?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Fiddler

Posted on April 11, 2005

Last night Earl and I attended a touring production of “Fiddler on the Roof” at the local auditorium. The original, starring Zero Mostel, debuted on Broadway over forty years ago and defied the current musical wisdom by addressing such issues as persecution, poverty, and change. Heavy subjects indeed!

Last night’s production addressed the same issues. But what impressed me most was that the mounting of the play favored a 1964 approach, rather than a 2005 bells and whistles one. I’ve seen other vintage Broadway productions that have been updated; and they’ve been so updated that you know they could no longer have taken place in the period they were supposed to. Last night’s “Fiddler” avoided that overdone error.

There were simple sets, not elaborate turning stages. There was great lighting without a single strobe in sight. There were traditional dances, typical of the Russia where the play occurs, and they were not jazzed with bared midriffs and funky hip hops.

While I never saw the Mostel Broadway edition, I’ve seen snippets of it on television thanks to Ed Sullivan. So I had an idea of what the original Tevye looked and sounded like. Last night’s Tevye did a wonderful job, not only of connecting with the past but also making the role his own. I read later in the program notes that he had done this role almost 2500 times. I guess he’s got it right by now.

The gentle play about a Russian dairyman with five daughters who lives in a little Russian village is really all about change and how to keep our sanity in a crazy world. All of us would be better equipped to cope with change in our own life if we took one night out to see “Fiddler on the Roof.”

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Waitressing

Posted on April 10, 2005

Last night Clara, Earl, and I went to dinner at a local restaurant whose name will be Anonymous. Not because the food was bad or the service lacked. But because our server was new, and I don’t want to cite anything that might give her away. This isn’t about embarrassing her.

Rather it’s about how to detect that a server is new and how to cut him or her slack on the occasion when you or I happen to be the first customer that person serves in the restaurant we’ve chosen for a relaxing dinner.

The hostess seated us and immediately the server appeared, eager and anxious. She asked what we’d like to drink from the bar; and, after letting the women he was escorting order, Earl asked for a Kir. The server’s face went blank. It seemed to be a foreign phrase to her.

“I’ll put these drinks in right away; and I don’t believe I mentioned my name is R*******. If you want anything, just ask.” She smiled and steered toward the bar. Shortly she returned saying the bartender couldn’t find, Crиme de Cassis, one of the ingredients for Kir. She apologized profusely, as if the bartender’s inadequacies reflected her own. So Earl asked for something simpler, a glass of white zinfandel, and R******* headed back to the bar.

When the drinks arrived, R******* asked if we were ready to order. We said no, that we wanted to enjoy our cocktail first. “I don’t want to be inattentive,” she said, “but I’ll let you relax. And, in case you need anything, my name is R*******.”

This was the first clue that R******* was new. She continued to ply us with her name all evening. When we finally ordered, she seemed confused about some of the things on the menu and marched off to the kitchen for the right answer. A seasoned server would not have had to do this.

We eventually placed our orders, amid many questions and much checking for answers. Was the walleye prepared to order? Was it pan fried or deep fried? Was the salad bar included on the evening’s special? R******* worked hard to find the right solution, even though it required several more trips to the kitchen. And even though it entailed apologies for having to do so.

Finally, she announced that this was her first evening on the job alone. Earl smiled, as if he had already figured it out. Clara and I were not so savvy, but once R******* described the situation, it became apparent.

Every communication with R******* required an answer on our part. “May I remove this cocktail glass?” “May I take your salad plate?” “Do you need a box for leftovers?” It was as if she needed permission and assurance at every step, in order not to make some faux pas. At the same time, this interrupted the flow of our conversation.

We endured it pretty well, but toward the end when R******* wanted to know if she could take the check, which had Earl’s credit card resting on it, we all looked at each other and almost broke out laughing.

I’ve never been a server, so I can’t really say how jittery I would be on my first night. But I have eaten out enough to know that I would need to appear confident, even when I wasn’t. I would need to do some homework too. I hope R******* realizes this. And soon.

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Prince Charles

Posted on April 9, 2005

The last I heard, Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles were finally tying the knot today. Maybe they already have, since England is several hours ahead of St. Joseph, Michigan.

