Proms, Dione Warwick, and a White '59 Corvette

        

              

                                   

High School teachers attend proms. Before retirement, I had been to more than a few, and at each one - as chaperones - we gaped at the kids doing their things and told our own prom stories. 

These are mine.

St. Mary’s had a Junior Prom held in the boys’ gym when the schools were separated by gender. In my Sophomore year, a Junior invited me. My mother said I was too young to go to a prom and I’m sure I threw a huge fit, but I didn’t go.

In my Junior year, I was dating a Manhasset boy who was a Freshman in college. Since my mother knew his mother, the age difference seemed to pass by without a squabble. The college boy accepted my invitation to Junior Prom in the gym: “An Evening in Paris,” decorated by student council members.

I wore a dotted-swiss dress which came down to the floor and clear up to my neck where it was delicately embroidered with pink rosebuds. It was a hand-me-down from my sister, Mary - a normal, clothing transaction I was fine with my whole life, right up to the day I wore the same wedding gown she had worn. 

As for Junior Prom, the college boy had his own car, so - unlike most of my friends going with boys who weren’t old enough to drive at night - I didn’t have to travel in the backseat while someone’s father chauffeured us to the high school.

There was one problem, however.  My college boy was the ex-boyfriend of one of my BFF’s. She had not taken the breakup well, and when I entered the picture - even though time had passed - she couldn’t forgive me.

I totally got that. Really. I would have hated me, too. 

Consequently, since our other friends understood the issue more clearly than I did in my nubile romantic state, they supported our mutual, heartbroken girlfriend.

That left college boy and me with nowhere to sit at prom.

So we walked around to other tables, saying hello. We danced a bit to “Bobby and the Orbits.” We had our photo taken under a starry blue, eiffel-towered arch and danced some more. That’s all I remember of the night. I know at some point our romance involved the exchange of a heavy silver, I.D. bracelet, some necking at the Westbury Drive-In, and a few nights spent in Gino’s or at the Hilltop (illegally for me).

However, by the spring of my Senior year, all that had changed. College boy was gone, my BFFs were back, and I didn’t have a date for my Senior Prom at the Garden City Hotel. 

Suffice it to say, in 1965 girls didn’t go to proms in groups or pairs.

A few weeks before the big night, I was discussing this dilemma in a kitchen in Sea Cliff where a St. Mary’s friend lived with her parents and two brothers.

Her mother - one of the kindest and most beautiful moms I’ve ever known - said:  

“Well you’ve got to go to your Senior Prom!  It’s something you never forget. Why don’t you go with (not his name) Jay? Yes, that’s perfect!”

And before I knew it, she was calling: 

“Ja-ay?  Ja ayyy?” up the stairs and my friend was jumping up and down, saying: 

“Perfect.  Jay’s the perfect answer. You can go with JAY!”

I was stunned. Jay was a year older than we were and about as close to perfect as one could get.  

His brown hair stood up in a high crew; he had a “great physique” (in the term of the times) and his eyes - well, let’s just say, my friends would be more than honored to sit with me this year.

Jay’s mom came bounding down the back steps - in jeans with her pony- tail bobbing and her smile pulsing all the way through her eyes over to mine.

“Jay just got out of the shower.  He’ll be down in a minute.” 

Before I had a chance to breathe in some Zen at a two-story window looking out over the cliffs onto LI Sound, Jay came down the stairs -  in a tennis shirt that hung out over cut-off jeans. He was rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

“So...Susu..how about I take you to prom?”

I started to laugh and say stupid things about his mother making him ask me - and Jay said:

“It wasn’t my mom that made me ask you, it was her promise that I could take you in her car.”

Well, that may have offended some girls, but Jay’s mom’s car was a 1959, white Corvette convertible - a two-seater with red leather seats.

I went over it in my head:  My date would be Jay - one of the smoothest St. Mary’s guys in the Class of 1964 who would be driving one of the coolest cars ever. It started to make sense to me, so I said: “Let’s go!” 

I wore a butter-yellow dress with an empire waist and soft ruffles at the neck that I’d just worn as a bridesmaid in my brother’s wedding. I also carried a light scarf, as advised by Jay’s mom, so we could ride with the top down. 

Jay wore a white dinner jacket and pinned a Gardenia corsage below my shoulder. 

When we pulled up to the front of the Garden City Hotel, three parking valets ran toward the Corvette to attend to it.

I don’t remember much of the prom itself. I mostly remember driving in that car which took us along the LIE toward Queens at midnight. We were headed to “The Boulevard,” a nightclub.  Dione Warwick was scheduled to perform at 1 a.m. after doing a few other shows first and finding the need to have more than a drink or two while she performed. The last show of her night was for an audience composed of underaged school kids with fake id’s.

I will be kind and say she was over-tired and perhaps alcohol wasn’t the best choice; she was definitely at the stage where one’s words aren’t coming together well.  So, for some reason, she stopped singing and began to tell LONG stories about herself in high school - none of which I recall - but I do remember this: She kept saying she’d cook breakfast for us if we showed up at her house in NJ. She had an assistant write out directions. She was quite insistent about making kids in the audience promise they’d show up.

