The Thrill and The Agony

I am an Olympic junkie.  Winter or summer, day or night, I am glued to Olympic coverage: television, magazines, and newspapers.   This time around, we are even making liberal use of live streaming.  My daughter is a college fencer.  Fencing is one of the more obscure Olympic sports, relegated to the Internet rather than the network.   The rules of fencing are so complex and weapon-specific that I think the commentators choose not to bother.  Thus, we have added computers to our Olympic control center so my daughter can follow the fates of her fencing acquaintances.  (My daughter faced one of the two women on the US sabre team in competition and beat her!)

Every moment during Olympic season carries a potential for controversy.  The other night was the women’s gymnastics preliminary round.  The news is atwitter with accounts of the current world champion who was denied her opportunity to compete in the all-around competition.  I must say, I have mixed feelings about this.

Certainly it is tragic to see anyone—particularly a young girl who has been well hyped—fail to achieve their athletic goal.  We feel her pain, knowing that in this sport, her window of opportunity will close before the next Olympic cycle comes around.  I also agree that the rules are unfair.  A process that limits each country to just two advancing athletes is flawed.  This is a championship to crown the best in the world.  Advancement to the all-around final is based on total scores in the preliminary round, with the top 24 advancing.  An athlete that can score among the top few should not be punished for the depth of her own country’s bench.  For Wieber to be eliminated while others with vastly lower qualifying scores advance is just bad policy.  This is a rule that must be changed.

On the other hand, the US team came to London to compete with a full awareness of these new rules.  All night long the commentators discussed the fact that three US women would be vying for two slots.  There was an assumption that Wieber—the current world all-around champion—would be a shoe in and that Raisman and Douglas would be duking it out for the second US slot.  Only after Wieber was revealed as the eliminated athlete did anger surface over the 2-athlete-per-country rule.  Had Raisman finished in third place (as expected), I wonder if Bela Karolyi would have felt such outrage.  NBC would have had no story.

I have a problem with people who argue a change in rules when they do not like an outcome.  In science, there is a whole discipline committed to ensuring that there is no bias in a process.  This is how you know that results are objective and fair.  In layman’s terms, the ends do not justify the means.   If an athlete’s resume was relevant in determining Olympic outcomes, the competitors would simply send in applications and video clips to be reviewed by a sequestered panel of judges.  If we allow each athlete to be judged by their historical personal best, it would not be the Olympics.

The Olympics is very much about the moment.  This is why we are all glued to the television, sopping up the personal interest stories, handicapping the competitors, and cheering our favorites.  We love to understand what motivates them to sacrifice everything for a chance of a lifetime.  We want to share in the triumph when an underdog digs deep and delivers the performance of a lifetime.  For every elated victor who sings to their national flag atop the podium, there are dozens of athletes who are collateral damage.  Once the torch lights the cauldron there are no guarantees.

Gymnastics is a sport of tenths of points.  Jordan Wieber made mistakes, giving up precious points on more than one apparatus—a bobble here and a step there.  I do not recall the expert commentators complaining that she was underscored, or that her deductions were not justified.  On the other hand, Ali Raisman came prepared to deliver her best possible performances, knowing only that every clean program and stuck landing would help her team.  Raisman did her job; Wieber did not.  The rules were clear.  

I hope the controversy surrounding this dies down.  Ali Raisman deserves her moment, and the respect that comes with besting the world champion.  I will be cheering the two US underdogs, hoping that while they try to beat each other they remember to beat everyone else as well.

Tomorrow's blog:  Thickly Settled

Pretty Little Trees and Happy Accidents

There are those who think my blogs come too much at the expense of my darling husband.  In fact, I allow him veto rights before the blog hits the fan.  All writers are encouraged to write what they know.  For more than thirty years, I have been a faithful observer of this gentle giant.  I would venture to say that even his mother does not know the subtleties, the quirks, and the hilarious ironies that define this man as well as I do.  Of my several core competencies, I am the undisputed expert on this man.  To his minions, he is a solid and serious academic who defers to statistical significance.  To me, he is a loving and clueless professor who pretends to be house broken, hoping that a critical oversight won’t give him away.

The quirks are many.  I suppose the success of my marriage is that fact that I find most of them endearing.  Even the kids have grown to mock these “unique” features.  For example, my husband has many aphorisms. Faced with a complex interrogation, most men would become defensive.  Mine, however, sits quietly and listens.  At the end, he offers, “Yes, is the simple answer.”  When he is juggling mental calculations or sorting through conceptual ideas, he fills the silence with, “Bear with me!”  He is also an incurable creature of habit.  In the car, he sets the GPS even when he is going home.

Among his likes and dislikes, quirks and habits, my husband has one dirty little secret.  He is a closet Bob Ross aficionado.  Tucked away in our basement, in corners and boxes he believes are yet undiscovered, he has every single Bob Ross episode on DVD.   Even after decades of watching these again and again, my darling mate never tires of watching as a blank canvas—treated first, of course, with Liquid White—explodes into a snow-capped mountain or a densely foliaged river bank.  He blinks in disbelief as the tapping of a brush into Alizarin Crimson and Phthalo Blue transforms nothingness into trees of some uncertain variety.  He is awed by the press of the palate knife and its ability to turn spring into winter, or to reveal the shadows of distant evergreens.

But his wonderment is short lived.  No sooner does the landscape begin to reveal itself that hubby drifts off into deep REM sleep.  Try though he might, the poor boy has never made it to the end of a single episode.  The husky voice of the Afro-coiffed painter is the antidote to a rough day, the answer to how to spend a rainy Saturday, or the method of choice for skirting the honey-do list.  It is his personal brand of crack—the Kryptonite to this Superman.  It not only brings him to his knees, it renders him unconscious and flat on his back.

I suppose, as guilty pleasures go, I can give him this one.  He is a hardworking man, admired by many but truly understood by only a few.  He lives every moment of his life in a fast paced and competitive environment.  Such a man deserves a place where he can go to unwind.  I don’t begrudge his escape to a painterly world with happy little trees.

Tomorrow's blog:  The Thrill and The Agony

A Gift for the Girl Who Has Everything

My dearest husband,

In a few weeks we will celebrate our thirtieth anniversary.  It’s been a good ride.  In the blink of an eye we have gone from starving graduate students to a beautiful family.  Our grown children seem to possess the best qualities of each of us.  In them, I see your quiet determination, your lanky build, your smiling eyes, and your inherent kindness.  I thank G-d every day that you squeezed your telescoping legs into the wheel well seat on a bus just so you could talk to me.   I am glad, despite my mother’s protestations to the contrary, that I gave you a chance to sweep me off my feet.  You have spoiled me, tolerated me, encouraged me, and then spoiled me some more.  I have few regrets.

There is one area, however, where I have been left wanting.  Despite my best efforts to enlighten you on the finer points of the feminine mystique, you still don’t get women.  How many chick flicks must you endure before you grasp the importance of blowing smoke, offering those gratuitous platitudes that make a girl’s heart flutter?  I want to know that I complete you, that you would abdicate your throne for me, that you would want me and only me to be mistress of your Pemberley.  

Do not mistake my petty needs as being ungrateful for the decades you have shared your life with me.  Rather, I simply have not recovered from being left completely unfulfilled at the beginning of this love story.  You see, I am still waiting for a proper marriage proposal.  Somehow, we planned a wedding, walked down the aisle in full view of your family and mine, danced and ate wedding cake.  I have a legal document certifying our status as married.  And yet, the guy who made his mark on the world through a well-stated null hypothesis, clearly articulated specific aims, and evidence presented with statistical significance, failed to make a compelling case.  What you offered was a cavalier throwaway on a drive to the mountains.  “When do you want to get married?” is a question, but it is not the right question.   It hints at a moment in time but skirts any specific promises for the future.  It offers no parameters of mutual understanding.  Simply put, it does not state your case.

This year, as we reflect on thirty years together—well more than half of my life spent by your side—I want only one gift.  I want a proper marriage proposal, one that creates a weak-in-the knees moment about which all girls dream.  I want you to break from character and become the stuff of fairytales and Victorian novels.   I want a story to tell my grandchildren.  I want one of those “moments” that plays back again and again with a crescendo of music.  You have given me almost everything and then some.  I already have ‘happily ever after.’  Can I please have ‘Once upon a time?’

Tomorrow's blog:  Pretty Little Trees and Happy Accidents

Cat Tales

Early in our marriage, we had a vested interest in staving off parenthood.   First we were starving graduate students.  Then, I was on the cusp of a career and my husband was pursuing a long-term residency in oral and maxillofacial surgery.  We were having a tough enough time taking care of ourselves and making ends meet, not to mention living in a vibrant but expensive city.   My parents managed to hold their tongues for a year or two.  After that, the fact that we had not produced offspring became a topic of criticism.  There was a popular T-shirt back in the equality-enlightened mid-80s that featured a comic-book character in a display of deep angst.  The caption said, “I can’t believe it.  I forgot to have children.”  My mother thought this was made for me.