Anybody who has followed Charles’ and Camilla’s romance, knows it’s been an on-again, off-again sort of thing for years. Mostly on, however, even when both were married to others.

I think Charles is more than a bit of a cad. When he married Diana, it seemed primarily to provide a direct heir to the throne behind himself, once he ever became king. Diana did that for him; all the while he continued to tryst away with Camilla.

Charles isn’t the first man to cheat on his wife; he isn’t even the first royal to do so. In fact, it appears that marrying a divorced woman won’t even stand in the way of his acceding the thrown on the death of his mother, Queen Elizabeth II. In olden days it would have.

The queen’s uncle, English King Edward VI, gave up his throne to marry divorcee Wallis Warfield Simpson. Even the queen’s own sister renounced the man she loved because he was divorced; and she wasn’t even in the direct line of succession. But Charles is the energizer bunny of royalty. He just keeps going, going, going.

I understand he’s been waiting since birth to become the King of England. But if the rules for the monarchy specify that the King or Queen cannot marry someone who is divorced, then maybe Charles should abdicate in favor of his son. Or maybe the Queen could issue an edict that passes over him. He and Camilla can still go to their polo games, and Diana would have the last laugh.

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Famous People Dying

Posted on April 8, 2005

Several famous people have died in the last seven days: Terri Schiavo, Pope John Paul II, Johnny Cochran, Prince Ranier, Saul Bellow. They came from different walks of life and their public personas impacted us in different ways. But now they are all gone.

On the basis of world influence, I imagine Pope John Paul II would claim first place among the recently deceased. He was the leader of the Roman Catholic Church for twenty-six years. And while Prince Ranier governed his tiny municipality of Monaco for over fifty years, his influence was less far-flung. Ranier changed a country; John Paul attempted to change the world.

Both men will have successors who will be hard-put to step from the shadow of their forebearers. We already know Prince Albert of Monaco will accede to that throne, but who will become the next Pope won’t be revealed quite yet. Both men will have elaborate state funerals, although dignitaries will probably attend John Paul’s funeral over Ranier’s.

As for Cochran, I heard a blurb on the news today that five thousand people, including some of Hollywood’s infamous, attended his funeral. That’s a third of the population of the town where I live. It’s an amazing send-off for O.J. Simpson’s defense attorney.

Not through any will of her own, Terri Schiavo still created dissention in death that she did in life. Her husband, now her widower, and her parents continued to argue over her remains, her burial place, etc. In this case, I’ve lost patience with the survivors.

And then there’s Saul Bellow, that man of letters who won literary prize after literary prize. In truth, I’ve never read anything by him, but of all the famous people who passed away this week, his is the legacy I’m most interested in learning more about.

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Casablanca

Posted on April 7, 2005

My favorite movie in the whole world, “Casablanca,” airs tonight for the umpteenth time. And, for at least half that many times, I’ve watched it. The lead actors and actresses are all dead, since the movie premiered in 1942, but there on the little screen they are as alive and passionate as ever.

Basically, the story revolves around one Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart), owner of a cafй in Casablanca, Morocco, during the Second World War. He’s nursing a wounded heart, having apparently been jilted a few years earlier by a woman he’d met in Paris before the Germans occupied it. He’s come to Casablanca to forget.

But the war has caught up with him. And so too has the woman, played by Ingrid Bergman. Ilse’s married now – in fact, was married when she and Rick had their affair – and is trying to help her husband, a leader of the Resistance, get out of the country. Rick holds the key to their escape.

There are myriad legends that have grabbed hold about the making of “Casablanca,” directed by Michael Curtiz. One was that the script was noticeably loose, that from day to day the actors did not quite know what came next, and that – until the very end – the Bergman character didn’t know if she would stay with her husband or go with her former lover.

If this notion is true, then I think it added to the intrigue of “Casablanca.” The movie itself is about wondering whether the characters get out of their situation alive; in real life, not knowing whether they do or not until the end makes their performances more real.

