When You're 101 You Can Eat Ice Cream For Lunch

Shortly before my mother died, my grandmother called to tell me about a dream she had.  In the dream the three of us were waiting at the gates of heaven.  When Saint Peter approached he allowed my mother and my grandmother to enter, but told me that it wasn't my time; I had things to do. It was her way of telling me that when they were both gone, I must soldier on.

She has helped shape my first forty years by teaching me about honor, loyalty, determination and respect.  These lessons were taught not by words, but by example. Her standards are high.  My grandmother is a person who believes in expectations.  She sets the bar high for herself and for those around her.  She often has expectations of us that exceed our own expectations of ourselves. The gift is that in our quest to live up to those expectations we often end up being better versions of our own selves.

When my grandmother was born in 1915, the United States was still embattled in World War I, Henry Ford was perfecting the assembly line, and women couldn’t vote.

She was the eldest of five children who grew up following her father, a safety inspector, into the coal mines of north Alabama.  She was one of the last Eagle Girl Scouts, and used the skills she learned there to work her way through college as a swimming and diving coach.  During World War II, she earned her Master’s Degree in Industrial Engineering from Vanderbilt.  Determination helped her excel in the male dominated field.  “I knew I could do anything a boy could do, but the heavy lifting,” she said.  When the war ended, she was sent home to be a mother and a wife.  She went on to teach drafting and physical education before moving into school administration.

My grandmother is a testament to a life lived in moderation.  Until she was in her 80’s she smoked two cigarettes a day and had one cocktail before dinner.  She ate well and exercised.  At 101, she has never had a heart attack, cancer, diabetes, Alzheimer’s, or a broken hip.

But she didn't intend to live this long.  Every year that passed she would say, “I guess I’m going to live to be 100.  Isn’t that terrible?”  Now 100 has come and gone. I asked her why she thought she lasted all these years.  She rattled off a list, as if she had been waiting for someone to ask. “I smoked very little.  I’ve taken a lot of exercise.  I’ve always been active mentally and physically.  I’ve always had a lot of varied interests and I’ve always been willing to trying anything new.  And I’ve always had a good sense of humor.”

When I invited her out to lunch she told me she’d rather have ice cream.  When you’re 101 you can do that.  We went to our usual haunt, Old Dutch, which has been dishing up ice cream since 1956.  I think they still have the original wallpaper.  When we have a chance to be alone together, our time seems sacred, holy even.  We can talk without interruption, but more importantly, we can enjoy the company of one another in complete silence.  We both know that there is always a chance it will be our last visit.  As she worked her way through a bowl of her favorite ice cream I asked her what advice she would give to young women today.  She said, “Get a good education, always be honest and fair, and trust in God to take care of you.”  Words of wisdom. 

New York, New York

Dying Wish

My father knew he was dying.  No one else knew, but he did, and he wanted to make memories while there was still time.  So the summer I turned 11, he took me to New York.  He booked a package deal that included three nights at the Waldorf, two Broadway shows, and a tour of Manhattan.  It was my first time in the city, but there was an immediate familiarity I can’t explain.

From that moment on, I was determined to make New York my home.  My mother said I could go as long as I graduated from high school and paid for it myself.  And so I did.  I was 16.  I found a place to stay: the Markle Evangeline Residence for Women.  It sat in the heart of the West Village on a tree-lined street.  We were provided with two meals a day and weekly linen service.  Most importantly (for my mother, at least) no men were allowed past the first floor.

In the summer, students moved out and young dancers and aspiring actresses lived there while attending various performing arts programs.  Every morning I would eat breakfast with students studying at the Joffrey Ballet, and a couple of former Mousekateers who were trying to reinvent themselves as serious actors. 

All of our phone calls went through the main switch board, which was answered, “Salvation Army Markle Evangeline Residence for Women.  How may I direct your call?”  For anyone who didn’t know better, it sounded like I was living in a women’s shelter.  But it was an ideal way for a young woman, not yet legal, to find her way in the big city.

Before I left for New York my grandmother insisted that I meet her friend’s nephew who worked in the theatre.  We drove down to the river where he was visiting family.  Rodger was the executive director of Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS, a philanthropic organization that serves the theatre community.  He gave me his card and told me to call him when I got to town.

That summer Rodger took me everywhere:  parties at the Central Park Boathouse, Broadway shows, weekends in the Hampton’s.  He introduced me to Larry Kramer who, when he heard I was interested in writing, told me, “Writing is like throwing up.  You have to get it all out and clean it up later.”