This is why a hyper-allergic girl like me agreed to have cats.

As grandchildren go, this was not what my mother had in mind.   Nonetheless, walking through a mall one day we did the unthinkable: we bought a kitten from a pet store.  We did not plan to buy a kitten.  My husband pulled me in just to take a look, trying to convince me that I could love a fur ball.  The clerk invited us in to a pen where a dozen little kitties were corralled.  The tiniest orange kitten walked up to my foot, turned his sweet face up at mine, and said, “Meow.”  It was all over but the paperwork.

I thought this little guy belonged in our family, especially because he had red hair like his “father’s.”  We named him Crouton because he was the runt of the litter—a tiny little crumb.  I rushed home from work every night just to sit with him.  If I laid down on the couch to watch TV, he would climb onto my chest to listen to my heartbeat and purr.  Having grown up without pets, I never experienced this type of bonding.  Instead of quelling the maternal instincts, it fanned the fire.

About a year later, my husband brought home a flyer for more kittens.  Someone had a bunch of purebred seal point Siamese cats that were going fast.  “Let’s just take a look,” he begged me.  I was hardly surprised when we came home with yet another feline.  She appeared regal, so we named her Chelsea, thinking that a haughty name suited her.  

It was a few weeks early to take Chelsea from her mother, but the sellers were given an ultimatum from their landlord.  Thus, we grabbed her lest she go to another family.  Back at home, she took a shine to Crouton, who despite his lack of female parts, was happy to play mother to the new little critter.  We came home each day to find the two curled up together.  Crouton would groom little Chelsea’s fur loyally, and Chelsea would latch on to Crouton’s vestigial nipples and suck with all her might.  After about three weeks together, we discovered that Crouton’s underside was quite raw, his fur rubbed away to reveal several swollen bumps.  Needless to say, during a particular scene in Ben Stiller’s Meet the Parents, we nearly died of laughter.

As her pedigree promised, Chelsea grew into a beautiful animal:  gorgeous seal point coat and haunting, clear blue eyes.  As is sometimes the case with this variety of Siamese, Chelsea looked at me knowingly.  So deliberate were her looks and gestures, it often seemed as if she were trying to beam a message directly to my brain.  And yet, by all evidence she was a daft animal.  She was independent and untrainable— characteristics that seemed to betray a lack of intelligence rather than a strength of will.  She did not run to the bowl when dinner was served.  She did not obey the litter protocol to which Crouton conformed infallibly.   She lived with a practiced indifference to convention that came only with generations of inbreeding.

Underestimating her intelligence turned out to be a grave mistake.

After many years and a cross-country move, we were happily situated in Atlanta with two kids and two cats.   Although Crouton and Chelsea were house cats, Crouton learned to run around the neighborhood after breakfast and come home at night for dinner.  He would stand up at the kitchen door and ask to go out: “Meow!”  I heard from a neighbor that he would sometimes spend time in her basement (she made the mistake of giving him some milk).  If I opened the back door and shook the large Tupperware container filled with cat food, Crouton would come racing home in a matter of minutes.  Chelsea, however, refused to go out.  She simply sat on her pillow assuming a regal pose and blinked her pretty blue eyes.

When we traveled, the cats presented a dilemma.  If we took out the kennels to transport them to “Kitty Camp” they disappeared.   Eventually, we hired a Nanny to help with the kids; she helped to feed cats while we were away.  But on one occasion, we needed to go away at the same time as the Nanny’s vacation.  The vet told us that cats eat only until they are full.  Thus, you can portion out enough food (and water) for the number of days you are away and simply leave the cats in the house.

   

Since this advice came from a reliable source, we decided to try it.  We set out on a nine day ski trip, leaving the cats alone but well cared for.  We closed all the doors to the bedrooms and bathrooms.   We measured out enough food for our time away plus some extra, left many bowls of water, and filled an extra litter box--staging the kitchen as “kitten central.”  Crouton looked disturbed as we packed and shuffled luggage around in the house; Chelsea sat on a sliver of sun that cut across the hard-wood floor, batting her eyelashes and looking away.  With a final scratch on the heads—from which Chelsea recoiled—we alarmed the house and left.

When we returned, we opened the door and instantly regretted not leaving more food.  Every morsel was consumed.  Had we not left enough?  Crouton was not there to welcome us as usual, so we brought in our bags and went on a search and rescue mission.  Chelsea was nowhere in sight, but Crouton was sitting on the floor outside our bedroom.  Did he choose that particular spot because he missed us?  He was, literally, twice his normal size, explaining what happened to all the food we left.  Still we could not find Chelsea.  We began to think that maybe Crouton had eaten her.  We scoured the house, looking under the sofas and chairs, behind the curtains, inside the pantry—no sign of her.

Bringing the luggage upstairs, we took our bags into our bedroom.  When we opened the door to our room, Chelsea came sauntering out, turning her head around to blink in our direction before ambling down the stairs and out of view.  We looked at each other perplexed, then reviewed our departure routine.  We were certain all the doors to the bedrooms were closed when we left.  We were also sure that Chelsea had been in full view on the living room floor when we alarmed the house and closed the door.  It was then we began to realize that when we reprimanded confused kids for slamming doors, it had actually been Chelsea using her gifted Siamese paws to push them shut.  We now stumbled upon her ability to stand on her hind legs and turn the antique knobs to open the doors.  Our feline princess decided to upgrade herself to a private room—safe from the domineering Crouton—without knowing that we were not coming home for over a week.

There was one major problem with Chelsea’s plan:  she could open doors in but not out.  Once she opened our bedroom door and closed it behind her, she was stuck.  As we processed this reality, we began to wonder how long Chelsea had been prisoner in our bedroom.  Had she gone without food for over a week?  It certainly looked as if Crouton had feasted on more than his fair share.  Then a darker reality set in.  There was no litter box in our bedroom.  That’s when we discovered a discreet little puddle in the corner of the bathroom and a more disturbing pile of turds planted in the middle of our queen-sized bed.

As it is with pets and children, the parents are left to clean up the mess.  We required a brand new mattress and boxspring, and a new set of linens.  More importantly, Chelsea taught us who was boss.  Ever obedient, we never tried that again.

Tomorrow's blog:  A Gift for the Girl Who Has Everything

What Happens in a Practice Room Stays

The summer of ’74 was a magical time for me.  Tucked away in the Piedmont region of North Carolina, every day at the Eastern Music Festival was a new experience.  I met college-aged students attending well-known conservatories and Ivy-League schools, I studied with a young emerging pianist who helped me to refine aspects of my own playing that my teacher back home ignored, and I rubbed elbows with greatness. 

One of the most exciting visiting artists at the festival was a triple-act: The Beaux Arts Trio.  This ensemble was the pre-eminent piano trio globally for over half a century.  Over the years the violinist and cellist changed; that summer it was Isadore Cohen (formerly a violinist of the Juilliard String Quartet, who played with the trio from 1969 to 1992) and Bernard Greenhouse, the trio’s founding cellist who remained with the group for 32 years.  Menahem Pressler, the pianist who fled Nazi-Germany in 1939 and co-founded the trio in 1955, remained the only pianist of this ensemble until its final concert in 2008.

Menahem Pressler is a pianist’s pianist—a true stylist and a great collaborator.  When the trio performed together, three musicians breathed as one.  But Pressler was also a great solo performer, as comfortable on stage alone as he was with his musical partners.    Between rehearsals with the Beaux Arts Trio for its scheduled performances, Pressler was also disappearing into the depths of the piano practice rooms to catch a little practice time for his upcoming solo engagements.

In those days, I was deep into Rachmaninoff’s 2^nd Piano Concerto.  I had performed both the first and last movements with local Miami orchestras, but I was busy that summer trying to learn the difficult second movement in order to have a “complete concerto” in my repertoire.  The festival had a concerto competition; I was hoping to have the slow movement polished in time to compete.  Every day, I was out early after breakfast to get first dibs on the good practice rooms.  There, in the refrigerated, windowless cube, I would work until lunchtime.

One day, I was working out my favorite “Russian march” section of the 1^st movement, trying to get the large chords more crisp in my tiny hands, when there was a knock on the door.  I stopped playing, yelling, “Come in!”  The door opened and it was Menahem Pressler.  Looking sheepish, he apologized before backing out of the room, closing the door behind him.  I resumed my practicing only to be interrupted a few moments later by another knock.  Once again I stopped playing.  The door opened and it was Pressler again.  “May I help you?” I asked, politely, and clearly a little star struck.  “I am looking for someone,” he said.  “Are you here all alone?”  He looked around the practice room and behind the open door, trying to discover whether there was more to the room than he could see.