There are so many lines in this black and white film that have become standards in conversation. “Play it again, Sam.” “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.” “Here’s looking at you kid.” “Round up the usual suspects.” “This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.” The movie was made on back-lot sets for one million dollars, and the mega-budgets and location choices of today don’t hold a candle.

So if you’re not doing anything tonight, tune in to Turner Classic Movies and catch one of the best of all times. Here’s looking at you.

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Socks

Posted on April 6, 2005

Here’s a question. How much do you spend on a pair of socks?

Until a couple years ago, I spent as little as possible, buying my hosiery at discount stores where they packaged several pair in a big plastic bag. They usually had a sale sign on the bag too.

But that was before Earl bought me some super-ugly, super-heavy rag socks in which to pad around the house in winter. (We don’t wear shoes indoors, so socks become our slippers.) They were wonderful. And I was sure they didn’t come with sale signs on them.

Then one day we were at Lunker’s when I noticed some really fancy socks to wear while hiking. Since we had planned to hike in Costa Rica, these seemed like just the thing. Except they cost fifteen dollars per pair. However, fresh from wearing rag socks, I weighed the pros and cons and finally decided to try a pair, given that hiking in Costa Rica was not something I would do every day and I wanted to be comfortable. So I popped for the Thorlo® brand socks, and haven’t looked back.

In fact, I’ve decided that discount socks fit in the category of “You get what you pay for.” Compared to the rag version and the hiking version, you don’t get much if you want to go cheap.
Think about it. Your feet hold you up all day. They fit into clunky things called shoes, which may or may not be comfortable. So socks provide a buffer. They also keep the feet warm.

I didn’t know there were so many kinds of sock until I received a catalog called Campmor. Inside, pages 133 through 138 have enough variety to make one’s head spin. There are stretch socks, fleece stocks, smartwool socks, coolmax socks, liner socks, wigwam socks, merino wool socks, all terrain crew socks, X-Static socks (whatever that means), and backpacking socks. In other words, socks for every occasion. If you’re interested, go to http://www.campmor.com.

I no longer haunt the discount racks when it comes to socks; on the contrary, I’ve become a sock snob. I don’t know what my feet feel about all this; I do know they’re not complaining.

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Work

Posted on April 5, 2005

My assistant, Kyle, and I have worked together over five years. During this time, I believe both of us have grown from our business relationship. I’ve learned about computers and programs and how to change with the times. Case in point: online banking. I think Kyle has learned about business dealings and smooth transitions and being up for anything. Case in point: taking on some real estate projects that were not in the original job description. Together, Kyle, Earl, and I have managed more than one challenge.

But over the past couple months, we’ve been experimenting with working via long distance, so that Kyle doesn’t have to drive one hundred miles to Michigan once or twice a week to work with us. We’ve set up our banking accounts on the Internet, we’ve tried using video cameras, and we’ve talked through various problems on the telephone. It has, to one degree or another, worked.

However, what it has taught me is that there is no substitute for face-to-face working together, regardless of the cost savings of each of us being in our own home office. It’s awkward to send an email to Kyle requesting something and then wonder if A. he received the email and B. when he will get around to my request. There is no instant feedback, and I believe that is a crucial element in getting work done. It’s also more difficult to catch problems before they become problems when you don’t have the give-and-take of a face-to-face business environment occurring in real time.

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Burger King®

Posted on April 4, 2005

This afternoon I went to Burger King® for lunch. I hadn’t been in a fast food restaurant in a while, not since my kids left home, because all those burgers and fries just don’t appeal to me any more. But when I did frequent Burger King®, the franchise had a chicken sandwich that was pretty tasty. For some reason, I wanted one today. So I took myself off to the closest BK.

Some things were as I remembered them. The large logo on a pylon still guarded the parking lot. The disposable paper crowns like the ones my boys fought over still lined the counter. And plastic toys – robots, I think – still promised more than they probably deliver.

But the menu was undecipherable. Instead of a focus on a few well-made burgers and the occasional chicken sandwich, there were salads and combos and enormous omelets and maple walnut milkshakes. I couldn’t find the sandwich of my memory anywhere. So I quizzed the server.