Making a Home

My first job in New York was as a Broadway usher.  It was the perfect job for a theatre kid. I subbed around at different theatres, which allowed me to see all of the shows on Broadway that I otherwise couldn’t afford.  It was a job that I worked on and off for more than 10 years.  For someone who wanted to write for the theatre, it served as a master class.  My earliest plays were written by flashlight in the darkness of the theatre.

The summer ended and I stayed.  Eventually I moved into a rent-stabilized apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.  It was my home for eleven years.  My mother later told me that she always knew I’d never come back.  I asked her why she let me go.  She said that part of being a parent is knowing when to let your child go.  She knew I was ready.  She had faith in me.

On Saturday I will return to the city.  The same feeling of familiarity always comes rushing back as I navigate the streets.  I’ll stop off at the Little Pie Company for carrot cake, which became a birthday tradition years ago.  I’ll scour the shelves of The Strand and the HousingWorks bookstore.  I’ll see a few shows and visit with friends.  But I’m especially excited for the lunches I have planned.  I never had any money in New York, but thanks to a wonderful network of friends I was never hungry.  I look forward to launching the 40 Lunches Project, sharing a few stories and paying back a few meals.

The Pocketknife and the Butterfly

The Reluctant Debutante 
I did not debut at the Camellia Ball.  Which was just as well since pink is not my color.

Instead, when I turned 21, a group of fabulous women threw a party in my honor.  It was a festive affair, held at a lovely home in the historic Leinkauf district.  The only requirement for attendance was a sense of humor.    

To escort me as I made my debut, the hostesses called on local legend Eugene Walter.  Most of you do not know Eugene, but he grew up on the Gulf Coast, moved to Europe, acted in several Felinni films, composed music for Zefferelli’s Romeo and Juliet, was there for the founding of the Paris Review, wrote books and threw fabulous dinner parties.  Anyone who had the pleasure of meeting Eugene knows that he was a man who understood what it meant to make an entrance. As one writer noted, "Eugene cultivated the art of being fabulous."

Grand Entrance 
Eugene was quick to accept the invitation and assured us that he would arrive in tails.  Which he did.  A long furry fox tail hung from the back of his pants.  As I made my way down the grand staircase, decked out in my gown and requisite tiara, Eugene held my arm and howled at the moon. 

It was very dramatic and quite apropos, for Eugene had a reputation to live up to and he did not want to disappoint.

Eugene was first and foremost, a writer, and we writers tend to see the world in metaphor.  After my grand entrance, Eugene presented me with a small box.  Inside the box was a pocketknife and a butterfly.  He told me, "Every woman must learn when to be a pocketknife and when to be a butterfly."  

It’s an important lesson to learn.  Inside each of us lives a little bit of both:  the pocketknife, which is strong, powerful and perhaps at times even dangerous, and the butterfly, which is beautiful, fragile, and graceful.   

It was great advice for a young woman making her debut.  Great advice to take out into the world.   

I’ve always related well with the pocketknife, but have had to work hard to cultivate my inner butterfly.  It is, as they say, all about balance.  For a long time, that’s how I lived my life.  Part pocketknife and part butterfly.  As I have gotten older I have realized that the real test is learning how to have the strength of the pocketknife, while maintaining the grace of the butterfly. 

 

You can read more about Eugene Walter here.  

Have you check out On Being?  They have a wonderful website filled with interesting, well-written content, as well as a podcast.  I'm hooked.

The Chat and Chew Supper Club: or Why I Crowdfund

THE CHAT AND CHEW SUPPER CLUB 

My first year of motherhood almost destroyed me.  Actually, motherhood felt second nature.  It was finding ways to balance my new identity with the other aspects of my life that left me feeling completely defeated.  When my daughter was 15 months old, I realized that I had to stop living off of cereal and wearing sweatpants every day.  I mean, I love cereal.  And sweatpants.  

So I thought about my mothers Famous Last Words, and I created The Chat and Chew Supper Club.  Each night twelve people were invited into a kitchen where I cooked supper (on an old Hobart that was installed in 1954) while performing an hour-long monologue.  I wasn’t acting, just telling stories that were all tied together by a common theme.  At the end we would all sit together at a long table and share a meal.   

The Chat and Chew Supper Club saved me.  My marriage was in a dark place, I wasn’t socializing, I wasn’t cooking, and I wasn’t writing.  The project brought my love of writing, cooking and fellowship together in one place.

The best part about the project was that the twelve people who joined me for dinner didn’t always know one another.  People brought wine.  Stories were told.  Some people even helped me wash dishes afterward. 