“Who are you looking for?” I asked, thinking I might be able to help.  “I keep hearing someone playing Rachmaninoff,” he said.  “Do you know who it is?”  I explained that I was working on Rachmaninoff’s 2^nd.  “No,” he said, sincerely enough that I believed his surprise.  “That could not be you.  This sounded like a man.”  

No amount of arguing could convince him; I was the only one on campus working on that piece.  He pointed at the keyboard and commanded me to play.  I picked up the passage I had been practicing and played a bit for him.  He said, “I’ve never heard such a big sound come from such a little girl!”  Then he explained that he, too, was working on the same concerto.  He was leaving from EMF to appear with the Miami Beach Symphony the next night.  “I just played this concerto with them!” I said.  I explained the Kiwanis Club Concerto Competition in which I had just won a prize.  It included a performance with this (now defunct) professional orchestra.

“I’m looking for a place to practice,” Pressler said.  “Can we share this room?”  I instantly relinquished the bench to the master, pulling in a folding chair so that I could sit alongside.  For the rest of the morning we played passages for each other, an exchange of which I was certainly the greater beneficiary.  After a few solid hours the door flew open.  It was Bernie Greenhouse and Izzy Cohen looking for their pianist.  Pressler made introductions, and the four of us headed out to the dining hall for lunch.  

After that, I was their constant companion for the rest of their visit.  Pressler invited my Brahms Piano Quartet to play in their master class.  It was unfortunate, however, that I had just gotten the score and was not really up to performance quality yet.  No matter.  Pressler slid onto the bench and played with my string players—a perfect impromptu performance.  When it came time for the Beaux Art Trio to give their own recital, Pressler asked me to turn pages for him on-stage.  After a week and great words of encouragement, I bade farewell to my new friends.

Fast forward six years.  I see a poster on the Harvard campus advertising a recital by the Beaux Art Trio in Sanders Theatre.  I liquidated my emergency coin jar to buy a single ticket to the concert.  I arrived early, sneaking into the area where artists warm-up before concerts.  I made my way to Pressler, asking him if he remembered the summer at the Eastern Music Festival, and the little girl who played Rachmaninoff with him all morning.  “Of course!” he exclaimed, surprising me by his memory of that day.  “But how did you know. . .?”  He looked at me again.  “Come closer and let me look into your eyes,” he said.  I’m not sure what he was looking for, but suddenly he reached out and grabbed me in a big bear hug.  He turned to his partners, recounting the story of that summer and the dueling Rachmaninoffs.  He was thrilled to catch up, to see me “all grown up into a lady,” and attending a good school.  

Honestly, I thought he was just being polite.  How could this day—which meant so much to me—have made such a lasting impression on him as well?  But there is something special that happens between people when they make music together.  It forms a bond that sometimes lasts a lifetime.  He offered me a ticket to attend a solo recital he was giving at Tufts the following evening, asking me to be sure to come back stage afterward.  When I tried to excuse myself to let them complete their pre-concert preparations, he pulled me back and offered an even greater gift.  “Would you turn pages for me,” he asked, “again?”

King of Leons

My piano teacher was very much against my spending summers at music camp.  For her, it was a loss of control.  For me, it was the opportunity to find like-minded kids with whom to make music.  I felt it was important to test my mettle against older, more experienced musicians.  But the real draw was the opportunity to hobnob with some of my piano idols—maybe even to have the opportunity to play for them.

I received a scholarship to attend the Eastern Music Festival in the summer of ’74.  There, I had the opportunity, at last, to meet the legendary pianist, Leon Fleisher.  Fleisher’s son, Richard, was a close friend of mine—a harpist in my youth symphony.  Richard’s father lived in the D.C. area, so we never saw him at our concerts with all the other parents.   His apparent absence in Richard’s life added to the mystery that cloaked the man.  

Leon Fleisher walks on water among pianists.  He was the first American to win a top prize in a major European competition, back in the early 50s.  His recordings of the Beethoven piano concertos remain the standard by which all others are measured.  In the early 60s, Fleisher suffered the greatest of all tragedies:  he lost the use of his right hand.  This redirected his musical efforts into teaching, conducting, and most remarkably, performing the small repertoire composed for left hand alone.

At EMF, we all anticipated Fleisher’s arrival.  He arrived with great fanfare--an imposing presence with profoundly piercing eyes.  When he looks in your direction his gaze is not so much at you as it is through you.  Unlike many of the other artists that visited, he was not easily approachable; he carried an air that said ‘when I am interested in you, you will know.’

During his visit, Fleisher performed the incredible Ravel Piano Concerto for Left Hand Alone.  It is amazing to see someone with so much presence and power at the keyboard perform a piece with just one hand.  His right hand was used mainly to anchor him to the piano, resting through most of the performance on the crossbar in front of the pin block.  Those of us who were pianists had the same thoughts after the performance:  we wish we could do with both hands what he achieved with just one.

As part of his visit, Fleisher conducted a piano master class.  A master class is essentially a public event where a musical god conducts a lesson for one of more emerging students.    I was excited to be one of the few pianists chosen to perform for Fleisher.  I had been working on the Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody #12, a piece of great difficulty for a teenager with small hands.  The master class began with my own performance, after which Fleisher discussed with me (and the audience) the concepts that defined the character, tone, and tempo of the piece.  Standing behind me at the piano, he carved out passages on which to focus.  I would play first, then he would demonstrate, then I would try to emulate his technique.  The passages that most challenged me with my right hand, he was able to execute perfectly with his left.

Before the master class, I thought I played this piece well.  It was my signature piece during my early teens; I played it at every opportunity.  But after 30 minutes with Fleisher my performance was transformed.  I had a deeper understanding of my role in bringing this piece to life.   My interest in it was reborn, as if it were a new piece.  And I had a different understanding of how to approach all pieces on the piano from that moment forward.  The experience remains a high point in my short career as an aspiring musician.  [In the photo below, I still have Fleisher's notes in my music.]

A few nights later, I had the opportunity to perform that Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody in a piano recital with the maestro in attendance.  He approached me afterward and congratulated me on internalizing his advice.   I am probably still blushing.

Leon Fleisher received the Kennedy Center Honors in 2007.  During his tribute, I watched as other great musicians described similar experiences with Fleisher—the unique and impeccable way he approaches music making and the influence he has had on so many careers.    Today, Leon Fleisher is not well-known outside the musical elite, but it was gratifying to see the community of musicians recognize him for his profound impact on music making in America.

The Wizard of Ahs

One of my most vivid memories of early childhood was spent on the floor of our family’s “Florida Room”—a terrazzo-floored, jalousied extension at the rear of the house where our tube-in-a-box Dumont television resided.  We had a rag area rug and a funky sort of unstructured, mid-century couch my mother called a “Bahama Bed.”  

On this particular night I was probably no more than four.  My father made popcorn, a feat which required far more skill than it does today.  He heated oil in an old aluminum pot.  The only other time I saw that pot used was when I was sick and my mother placed it, oddly, by the side of my bed.  It sure seemed like magic when the handful of kernels Dad dropped inside the pot was replaced by an overflowing batch of steaming popcorn.  The smell infused the house and us with excitement as we sat down in front of the television.  The overture started, its sounds marred by crackles and scratches yet delivering an introduction that would forever bring me back to that very moment.  It was The Wizard of Oz. 

Sitting on the floor at my father’s feet, I was instantly drawn in to the plight of young Dorothy.  I knew what it felt like to be overlooked and underfoot, laughed at for nothing more than the innocent fancy of youth.   The world of her Kansas farm seemed tricked out with mortal dangers—a rutting pig, an adult bully (with her own scary leitmotif), a deadly cyclone, and a stranger.  I yelled at the television: “Don’t you know you are not supposed to talk to strangers!”

I was terrified when the adults boarded themselves up safely in the storm shelter, leaving the poor young girl to suffer the ravages of the storm alone.  I was oblivious to the fantasy of her injury-induced dream, afraid that my house could also be sucked up into the frequent storms that hit South Florida.  By the time Dorothy opened the door into Munchkinland, I was no longer in touch with reality.  Before long, I thought scarecrows could dance, trees could throw their apples, and that a green-skinned witch was hiding around every corner.

Burying my head in my mother’s lap, she distracted me from the horror by playing with my hair.  Dorothy has her thick hair in beautiful braids.  Wouldn’t it be fun, my mother suggested, to style my hair that way?  Sliding onto the floor cross-legged, my mother produced her signature pink hair brush with the white bristles and a couple of rubber bands.  My dirty-blonde hair was so much longer than Dorothy’s that it produced magnificent ropes, each leaving off with its own little ringlet.  I slept in them that night and then had fun the next day whipping them left and right as I turned my head.   They were long enough to pretend to write with them at the table, or to hold them over my lip as a sinister mustache.

