second car available to rush to the grocery store in case dinner didn’t turn out right; hungry husbands coming home tired.) As long as the children were not underfoot, so much the better.

I can only imagine what my mother and her neighborhood friends on the block would have thought if they knew our real story…

We poked and pried and stole; peered into windows, spent hours investigating “the alley” that ran behind the houses on one side; kicked everything available. But the worst of all was our fascination with fire.

It must be noted that we all spent hours watching westerns on television. Our heroes were always camping out in the wilderness and they always had a fire. We decided to try this out for ourselves.

Matches were easy to find; no problem there. It was also easy to find paper and twigs. So, yes, we “set fires.” Fire, more than any of our exploits, calmed some sort of inner restlessness that we shared. Once lit (and these fires were quite small) we squatted down and stared at the flames. Burning wood smelled so good…we were hypnotized and we were cowboy cool.

However, after this we got more curious and began raiding our basements for anything worth burning. At my house we couldn’t find anything. But at my two friends’ –Arlene and Naomi—houses we found lots of candles in the basements and at Arlene’s, an old-fashioned candelabra.

This is the ultimate tale of danger that capped our excursion into playing with fire.

We had stolen enough candles to fill the entire candelabra. These were “Shabbos candles.” Arlene and I locked ourselves into one of the Steins’ storage rooms in the basement, inserted the candles, then lit them. As we stood, transfixed, at what we had accomplished, we could hear Mrs. Stein thundering down the stairs into the basement. She demanded that we unlock the door and we did, terrified.

She saw our burning candles; apparently she smelled smoke even though the storage room door was locked. She marched us up the stairs, “screaming bloody murder” and not just at Arlene. I had never been yelled at by somebody else’s mother before. Mrs. Stein called my mother and told her what happened.

My mother responded by racing the short distance to the Steins’ house and grabbing me by my shoulder. In that way she propelled me home, commanded me to stay in my room with a dire warning to “Wait until your father gets home.”

While all this was going on my mother had to prepare the house for a cocktail party she was giving for a relative. My stomach at my feet, frozen with fear of what punishment my father would decide on, I sat and stared out the window. I waited. Finally I heard the car pull to the curb, a door slam…my father was home. I was called downstairs where my mother was rushing around in one of her pretty dresses, delicately arranging the party food on big serving platters and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for me and my sister at the same time. I sat quietly, listened, and watched. Had my mother forgotten the blazing candelabra in the Steins’ basement? The twisting feeling in my stomach began to relax while my father was in the bedroom, changing his clothes.

I thought that by this time my mother had a chance to tell my father the terrible story. But nothing happened!! I lay in bed, listening to the guests talking and laughing. I was unable to fall asleep, though, until the people left. Certainly, now, there existed one last chance for me to be punished in some awful way. But nothing happened. My parents went to bed.

I believe that every kid should experience this once…getting away with some terrible deed. It makes you believe in forces beyond yourself. Nothing about fires was said. As for Arlene and Naomi and myself, a non-verbal agreement was made the next day; experimenting with fire was over. Arlene had been punished but that was not discussed.

However, the thrill of danger held us in its grip. We got this idea that it would be fun to take one of the empty mayonnaise jars we’d been given and rove around one of our kitchens, taking a bit of everything on the shelves and making a mix. This included baking soda, baking powder, vinegar, pancake syrup, salad dressing, milk, etc. Our downfall came when vinegar, added to baking powder, created a minor explosion. We were in the Steins’ kitchen and poor Mrs. Stein was somewhere else in the house. Frantically, trying not to scream, we ran water over whatever we’d created and dumped the contents of the jar down the drain.

 

 

 

I took this title from a wonderful book by Carl Jung.

The explosion of love and friendship shown towards a fellow Taylor Allderdice High School graduate upon leaving her position at KDKA commands my attention. As a writer and as a woman who has been ruled by restlessness, I can only reflect upon how it must be…to root yourself in the city in which you were born, aim at a particular goal, work hard to get there, and plant yourself. That didn’t happen to me until the year 2001, when I was 51.

Actually, I did accomplish what I wanted; I’m not complaining. However, having worked in various places and performed a multitude of varying duties, I know what office politics are all about. To emerge at this point in life both unscathed and firmly rooted, gaining accolades from hundreds of people…this is something I deeply admire.

When I was going to Pittsburgh a lot, while my mother was still alive, I used to stand outside the main branch of the Carnegie Library and dream and reflect; what would my life have been if I stayed in the city I love and got a degree in Library Science, then worked for the place I also loved? I think everybody gets wrapped up in these fantasy questions.

It’s not a morbid thing to do–to sit and look back and remember. It’s probably a mistake to do it too much, too often. When I gaze at the photo above–of Pittsburgh and the Point–I think that I left my heart there. It did feel like that for a while but my heart got transferred to this place just outside of Bloomsburg, PA.