I never heard about anyone going. I know the kids I was with didn’t even think about it.

We had plans back in Sea Cliff - on the beach below Jay’s parents’ house, where they and some of the other Senior parents were serving breakfast.  

We ate a fine spread and watched the sun come up over the familiar shorelines of our LI Sound. Someone played the guitar, some of us fell asleep, a few had serious conversations with the adults about what our futures held. Others went for walks down along the water.

Jay and I watched it all, and, while the sun rose just a few coves away over our hometown, friends became friends forever - and I never forgot that Jay’s mom was right about some memories living with us as long as we live.

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                                                                                        BOBBY & the ORBITS

  Word Tsunami

The writer in me has been silent of late. It happens from time to time and, though it frustrates me, I’ve learned to live with the periods of time when the words aren’t there. I write trepidatiously even now, wondering if the words are really here.

Sometimes it’s a barrage of worldly words that takes mine away. I had been writing a reminiscence of my college years in Boston, when terror in that city struck the Pollyanna memory dumb on April 15th. 

I suppose I had begun to lose my writing words in the wake of Newtown, Connecticut; as if that senselessness weren’t enough to strike us all mute.  I didn’t listen to the media reports then. I know the grief of just one child’s relative personally, that rattles around in my head and weakens my heart, still.

To get away from the coverage I watched TCM here and there, or had NPR on at a low murmur in the background - and when the thoughts of those families came, I stopped and mourned for them and for us, their human family.  There are no words for those moments of collective consciousness when the vast majority of us share the same emotions, so I just let the feelings wrap around me, untainted by the voices of CNN.

That’s where my words have gone these many months - to disaster after disaster - including multiple acts of violence at home and abroad, a devastating hurricane, and more than a few terrifying tornadoes. My inability to reason it all out with my ‘pen’ is even further fraught by those close to me who are shouldering the everyday burdens life brings us. I speak to them, knowing my words are not enough to soothe illness, rejection, or loss - hoping the emotions in my voice speak the care.

This is not to say I’m finding myself completely without the right words. No, on the contrary, my husband, our six-month old grandchild, and I carry on valuable conversations on a daily basis.They are some of the most reassuring dialogues to have come my way since the past year closed.

They have progressed from the basic, sweet cooings of a newborn to the eyeglass-grabbing squeals and songs of a full-bodied soprano. The baby sets the words and we repeat them, merrily.

We are all BFF’s, at this point, and have agreed upon a language based on musical sounds - some of which mean:  “I want something now...this very instant” - others, like the sustained ‘ahhhhh’ that ushers from her lips when a breeze hits her face on an outdoor stroll, that say:  “Does it get any better than this?”

I love how primitive and rich this dialogue is and believe it has awakened the written word in me. I’ve identified a place we share where new found words are driven by sounds and emotions.

Maybe we should all start communicating like this more often - ditch the  friending, texting, blogging, liking, and linking.  The words are getting in our way.

And here I am, adding to the tsunami, I know. I’m part of the problem that dilutes the truths we need to find right now - the ones that give us hope - Emily Dickinson’s “Thing with feathers.”

So I’ve spent some time in “Show, don’t tell,” and I rather like it there. Oh, there are words involved, but I try not to spend them unnecessarily. And I know I have to write; I’ve always had to write. 

But I’m determined not to waste too many precious words. The good ones anyway.

Killing Beauty

Another loved Manhasset entry arbor,  Park Avenue

                  STUMPED

The above headline appeared on the front page of the Manhasset Press on March 29, 2013.

The photos beneath it caught my eye because I am a lover of trees - a love which first formed in my Manhasset childhood.

I recognized the lush flowering cherries and pears blooming along Shelter Rock Road immediately and was puzzled by the bleak photo - appearing beneath - of telephone poles, a chain link fence, and - wait a minute, tree stumps?

Pat Grace, Editor of the Press, took the photos and wrote the copy:

“The Cherry and Bradford Pear trees along Shelter Rock Road and Searingtown Road that, more than anything else in Manhasset, once heralded spring - are gone. Stumps line the roads for Spring 2013.”

My heart squeezed as I thought of Manhasset’s dying dogwoods I’d watched disappear decades ago. What disease got these, I wondered?

Then I read on, and it turned out:  Nassau County ordered their removal as part of a $68 million contract with Great Tree Services, Inc.  

Seriously.

One yet-to-be-elected candidate for county comptroller offered this information: “...there is no documentation for the work [Great Services, Inc.] did. They were paid per tree to remove trees and the County did not supervise their work.”

He said what??????  “... paid per tree...the county did not supervise their work.”

The Village of North Hills Mayor, Marvin Natiss, told Ms. Grace that when he questioned the County, he was told only diseased trees were removed. Natiss reiterates what Ms. Grace’s March 2013 photo reveals: All the trees are gone, and, according to this news report, no one knows who authorized the total devastation.

I live in Georgia. Bradford Pears and Japanese Cherry trees abound in our neighborhoods and along our highways and by-ways.  Every year we watch tree crews come through pruning and cutting the bare branches back from the power lines, while doctoring or relieving diseased trees of their pain.