The message behind The Wizard of Oz was wasted on me during that first tender viewing.  I did not connect the characters of Oz to the people in Dorothy’s own home life.  Nor did I understand that her adventure was the stuff of dreams—real life perils expressing themselves to children as haunted slumber.  I spent weeks searching the skies for flying monkeys and twister clouds.  I looked for angry faces in the crags of every tree on my block.  

It was years until The Wizard of Oz was for me a beloved classic.  It accentuated the fears of my youthful innocence, opening my eyes to the perils that lurked everywhere.  It taught me what real terror felt like—to have the constants of home and family threatened.  More and more often, I demanded that my mother braid my hair, loving not only the whimsy of the blended tresses but also the bonding that came from the girlie mother-daughter exchange.  In that very act of primping, I understood a parent’s caring for a child.  It was then that I understood:  there’s no place like home.

By Any Other Name

I took a lot of flak in the 80s when I got married and changed my name.  In those days, it was a bold choice; educated career women were not expected to assume their husband’s names.  It was considered a subversion of one’s identity.  As my readers are no doubt familiar, I had issues bordering on trauma from growing up with a last name that trailed all others alphabetically.  Having the opportunity to elevate myself to D-status, I took it.  But in truth, it was a slightly deeper story.

I got married just before completing graduate school in Health Policy and Management.  The School of Public Health where I studied is part of the Harvard Medical Campus, where a number of well-known Harvard teaching hospitals—Brigham and Women’s, Dana-Farber, Beth Israel-Deaconess, Children’s Hospital—are located.  Back in the early 80s, there was a well-regarded person of the same name who served as chief legal counsel for one of these hospitals.  I could not go about the simplest business on the campus without being confused with her.  

One day I walked over to her office and found her working at her desk.  I knocked politely at her door and when she looked up, I introduced myself using her own name.  She looked confused for a moment, but then the light came on.  She invited me in to chat.  As it turned out, she had heard about my existence from her colleagues.  At that time I was engaged, still considering whether or not to keep my maiden name.  After speaking with this woman I decided it would be easier all around to follow my instincts and accept the gift of my husband’s name.  Since I would graduate under this married name, it was easy enough to begin my career with a new identity.  And so it came to be.

It is an interesting footnote to this tale that I never saw this woman again.  Within a year after completing my graduate degree, my husband graduated and we moved to San Francisco for his residency.  It was fourteen years before we returned to Boston.  During that time, my maiden name took on a whole new identity;  a woman with that name and about my age became a Peabody-Award winning journalist and executive producer of NPR’s All Things Considered.  Every night as I drove home from work, I heard my old name doing amazing things on the radio.  Was there something charmed about this name?  Had I been hasty in casting it off?   I wonder if giving up a name is like giving away old clothes.  Is someone's life suddenly changed by wearing my old “lucky dress?”

We take great care to name our children, choosing not only a label by which they are called, but also an identity they will grow to inhabit.  Imagine the poor mother who innocently named her kid Bill Gates, or Ted Bundy long before those names had other meanings.  My own kids will never know how much I laugh at the way they resemble the particular character of each namesake that is referenced in their own names.   It makes me wonder whether I gave away something of myself as I shed my name.  Only after returning to the piano, and then later on Facebook, did I begin using my maiden name together with my married name.  It provides a breadcrumb that leads back to the original me.

I have never met anyone with my current name.  Just for fun, I thought I would research it.  Googling myself as I am now known, I found four others on LinkedIn with the same name.  They include a facilities planner at Columbia University, a reading teacher in Louisville, KY, a grocery manager in Bellingham, WA, and a church secretary in Portland.  Another person with this married name was born in 1863 and suffered an unknown fate.  Perhaps the strangest finding is the “Ellen Dodson Appreciation Society,” no doubt created by the young girl whose face adorns the page.  Apparently she loves steak and invites her friends to party at her house while her parents are away.  She poses burning questions, such as, “Do cows explode if they don’t get milked?”

I confess I am relieved to find that Google recognizes me as the first instance of my name, lining up YouTube videos posted by piano competitions, photos from my blog, and even references to presentations I gave at healthcare industry meetings over 15 years ago.  All of these appear, thankfully, well before the young miscreant cow philosopher.  I suppose it does not really matter what a search engine makes out of the cyber-particles of my existence.  I am still the best me I know how to be.

Tomorrow's blog:  The Wizard of Ahs

The Art of Choke

Nothing is quite as humbling as Sundays on the PGA Tour.  My heart breaks for Adam Scott, whose seemingly insurmountable lead was chipped away—not so much by the skill of the other competitors, as by his own inability to maintain perfection in the final four holes.  His decline was tragic enough to overshadow that of Tiger Woods’, whose own self-destruction took place in treacherous bunkers and high grass. 

Individual sports, like golf and figure skating, are fascinating to watch.  They are rarely about who is the best technically so much as who can deliver in the moment.   Competitors battle the field conditions, the other opponents, and more than anything else, their own demons.  How difficult it must be to walk in Tiger Woods’ shoes.  Certainly his woes are of his own making, but he also has the character to return to the game, withstanding ten times the scrutiny of the other players.  I have always taken exception to detractors who decried Michelle Kwan for failing to capture an Olympic gold medal, when any other athlete who captured medals (silver and bronze) at two Olympic Games would have been celebrated for such a feat.  Fortunately, her legacy was built on far more than two days’ performances.

It is easy to be a critic from the sidelines.   Climbing the competitive ladder is so much harder than it looks.  I began competing internationally as a piano amateur just before turning forty.  Having not touched a piano in almost twenty years, the emergence of competitions for “outstanding amateurs” piqued my interest.  It gave me the motivation to return to a routine of practicing for hours each day.

The part of competition that people overlook is the physiologic change that occurs as your position changes relative to the field.  My first year at the Van Cliburn Amateur Competition I was completely unknown.  There is an underdog chemistry that helps to lift your performance as you endeavor to prove to yourself and to the field that you are worthy.  I moved invisibly among the other competitors as I went from practice room to practice room.  There were no expectations.  I was competing for myself in the truest sense.  

As I took the stage for the first round I got goosebumps.  I had forgotten how thrilling it is to walk out on stage to a full and expectant audience.  The Van Cliburn Amateur, held in Ft. Worth, TX, attracts an audience of music lovers and piano teachers to its concerts.  It is a generous crowd, pulling for every competitor in a way that is palpable onstage.  At the completion of my first round Chopin Scherzo they erupted into cheers and honored me with a standing ovation.  I felt as if I had returned from the dead.  Although my career had long before taken a dramatic turn away from music, the latent musician was reawakened.  I was hooked.  

I was thrilled to discover that I had advanced to the next round.  By previous arrangement, this triggered the arrival of my husband and children in Texas.  Their presence brought an added layer of excitement to my next performance, as it was the first time my family had ever seen me perform publicly onstage.  Unfortunately, due to my children’s youth, the officials at the competition forced them to sit in the balcony, making it impossible to see their loving faces from the stage.  But I felt their presence and it ignited my determination.  The nearly impossible Scarlatti Sonata with the blind crossover hand positions was as perfect as I have ever achieved.  The performance was awarded Best Performance of a Baroque Work.

Two years later, I returned to the Cliburn.  In the intervening years I had surgery on my wrist, removing a large cyst from the joint that made playing painful.  After spending months in rehab, it was a victory just to return to performance.   At the venue, however, I was as a known quantity and former prizewinner, which altered everything.  Other competitors sought me out in practice rooms, wanting to know what I was playing.  Audience members welcomed me back, reminiscing about past performances.  I could feel the pressure of public expectations.

I once had a piano teacher who told me, “you never give your best performance onstage, so you have to push your level of practice beyond what you want to deliver.”  But there is so much more that occurs in the moment for which you cannot prepare ahead of time.  This is why you not only practice your pieces, you also practice performing.  I try to get myself to the point that I am numb to who is in the audience or what piano I am playing.  For someone like Tiger Woods, for example, he has no choice but to exorcise his demons publicly.  

In the crucible of competition, the victor is the one who can minimize the impact of external factors in order to reproduce that which has been practiced day after day.  Nerves change everything, especially your concentration and your heart rate.  The most debilitating aspect is that nerves will get you thinking about the competition rather than the game or the performance.  That’s when the wheels come off the train.