“You used to have a chicken sandwich,” I began. That’s as far as I got. She caught her cue and proceeded to point to the various chicken things on the lighted menu above her head. There was grilled; there was super crispy; and there, hiding on the far right, was the one I wanted.

“That’s it,” I cried with the joy of finding a lost child. “One of those please. And what sizes does your coffee come in?”

“Small or large,” she answered, “unless you prefer medium and large. But it’s all the same.”

I handed over my $3.29 cents and she handed me an empty Styrofoam® cup and a tray with a sandwich wrapped in paper. “What happened to the coffee and the cute paper box,” I asked?

“Coffee’s do-it-yourself, around the corner,” she said. “What box?”

I said nothing, because she wouldn’t understand. I headed for the condiment counter and then for a table by the window. Was the sandwich as good as I remembered? Well, no. The chicken was lukewarm instead of piping hot; the lettuce had yesterday written all over it; and the mayo had been poured on both the inside and the outside of the bun. It made for gooey eating.

I came from the days when Burger King®’s slogan was, “Have it your way.” It was accompanied by a napkin too. I guess that’s all gone by the wayside.

At least now I know.

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Mother

Posted on April 3, 2005

My Mother died nine years ago today; and, while I’m not one to be emotional about her passing, I always remember the day. It began with a call in the night, since I had left her home three days earlier to return to work in Chicago. Through the thinnest of phone wires, Mother’s good friend, Libby, told me she had passed away – quietly, silently, although I believe she was lucid until almost the end.

Maybe, this convergence of Mother’s death, the Pope’s, and Terri Schiavo’s has made me more reflective about death and dying; maybe it’s because I’m nine years closer to my own demise. In either case, I find myself pondering what to make of a life in the face of death.

My Mother was an enigma to me. On one hand, her friends adored her, although not one told me why. My own theory is that she was vibrant to the end — taking trips, reading books, supporting causes – at a time when those whom she befriended were less inclined. She became their role model, and I admired her for it.

On the other hand, Mother baffled her family and managed, on one occasion or another, to annoy every one of us. I don’t know why this was the case either, although I do have a theory. Mother felt more comfortable with her friends than her family, because she felt she didn’t fit into her family. This was never expressed openly, but – if the theory is accurate — maybe it should have been.

One way Mother and I were different was in terms of unfinished business, my mini essay for yesterday. Mother left little unfinished. She believed that you completed what you started, regardless of whether you enjoyed it or not. It didn’t matter whether it was an obligation or an option. I doubt her bookshelves contained unfinished tomes, except for the one she might have been reading when she died. She even ate leftovers faithfully.

She was as devout a Catholic as John Paul II. And as much her own person. They were of the same generation, as well, and I imagine my Mother was part of the welcoming committee in Heaven when the Pope arrived yesterday, his business finished on earth.

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Unfinished Business

Posted on April 2, 2005

The media’s recent preoccupation with death and dying and living wills has spurred me to consider my own situation, even though most acquaintances and close friends would say that I am far from death’s door, that I have all my faculties, and that I know what I’m doing. But it’s a good idea to take stock from time to time anyway.

I have the appropriate living will forms in place; my executor knows my wishes; and my trust is up-to-date. Even though my lawyer and I created the relevant documents five years ago, they still represent my final wishes.

Yet there is unfinished business.

For instance, there are the many half-read books populating my office shelves. I count six on my table alone, each wearing a bookmark like a badge and waiting for my return. There are the photos, over one hundred years of them, in various boxes but not really organized. It’s a project I keep telling myself I’ll get to. There is the afghan I’m working on, and the yarn already bought for the next one. And, finally, there are files and files of half-finished stories, poems, two novels, and one memoir on my computer. Thankfully the files are not of the office supply store variety or I would not be able to move about in my office at all.

I started some of these projects years ago, others just last month. And, unlike the disposal of my financial affairs, I’ve made no arrangements for what will become of them when I’m gone. One answer, I suppose, is to buckle down now and finish a book here, a yarn project there. Tidy up, so to speak. But I have a tendency to become interested in new things, and many interests compete for my time. At the very least, I should make a list of my unfinished business, so that my heirs can choose to pick it up where I lay it down. Or not.

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