WHY I CROWDFUND

When I launched the project I decided to try crowdfunding.  I wanted to bring in a director to help me shape the piece, and because I feel passionately that all artists should be compensated for their work, I wanted to pay her.  But what I found was that crowdfunding served another purpose; it held me accountable.  When people invested in the project – invested in me – I knew I had to follow through. 

What We Keep

WHAT WE LEAVE BEHIND

For most of my life I have been carrying around the things that other people have left behind.

I was eleven when my dad died.  The only thing he owned outright was a 1973 Ford Pinto hatchback and a house filled with an eclectic assortment of antiques with little value.  My mother borrowed a friend's truck to gather his things only to be told that they would be sold to pay for his funeral.  All I have are the few items we were able to load in the car before my mother and I drove away.

I wouldn’t go back to the house for another ten years.  When my grandmother died I went to pay my respects. I was told that all of my dad’s things had been in storage all those years.  Once again, with a borrowed truck, I loaded his belongings.  Most of it was musty and moldy after spending 10 years in a shed with a leaky roof.  But it was still interesting to see what he chose to keep.  There was an entire trunk filled with my childhood art, notes I had written, and school pictures.  There was the original divorce agreement my mother typed up, including an itemized list of what she planned to keep; I was number one.  There was evidence of who he was before he was a parent or a spouse: a stack of Playboy magazines from the 60’s and a few items brought back from Vietnam.  What was conspicuously missing were photographs of his family and mementos from his childhood.  It's as if his childhood didn't exist.  Probably for good reason.

Very little could be salvaged.  I built a bonfire in my mom’s backyard and for days I sat by it, sorting and watching what was left of my dad’s life go up in flames.  

My mother planned for her death more methodically, not because she was a very organized person, but because she didn’t want what she left behind to be a burden. She moved most of the family things into an 8x10 storage unit and paid the rent for a year.  She wanted to give me that time to grieve before being tasked with going through her things.

She also left birthday gifts and Christmas gifts, wrapped and in the care of a family friend.  Her hope was that they would make me feel less alone.

The Best Advice Ever

BLENDING IN
Every morning my mother drove me to a school out of district so that I could get a great education.  Nestled in an affluent neighborhood, it was known as the only private-public school in town.  Coming home from my first day of kindergarten, I asked her why my shirt didn’t have an alligator on the pocket.  She immediately took me to Gayfer’s Department Store and bought me two Izod shirts – one pink and one white.  We didn’t have a house in the popular zip code, a membership to a swim club, or a traditional family, but a shirt was an easy way to blend in.

The other mothers, most of whom stayed home, wore pink and green button downs from Talbots, drove station wagons, and always seemed to show up for class parties with homemade baked goods.  My mom taught school, wore jeans, drove a Honda, and knew every restaurant in town where kids ate free.  But these women embraced her.   In the carpool line, they intervened when she started to gray prematurely.  They supported her rise to PTA president.  They even took her to the Clinique beauty counter to buy a lipstick and a blush.  Every morning she would run the brush over the powder once (and just once), then apply a stroke to each cheek.  That blush lasted 20 years.

TRUE COLORS

When I was eight my mother went to have her colors done.  It was what you did if you were a Southern woman in the 80’s.  Not that my mother really cared about her colors.  Or fashion.  Or makeup. 

But there she sat in the living room of a friend while she was draped in color swatches. It was determined that she was a winter and should wear silver, not gold.

BEST ADVICE EVER

They talked the way women do when they think no one is listening.  And that’s when I heard the best advice ever.

Famous Last Words: or I Want to Get Off My Ass

I Want To Get Off My Ass

When my mother was diagnosed with a rare cancer we traveled to Sloan Kettering for a second opinion.  Strings were pulled and favors called in just to get the appointment.  The prognosis was dismal and chemo, we were told, was useless.  But she went anyway.  She went for me.  I told her I didn't care what she decided to do as long as she did something. 

When the doctor arrived, mother explained that she had scheduled a cruise down the Rhine in June.  Without missing a beat, the doctor told her she might want to get her money back.  And so she did.  

It was not a good sign. 

Instead of traditional treatment, she opted to try a macrobiotic diet in an attempt to buy more time.  She drank wheatgrass juice.  She meditated.  She wrote affirmations on water bottles.  And there was prayer, lots and lots of prayer.  But when it was clear the end was near, she gave up raw food and proclaimed that she planned to go out bathed in hot fudge.

That’s exactly what she did.  My mother’s final meal was a slice of pizza and a hot fudge sundae, and her last words were, “I want to get off my ass.”  No deathbed poetry like you see in the movies.