At my second Cliburn, I advanced to the final round.  I was beyond prepared with a program that I could play in my sleep.  But the surprise of being one of the six to advance shook me deeply.  I began to think about the importance of the final performance, the expectations of my piano teacher, and even what it would mean to be the last pianist standing.  Without realizing it, my attention shifted away from the music I was there to play.  I became obsessed with preventing failure rather than assuring success.  My practices and warm-ups became crazy.  As soon as I finished a run through, I had to do another immediately just to convince myself that I could.

When it was finally time to go onstage I was terrified.  I sat down at the piano and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.  My hands did not feel like the ones I had worked into shape over the past two years.  I could not remember where to put them on the keyboard.  Somewhere in the slow second movement of my Schumann Sonata, I had a memory lapse.  I could not recall what came next.  I closed my eyes and told my hands to keep playing, hoping that muscle memory would help to reengage my brain.  I made it through the 4 movements of the lengthy and difficult Sonata, but to this day I can hardly remember how I managed.  Upon its conclusion, I still had the most difficult piece to play.  I had been playing the Liszt Spanish Rhapsody since high school, choosing it for its power as a “closer” piece. It was my “triple axel.”   I played it clean in the dress rehearsal on the same stage that morning, but in this performance—when it counted—I lost my way.  My fear of failure had replaced my determination to succeed.

There are lots of people who can do incredible feats—practiced skills that leave us in awe.  It is natural to want to be good at something, and I admire those who refine their craft until they are among the best.  But champions and stars are made of different stuff.  They have something between their ears that maintains their focus and helps them overcome fear and doubt.  They are impervious to judgment and public opinion, or they are so good that they obviate comparison.  That secret sauce gets those guys the big endorsement deals.  Without it, we are mere mortals.  

At least I am in good company.

Tomorrow's blog:  By Any Other Name

Great Symphony

My husband and I love to take road trips.  Together we have made two cross-country trips—one to move from Boston to San Francisco and another to move from San Francisco to Atlanta.  We have also driven the East Coast on four separate occasions.  We think nothing of hopping in the car to visit our daughter in college, or driving to New York for dinner and a show.   Several times a year, we drive three hours to Quechee, VT just to have Sunday brunch at my favorite spot:  the restaurant at the Simon Pearce glass factory.  

Some of our best bonding as a couple has occurred while trapped in a car for long periods of time.  Both workaholics, it is rare that we have even an hour of prolonged conversation.   On the road, however, we take the opportunity to catch up, to share impressions about things that have happened in the news, talk about the kids, and make plans for the future.

There is one drawback to our car excursions.  If my husband does not have a scalpel in his hand he has a tendency to drift off into slumber.  We have a subscription to the Boston Symphony.  Our nights at the Symphony could be caricatured as one of us sitting at the edge of her chair while the other (guess who?) snores loudy and clutches a teddy bear.   While the experience with him in Symphony Hall is merely embarrassing, driving with him is a real nail biter.   If the conversation drifts into a lull, I look over and catch the poor boy’s eyes rolling up into his head.   I get no rest as a passenger when he is behind the wheel.  

Today we hit the road early to attend an arts and crafts festival in southern Connecticut.  We rounded out the day with Pepe’s pizza in New Haven before hitting the road and heading back home.  After pizza and a beer, my husband spent only a few miles on the highway before his eyeballs began to disappear up under his lids.  I was a little wiped out from walking in the sun all day, but I preferred driving to certain death.  I begged and begged before he finally pulled over and let me take the wheel.

I have a secret weapon.  Once behind the wheel, I wrested control of the radio, tuning in to my favorite station on SiriusXM radio:  Symphony.   At the first sound of strings, my poor husband dissolved into slumber, dropping his head heavily upon his chest, down for the count.  Suddenly, I was all alone with about 90 minutes remaining on our trip.  Happily, I heard the familiar sound of a simulated gang whistle; the Symphonic Dances from West Side Story had me wide awake.

Many people I know use classical music as white noise, letting it drone in the background while they do homework, or write, or pay bills.  It has the opposite effect on me.  There is so much happening in the music that I often find it difficult to multi-task—like trying to read a book at a wedding reception.  On the road, classical music is far superior to a Venti latte.  So when Schubert’s 9^th Symphony (“The Great” in C major) came through the speakers, I knew I would have no trouble staying awake at the wheel for the last hour of my journey.   I loved listening for the composer’s blatant references to Beethoven’s harmony and texture, layered with the characteristic repeating notes and blink-of-the-eye transitions that betray the work as Schubert’s own.  Not having heard this Symphony in years, I was struck by how clearly Schubert outlines a trajectory that culminates with Brahms’ First Symphony (in c-minor) half a century later.  I sighed out loud when I remembered that Schubert died without ever hearing his Great Symphony performed, at the tender age of 31.  

Had I listened to a contemporary rock station, I would have endured dozens and dozens of tracks on my way home.  Chances are I would have found it necessary to flip from station to station in the dark in an attempt to avoid offensive matter.  Instead, this one giant symphony was an apt companion, escorting me onto the Mass Pike and offering brilliant conversation for nearly an hour, until I was safely inside my garage.

Honey, we’re home.

Tomorrow's blog:  The Art of Choke

Is it Time For Dinner Again?

(or, Tricks from my Kitchen Trenches)

There is nothing my kids love more than coming home from college to a house that smells of home cooking.  If they had it their way, I would be chained to the stove all summer, creating just-in-time menus of all their favorite dishes.  Of course, my daughter is vegan and my son’s palette runs toward bacon-double-cheeseburgers, cheese omelets, and medium-rare rib eye steaks.  Somewhere in the middle, my husband and I try to maintain a healthy, age-appropriate, balanced diet.

Out of practicality and self-defense, I have adopted a few tricks along the way that keep me from becoming a culinary slave to a household of insatiable athletes.  The food in our house must be plentiful and satisfying to keep the monsters, and their rotating cast of friends, at bay. 

Like most mothers, I was quick to tire of whining children.  “Mom, can I have a snack?”  When my kids were young, I dedicated one of my deep kitchen drawers to snackage.  This is not the same as stocking your pantry with snacks.  Once given access, a creative mind might discover an urge to nosh on a bag of chocolate chips.  Limiting their focus to a special drawer keeps them out of the strategic stores of my kitchen.   The snack drawer is filled exclusively with kid-friendly snacks, all of which are “authorized” to be consumed at any time of day without asking permission.  When they were young it contained juice boxes, fruit-leather snacks, small boxes of cereal, cups of apple sauce and non-refrigerated pudding, and individual bags of crackers.  Today, I have upgraded to more adult-friendly snacks, like Kashi granola bars, roasted almonds, rice cakes, whole-grain chips, and (when my son is home) oreos.   The drawer draws them in like flies.  Add there is an added benefit.  This strategy also prevents “open refrigerator door lingering” and “raiding tonight’s dinner before dinner time.”

I invest one day a month for the creation of homemade granola.  I make several batches at once and fill a giant clear-glass lidded cookie jar with it (with refills safely tucked away in an airtight container). This is kept in full view on the kitchen counter—its little scoop an invitation to hungry snackers.  More times than not, a ravenous husband or teenager will venture no farther than this tasty concoction.  And because I control what it contains, I know this is healthy fare.  

Whether or not the kids are home from school, my routine is pretty much the same.   I use my Sundays for grocery shopping and preparing food, planning carefully in order to avoid spending more than 30 minutes (OK, maybe 45) in the kitchen on any other day of the week.  The key to this is soups and stews.  I like to make an enormous pot of something once a week, freezing half the pot while using the remainder to round out 2 or 3 meals during the week.  The choice varies.  If I have a bunch of celery, carrots, and herbs rotting in the veggie drawer, I might be drawn to minestrone or lentil.  If canned beans are on sale, I might make an easy slow-cooker batch of tortilla soup.  A pot of chili will warm an arctic blast one night, then make a nice taco salad a few days later.  And with soup always on hand, a fancy sandwich grilled on a Panini press (my favorite is fresh mozzarella, roasted red peppers, and a schmear of pesto) makes a wonderful and light mid-week meal.

Ah, pesto—another one of my make ahead tricks!  In early August, when the basil at the local farm store is at its peak, I make tons and tons of pesto.  I substitute walnuts—toasted in the oven—for the more traditional pine nuts because I find that they last longer, taste great, and are half the price.  Then, I fill ice trays with the prepared pesto and freeze them.  Once set, I pop out the pesto cubes and throw them in a Ziploc freezer bag to enjoy all year round.  I will defrost a cube to add to my fresh minestrone soup, or a pot of spaghetti sauce, or to stir into a bean salad for an extra pop of flavor.  Or, I can use it to make a quick pasta salad when I need something to bring to a potluck.  I also use it frequently as a condiment in lieu of mayonnaise on turkey or roast beef sandwiches.

Like the soups, I also make a variety of salads that can withstand a week in the refrigerator, making light work out of daily food preparation.  Potato salad, Asian cole slaw, pepper-artichoke-bean salad, penne-asparagus salad, Turkish salad, cranberry-walnut-wheat berry salad, and Israeli cous-cous with roasted vegetables are all common staples in my refrigerator.  I make one or two each week; when paired with some soup and a piece of grilled fish or chicken, it makes a quick and easy dinner.

During my kids’ middle and high school years, the demands of their sports kept them coming and going at different times.  It was tempting to give in to Hot Pockets, “Cup-O-Salt,” Easy-Mac, and other 90 second microwave miracles when a kid needed to eat on the run.  I hated the direction convenience foods were going, packing more sodium and artificial flavor into highly processed faux meals that gave young bodies nothing to work on.  Instead, I created my own microwave meals.  The most successful of these was my mac-n-cheese cupcakes.  I make good homemade macaroni and cheese (my kids never knew I was using fortified whole-grain pasta) and pack it into the cups of a large-size muffin tin.  After baking in these small portions, I cool them and wrap them individually in plastic wrap, then pile them into a large Ziploc freezer bag.  This way, my kids still have the convenience of a 90-second microwave meal, but I know they are eating something homemade.  (To reheat, put them in a bowl and sprinkle with 1-2 tablespoons of water before microwaving.)

I truly enjoy cooking.  By all appearances, my family enjoys eating what I cook.  It is flattering, but it is also a double-edged sword.  A high standard is hard to maintain day in and day out. There is nothing I enjoy more than planning big meals and filling my home with wonderful friends and wonderful aromas.  But for me, there is a thin line between indulging in a pleasure-filled activity and tolerating a dreaded chore.   When I entertain with food it is enjoyable.  When hungry animals demand to be fed on schedule, taking it all for granted, I bristle.   Plato once said: “Necessity, who is the mother of invention.”  In our house, it is Mother who is the necessity of invention.   Without my little tricks and short cuts in the kitchen, I could never have survived.

Exceeding My Quotient for Products

When I was in graduate school, I discovered a popular drinking game called “Bob.”  It involved gathering your friends and a couple of cases of beer and propping yourselves up in front of the television to watch re-runs of the Bob Newhart Show.  The object of the game was to take a gulp of beer every time one of the characters said, “Bob.”  Even if you haven’t seen this show in decades you probably remember the sound of Suzanne Pleshette’s voice as she whined, “Bo-ob.”  It is amazing just how much of the show’s dialogue turns out to be a symphony of quirky characters crooning the star’s moniker, from Jerry the Dentist, to Carol the secretary, to Howard the dimwitted neighbor (who, remarkably and hysterically, was a commercial jet pilot).

(A similar, if less effective, version of this game is called Radar.  It involves the long-running show, M*A*S*H.)

I would like to propose an updated version of this game:  "product placement."   Selling exposure to consumer products has become so pervasive in the entertainment industry that our television shows and motion pictures are becoming protracted commercials.  To make it worse, we are charged $10.50 for a 100 minute dose.

Product placement originated in the 60s with the Steve McQueen movie Bullitt.  For a famous chase scene, Warner Brothers negotiated the use of a couple of Mustangs from the Ford Motor Company.  Ford continues to transport our large and small screen heroes to this day, from the Men in Black to the American Idols.  

I first became aware of the product placement phenomenon in James Bond movies.   Gadgetry is an accepted element of the Bond story lines.  There was something cool about the fictional functions underlying his manly Omega watches.  I did not mind the pandering camera shots that flashed to the face of his watch, imprinting our brains with the Omega brand, forcing us to make the visual connection when we later glimpsed the back cover of a popular magazine.  I found it fun that an ordinary person with a vivid imagination and a few thousand dollars to burn could buy the same watch as James Bond. 

On television, Seinfeld's producers were shameless about integrating brand-name products into its sets and plotlines (though, apparently, not for financial gain).  Jerry maintained a healthy shelf of breakfast cereals (including Kix and Cheerios) and an Apple computer (which I do not think he ever used).  There were entire plots built around the Oh! Henry bar and Junior Mints.  These were believable and effective as comic elements rather than as endorsements.  The use of the J. Peterman catalog, as well as John Hurley’s hilarious deadpan characterization of J. Peterman himself, plays more at the company’s expense than our own.

By contrast, the show Two and a Half Men leaves various random and unrelated projects strewn shamelessly across the kitchen counter, the labels facing square to the camera and caught strategically in the sight lines between the actors.   Recently, Ashton Kutcher got into trouble with the show’s producers.  The laptop that his Internet billionaire character uses was covered with stickers representing companies in which Kutcher is an investor.

I understand that product objectivity can be difficult; choices must be made.  On a cooking show, for example, the chef must use some sort of oven and food processor.  I derive utility from learning that an expert chooses to use a specific brand.  It is revealing, however, when Emeril Lagasse cannot use the Oster food processor planted on his work surface.  Clearly this is not his brand of choice.  I have no tolerance for this type of sell out.  I also feel like a stooge when commercial plugs have nothing to do with the television or movie premise.  My daughter and I are big followers of Design Star, an HGTV reality series that chooses a host for a new design show.  On this week’s show we endured a 15-second segment featuring host, David Bromstadt, driving out to a trio of yurts (badly in need of some decorating by contestants) in a bright red Volvo.  We were treated to glamor shots of the auto's grand entrance, brandishing the Volvo logo from the front, the rear, and on the hub caps, not to mention the gleam of the exclusive new color in the midday sun.

I have no difficulty seeing brands on television or film when they are true American icons.  Seeing an old Chevy or a pack of Camels contributes to the authenticity of a period, evoking bygone days as much as chipped turquoise Fiestaware or an old kitchen table of tri-colored boomerang Formica.  In the show Mad Men, for example, the use of vintage products, such as classic Cadillacs, adds to the nostalgia for the 60s that the show evokes.  In the Toy Story movies, Mister Potato Head and GI Joe are effective in conjuring our memories of lost toys from our own lost youth.  In the film, The Help, Crisco is elevated to a supporting character.  When Minnie Jackson delivers her diatribe on the virtues of Crisco ("the most important invention since they put mayonnaise in a jar") it plays as a touch of Americana rather than a product endorsement.  Try making a movie about women in the South without Crisco.  I can hear Paula Deen laughing.  If the producers of The Help received promotional consideration from Crisco, I can live with it.  

Every rant has a last straw, and mine occurred last night while watching Rizzoli and Isles (taped from the night before).   Rizzoli’s out of touch mother is promoting a (hopefully, please G-d) fictional concoction called “Can-O Espresso.”  She is given a company car with a giant can on the roof, making it look oddly like the Oscar Mayer wiener mobile.  In what can only be described as the Trojan horse of all product placements, this car is equipped with an electronic dashboard.  Mrs. Rizzoli, a normally daft character, is forced to look into the camera and demonstrate its larger-than-life Bing portal.

I do not understand why consumers, who endure the results of product placement through these compromised art forms, do not demand greater benefits from blatant commercial subsidization.  Why do ticket prices continue to rise?  Should not my movie ticket include coupons for the products I have helped to hawk?  And why must I still endure commercial segments that interrupt my favorite shows when the shows themselves are now just elaborate commercials?

Join me in my new game of "product placement."  Sit before your television with a plain glass of water.  Each time you spot a product placement, lift your glass and toast the producers.  Don't drink the Kool-Aid.  Get the last laugh.

Once Upon a Bakery

The neighborhood of my youth was the stuff of the Wonder Years; an archetypal American blueprint that burgeoned in the 50s and 60s with concrete block ranch-style houses.  The most notable features were an old dairy farm, a rock-quarry-turned-park, and a 12^th Century Spanish monastery purchased by William Randolph Hearst, dismantled and relocated, piece by piece.  These anchors of the community remain today, but have lost the charm they once possessed in the earlier years of the area’s incorporation.

North Miami Beach, as it was called because the original land mass extended to the ocean and included 3 miles of oceanfront, was made popular, in part, as a migratory destination for the “borscht belt” town of Monticello, NY.   Snow birds made this area their winter home, establishing a center for education and worship known as “Monticello Park”—later expanded and renamed Beth Torah Synagogue.   In my day, Beth Torah had a beautiful sanctuary building with a distinctive architectural feature—a roof in the shape of a six-pointed Star of David.  In time, the area’s dense Jewish population grew into the highest concentration of Jews per capita outside of Israel.  North Miami Beach is now a gateway community to the more well-known areas of Aventura and Sunny Isles.

When I visit this area of my childhood today, there is little that conjures that spirit I once felt.  It was a sleepy community where kids were safe to play in the yard, wander from house to house, or ride bikes with training wheels in the streets.  I loved to race from the house before breakfast to get the newspaper, barefoot.  The hot summer sun would just start cranking up the heat, warming the concrete walkway while the thick lawn retained the cool moist dew of early morning.   I would stand as long as I dared on the sizzling slab and then jump into the grass for relief, marveling at this whimsical incongruity of Nature.  

By far, my favorite place in North Miami Beach was Melody Diane Bakery—the crown jewel of Jewish bakeries.  It occupied a neon-faced storefront on 167^th street, adjoined by Melnick’s, a specific type of Jewish deli known as an “appetizing store”.  Because Kosher laws prohibit the mixing of meat with dairy, an appetizing establishment carried every type of savory except meat:  lox, smoked fish, pickled herring, pickles, cream cheese varieties, jars of sauerkraut and gefilte fish, and year-round matzoh.

Of all the primal sensory imprints, nothing brings me home like the smell of a Jewish bakery.  Unlike other European-style pastries redolent of almond paste and powdered sugar, Jewish pastries are dry confections featuring ingredients such as dried fruits, cinnamon, and nuts.  They are often rock hard, sweetened with glaze rather than frosting.  The stars of a Jewish bakery include such things as cinnamon-raisin rugelach, poppy- or prune-filled hamentashen, and a crumbly half bread, half danish loaf, called babka.  

My grandmother went to Melody Diane’s almost every day.   When I was three and four, I would tune in to the family goings-on just to maneuver myself into accompanying my grandmother on her bakery run.  She knew all the ladies in the bakery by name and they called her by her first name, a fact I believed conferred a certain status upon my family.   And there were things that happened in that bakery that convinced me it was an enchanted place.  

My grandmother would commonly order something she called a “coffee ring.”  For years I would not even taste this pastry, as I disliked coffee intensely.  Later I would discover it did not contain coffee at all; rather, it was essentially a large, airy danish filled with cinnamon and walnuts fashioned into the shape of a ring and brushed with sticky glaze.  My grandmother and her “mah jongg ladies” would cut tiny slivers of this ring because they were always watching their weight, but they would continue to eat two, three, even four servings until it was gone.  I loved to watch the bakery lady create a box that folded from a single sheet of thin cardboard into a square shape with a hinged lid and three big flaps.   The coffee ring fit perfectly inside with no room to spare.  Then, in a single motion, the lady would pull string from a container that hung from the ceiling, tying the box until it looked like a present with a bow on top.  She ripped the string with her bare hands to set the box free.  It dazzled me then as no magician has since.

I was also mesmerized by the bread slicing machine.  If I was lucky, my grandmother would order my grandfather’s favorite seeded rye bread.  I watched through the glass case while the woman placed the loaf right before my eyes and pulled the lever.  Little by little, the bread disappeared through the vertical blades until it was gone, materializing on her side of the apparatus perfectly sliced.  In one elegant movement, she lifted the segmented loaf and slid it perfectly into a plastic bag. 

I was not a fan of the seeded rye, the seeds imparting a taste that was off-putting to a juvenile palette.  If I was to have lunch with my grandparents, I got to ask politely for a “nosey roll.”  These are delectable little rolls made from yellow challah bread, twisted and knotted so the end of the dough is pulled up through the center, forming what I thought looked like a “nosey.”  It became a tradition that my grandfather would kiss the nosey, thereby certifying its acceptability, before I ate my sandwich.

On Sundays, our family tradition was to assemble en masse for a brunch of bagels and lox.  On such occasions, the visit to Melody Diane’s included ducking in to Melnick’s.  Unlike the glorious smell of the bakery, Melnick’s smelled, not surprisingly, of pickles and fish.  Still, there was a certain excitement to ordering a pound of lox, watching while old man Melnick slid an entire side of salmon from the case by its tail.  Laid out on the counter, he went at it with the longest and thinnest of knives, carving paper thin slices and aligning them on wax paper so precisely it looked as if the fish were reassembled.   It took me years to enjoy eating lox; my favorite was the milder sablefish—a smoked black cod with milky white meat surrounded by a paprika-colored skin.  Unlike the lox, Melnick sliced the sable crosswise into little steaks, each cut so uniformly I would have thought they were sent through the bread slicer had I not watched with my own eyes.

With bags of bread and fish filling our hands, I would pull my grandmother back through the bakery before leaving.    This would allow me to cleanse the fish and pickle essence from my lungs, renewing myself with the wonderful bakery aromas.  Secretly, however, I had unfinished business there.  Kids were entitled to a cookie of their choice.  I was not permitted to ask; by tradition, it must be offered.  So I would peruse the glass displays, asking my grandmother whether she was certain she had everything she needed.  She played along, enumerating the spoils of our adventure until the lady who had helped us finished ringing up her current customer.  Catching the woman’s eye, my grandmother would suggest that there was something she forgot.  With a wink, the woman would look at me in faux distress, wondering why I did not have a cookie.  This was the moment I cherished, well worth the wait.  I scrutinized the glass display, turning up my nose at the ordinary chocolate chips, or the various colors of tasteless sprinkles.  There was only one prize for me:  a simple spritz cookie topped with a candy cherry.  Of all the cookies in all the world, there was nothing more special than this flower-shaped treat with its glowing jewel on top.

By the time I graduated from high school, Melody Diane’s and Melnick’s were only a memory.  Today, the neighborhood bakery where confections are baked in-house is nearly extinct.  Even rarer is the old-fashioned Jewish-style bakery where traditional recipes transport me back to another time and place.  When I find such a place—like Kupel’s in Brookline, Massachusetts or Wall’s Bake Shop in Hewlett, NY—I buy out the store, filling my freezer with mandelbrot, babka and kichel.  I want my children to know these flavors and to associate them with their youth and their heritage.  Even more, I want another taste of my own childhood, and another day of culinary conspiracy with my beloved grandmother.

Tomorrow's blog:  Exceeding My Quotient for Products

The Blog, The Trust

In some divine way, it is perhaps no coincidence that, as I sit down to write my two-hundredth blog in two-hundred days, my college friend, Norb Vonnegut, is releasing his third novel, The Trust.  To the average observer, it may seem that a guy whose family name is associated with prolific and imaginative writing should be able to pump out books in his sleep.  But to those of us who know the truth--that the namesake is a distant one and that Norb gave up a successful career on Wall Street for the unglamorous and lonely life of a full-time novelist—we are cheering his success.  In fact, the three exciting financial thrillers that Norb has produced so far come from a big heart, a great mind, and endless hours of hard work.  It is the kind of success that we ordinary people hope for.  It makes us believe that even we can do it.

Norb does not realize how much his journey inspired my own.  He stood up at our last class reunion and told the story of his mid-life career change.  For over a year, he got up early every morning in order to write, layering this difficult task on top of a challenging career in a volatile industry.  His commitment paid off when he inked his first book deal just as Wall Street was beginning to crumble. 

 

Like many people, I enjoy writing and have had a couple of ideas for novels bouncing around in the back of my head for years.  And, not surprisingly, I have not been able to make much more out of these ideas than a few isolated narratives.  Writing is hard work, but not for the reason most people think.  The words come easy enough.  As Norb emphasized, the discipline to write EVERY SINGLE DAY is what trips up most wannabe writers.  This is why I decided to focus on this challenge of the craft rather than on the books themselves.  After the first 120 days of producing daily blogs, I began to writhe with uncertainty and exasperation.  I was tired, discouraged, and creatively bankrupt.  Then I remembered what Thomas Edison said: “Many of life’s failures are [people] who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up.”  I am committed to making good on this promise.  This is why I pushed myself out on a limb and committed myself in full view, threatening myself with the specter of public humiliation.  

This 200-blog milestone feels more important to me than the half-way point a few weeks ago.  Finally the task ahead feels smaller than the one behind.  I see a mountain of unscripted days shrinking before my eyes.  What remains seems finite.  This is a good place to be on the hottest day of the summer, with an exciting new book tempting me on my Kindle.

Before I bury myself for the rest of the day in the exploits of Grove O’Rourke, I want to pause to thank the friends who have stood by and cheered me on.  You are my co-conspirators, enduring the silly sonnets, tasting the recipes, and excusing the days when my editing was not as thorough as it should have been.  You, the readers, give me the strength to write another day.  Without you, I would have no voice.

Author’s note:  Read The Trust, by Norb Vonnegut, at bookstores today.  After you have read it, go online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble and register your review.  We are working to get Norb on the New York Times Bestsellers’ List.

Tomorrow's blog:  Once Upon a Bakery

From Passion, Excellence

One of the more remarkable members of my extended family is my brother-in-law, Terry.   Today, he is a sought after comic book artist, working alternately for both Marvel Comics and DC Comics.  During his career, he has drawn Spiderman, Wonder Woman, and X-Men.  Although he is not as well known by the general public as writers like Stan Lee, Frank Miller or Roy Thomas, Terry is mobbed at Comic Con by enthusiastic admirers hoping for one of his impromptu sketches.

I first met Terry, the youngest of my husband’s four brothers, when he was just eleven years old.  Back then, he was a shy but tall young boy who said little, always keeping his keen eye fixed on his surroundings.  He never went anywhere without a little spiral flip pad and a pencil in his pocket.   If we sat down at dinner, or the car stopped at a red light, out came his little sketchpad and he was deep at work.  At that age, Terry was obsessed with smurfs, drawing the little Belgian characters in every possible position and situation.  

As Terry grew older, he also grew into the traditional six-foot-something frame that characterized his brothers, shooting up well before he filled out.  He also ran the gamut of sports year round, playing football, basketball, and baseball.  With his interest in sports, the subject of his drawings shifted from bulbous blue sprites to muscle-bound heroes.  I enjoyed watching as, over time, his little sketch figures became more three-dimensional, more realistic, and more pumped.

Terry was a good student, yet his passionate interest in drawing never wavered.  I cannot remember his ever discussing working as a teacher, or a doctor, or a businessman—the career paths taken by his older brothers and parents.   When it was time for college, he set out to study art.  He was determined to become a professional cartoonist, resisting any suggestions that he study graphic design, or computer-animation “just in case” he needed other career options.

Today, Terry’s artwork blows me away.  I love to visit his studio and let him show me his sketches.  Together with his wife Rachel, who has developed into a phenomenal ink artist and professional partner, Terry and Rachel have a signature look that is unequalled.  Terry is especially well-known for his “bombshells”—voluptuous female characters who walk both sides of the law.  But as incredible as his renderings are, what distinguishes his work for me is his incredible eye for architectural detail, endowing his drawings with unusual realism.   As an avid traveler, he incorporates images of historical buildings into his background scenery.  When two characters have a protracted conversation, he draws each frame from a different vantage point, giving the reader a 360 degree view of the surroundings.   He also betrays his love of Art Noveau style.  In a particularly wonderful sketch of Wonder Woman that he gave me for my 50^th birthday, the heroine’s hair and whip pattern are oddly reminiscent of decorative features one might find in a print by Alphonse Mucha.

Terry is an example of how personal passion drives excellence.   From a young age he revealed his true self.  To my knowledge, he was never pushed to make a more “traditional” career choice, or to sacrifice his dream.  With a firm belief in his own ability, he refined his craft until he was, indeed, among the best.   Even today, in an industry dominated by animation and 3D, he calls his own shots, remaining a pencil sketch artist exclusively engaged in the comic books and graphic novels he loves.

  Terry Dodson art, copyright 2012, used with artist's permission.

Novelettes, Snipers, and Other Signs

You never know how random events in your life may set others in motion.  I thought when I decided not to attend the University of Texas at Austin (UTA), a school generous enough to offer me a full scholarship to its Music School, that I had closed the door on the summer I spent studying piano there.   

At the insistence of my piano teacher--who had a vested interest in my attending that particular college--I agreed to spend my last high school summer attending an intense piano workshop at UTA.  It was a good opportunity to experience college campus life as well as to expose me to a wonderful faculty of desirable piano pedagogues.  Several attendees of this program had already decided to attend UTA and were using the summer to get a head start ingratiating themselves with the piano faculty.  The prize was to land in the stable of the great John Perry; he, however, was busy with graduate students and paid little attention to the high school kids.

We were a tight group of kids split musically into two groups.  In one group were the hopefuls, using the summer to find the secret inspiration that would elevate their playing to the next level.  In the other were those of us who already had command of a great repertoire.  We were college bound as music students; what remained was a matter of where.  Among this group was a pair of acquaintances from Kansas, Kevin and Darrell.  Together they made the perfect whole.  Darrell was intelligent and full of interesting conversation.  He had been admitted to Yale, but was considering UTA for financial reasons.  Kevin was. . .well, pretty.   

It was a luxurious summer of practice, lessons, master classes, and performances.  We stayed on campus in student dorms, having only a short walk to the Music Building.  Unlike other parts of Texas with which I would become too familiar years later as a traveling executive, Austin had hills and a soft breeze which made it tolerable even in the heat of the summer.  Kevin and I took long walks around campus and ate french fries at Jack in the Box; Darrell and I discussed Schumann Novelettes and Bach Fugues.

Austin had an interesting culture.  I learned about the great Governor “Big Jim” Hogg who proudly named his daughter Ima Hogg.  Miss Ima, as she was known, was born in 1882 and was considered the “first lady of Texas.”  She had studied piano herself and was a well-respected benefactor of the arts locally.  Sadly, Miss Ima passed away on the last days of our workshop.

It was also fun to climb to the observation deck of the clock tower, until I learned of the 1966 sniper named Charles Whitman who killed 16 people from there.  The infamous tower offered a wonderful vantage point by which to see the entire campus and the State Capitol Building.  But it's tragic history made me cringe as I walked passed it each day from the dorm to the practice rooms.   I could clearly imagine the bullets raining down over innocent students.   I wonder in this day of random violence and terrorism whether they still open the observation deck to the public.

It was a great summer for me musically as well.  I had the opportunity to vastly improve a Chopin Ballade, a Schubert Sonata, and a horrific piece by Liszt.  But the real treat was exposure to the graduate students, who used the off days between our performances to give impromptu recitals of the “project pieces” on which they were working.  Thus, I saw my first live performance of the complete Chopin “Funeral March” Sonata—by Dean Kramer, who had just captured the top prize in the National Chopin Competition, and the only performance of Pictures at an Exhibition in the original piano solo version I have ever seen—by Dikram “Dickie” Atamian.  Seeing the “distance” between very good high school pianists and graduate school artists was eye-opening, to say the least.  These guys possessed a level of technical mastery that I’ve rarely seen.

Having had a much more enjoyable summer than I expected, I bid a final farewell to Kevin and Darrell—urging Darrell to reconsider Yale seriously.  I told him I hoped to go to Harvard, and wouldn’t it be funny if we met again under some Ivy League musical circumstances?  During my freshman year at Harvard, when I visited my dear friend Anne at Yale, I combed through the student directory in the hope of finding Darrell.  No luck.  He chose not to go.

Years later, after I graduated, I took a year off in Cambridge to gain some required work experience before attending graduate school in health policy and management.  Although I completed an undergraduate degree in music, I had long before concluded that a career in music was not for me.  Happily, I sat in my office at the Student Health Center, processing student health insurance enrollments and claims.  My mind was wandering, thinking about the tall red headed dental student I had met on the shuttle bus a few weeks before.  He kept calling and asking me out, but I knew so little about him that I could not decide whether or not I was interested in pursuing a relationship.

My office was across the hall from the poorly named lunch room.  If anything, it was a “stale coffee and vending machine room.”  People would congregate there and make a lot of noise, often making it necessary to close the door to my office while discussing personal medical events with a student.  On this particular day, one of the popular doctors from our clinic led a parade of students into the lunch room.  You could tell they were students because they wore crisp short white coats—not the well-washed long lab coats the real doctors wore.  One of the students looked strangely familiar, so much so I kept my eye on the door in an attempt to intercept him as they left.  

An hour went by.  Then another.  This was more than a lunch break.  The doctor was holding some sort of a class.  Finally, the work day was over, so I moved across the hall and just hovered in the doorway as the students made final comments to the doctor and left one-by-one.  I focused my eyes on this familiar-looking kid’s name tag, seeing only that he had a two-part last name just as I had expected.  Conscious that he was being watched, the student seemed uncomfortable at my constant scrutiny.  He looked at the ground, then back up at me.  Then the light went on.  “Do I know you?” he burst out.  “I think you do!” I answered, smiling.

It had been over five years since I had last seen Darrell, in another place and another context.  We had both been serious music students in Texas and now we were both in Boston—doing what, exactly?  I explained that I had decided against pursuing music, choosing instead to do graduate work in Public Health.  Was he really in medical school?  “Well,” he said, in his slow Kansas drawl, “I am actually in Dental School.  We take ‘Introduction to Clinical Medicine’ with the medical students.”

“Dental School?” I asked, amazed at the coincidence.  I had never met anyone from Harvard Dental School before, and now I had met two dental students in a matter of weeks.  “Do you know a guy named Tom Dodson?”  “Yes,” Darrell said.  “He’s in my class.  He’s a really nice guy.”

Darrell’s words were just the encouragement I needed.  I accepted Tom’s next appeal for a date, and we have been together since.  Next month we will celebrate thirty years of marriage.  As for Darrell, he is a successful orthodontist in Corsicana, TX. 

Tomorrow's blog:  From Passion, Excellence