It’s an orderly and informative process that sends us home to do the same with our own cherries and pears - knowing that their limbs are weak and prone to cause storm damage.

My point is: We see this happen annually. Did no commuter, driving from the LIE to and from work, witness what was happening? Did the tree removers come in the dark of night? Did they cut down every fourth tree first, then thin them out until they slowly disappeared, hoping no one would notice?

I wish some hero had jumped from her car and tied herself to a tree with her Spanx while the workers were buzz-sawing their way through two of Manhasset’s most beautiful entry arbors. I know she would have inspired other drivers to join her. 

My Manhasset Press subscription arrives several days behind, so last week’s issue may contain letters aplenty on this topic.  I sure hope so.

This was just a ruthless slaughter in my tree-lover opinion. No wonder honey bees are having a hard time surviving.

Which brings me to an even more difficult loss that follows yet another senseless act perpetrated by humans:

What is it we don’t get about the destruction of natural beauty?

It is what gives all living things breath, joy, and hope. 

When we wipe it away carelessly, we’re denying ourselves the very roots of our sustenance, leaving us, well...yes:  "Stumped."

Consider the honey bees. 

CABLE TV and THE LATTE FACTOR

We’re trying to get rid of cable television at our house. I have led the ‘discussion.’

Cable television costs us $120 per month with all the HD stuff - and that doesn’t include the extra money charged for watching ‘first run’ movies at $6 a pop.

My Baby Boomer husband and I remember when television was free. All a house needed was a sturdy antenna on top of its roof and perhaps a wire coat-hanger for an internal, tuning emergency.

Ok. Ok...I know, we also needed to have a family member squat in front of the Magnavox to fiddle with the horizontal button when the images started to flip, and only had a mere 12 channels from which to choose - but it seems to me we had more ‘favorites,’ and none of them cost us anything to view.

We also only had one television in any of the homes in which I lived through 1986 when we bought a tiny tv for the kitchen. We still have just two television sets in our 2013 home, and I employ the same rules my mom imposed:  

                        #1: No television during the day unless it’s horribly rainy out or you are truly sick and in need entertainment.

                        #2: Televisions do not belong in bedrooms.

All this to say, I watch two cable channels that will be hard for me to give up: TCM and CNN. As for the HBO, SHO and the others, I can wait for the dvds.

My husband, on the other hand,  is obsessively attached to ESPN, the Braves’ games on TBS, and the Golf Channel. 

He’s fine with dumping cable until he contemplates life without these crutches. He awakens to ESPN, naps to the Golf Channel,  and joins our Tomahawk-chopping friends in his love/hate relationship with the Braves.

I tell him our friends have cable. He can nap to NPR. Sports bars litter our town, and our son has cable at his place.

He looks at me like I just don’t get it.

 I’d like to think that’s the truth.

However, on a recent morning in the wee hours - when I am wont to curl up on the couch in the den in front of a classic movie - he caught me holding my coffee cup close and crying with Mrs. Miniver as the bombs dropped all around England on the telly.

“Ah-ha,” he said, “What will you do when the cable’s gone? No more Mrs. Miniver for you!”

That’s when I realized that I’m not sure I can give up my 5:00 a.m. oldies. 

There is something in the black and white flickerings that settles me down. I hear the tick-tock, tick-tock of the introduction to "The Early Show" at 5:00 p.m. each night, when our mother let us turn the television set on. We’d relax with a Thin Man, an Andy Hardy, a Shirley Temple or an Abbot and Costello film, waiting for our dad to get home.

Now, I watch those old movies, drink my coffee, and wait for the day to begin.

Thinking about all this brings me back to this nagging question I have about all stuff lately:, and I stop to wonder: Does cable count  as a “latte factor”? Is it one of the things we have to have and don’t need?

I’m afraid the answer is ‘yes.’ I’m just not very good at telling myself ‘no.’

Babies and Magical Thinking

                         

Suzanne McLain Rosenwasser                           March 1, 2013

The instant my first grandchild was born last December, the myopic
focus I had on writing was blinded.

All I could see was her.

Babies produce magical thinking in some of us. They are put in our
arms like tiny miracles - the proof we are given that life exists due to
powers higher and greater than our own imaginings. Suddenly we
know that life is good, hope rules, and peace will reign.

I see wonder every day in this child - in her eyes, her smile, her
movements - and in her mother, my child, as she reflects each of these.

They coo in harmony.

Their song prompts a memory of a moment from the wee, morning
hours after my second child was born more than 30 years ago.  A
nurse found me crying in the hospital room, failing to coerce the newborn
to breastfeed. The woman sat on the side of the bed, and between soft shhhhhhs
while stroking the infant's head, she told me about her own nine babies -
which she'd delivered at her home in Jamaica.

In her softly lyrical voice, this kind woman soothed me and soothed the baby
who, after much soft singing and sweet patience, latched.

When I thanked the nurse she said something close to this: "I'm just being
a mom. All babies belong to you when you become a mom. Even the ones
who just had babies themselves. You can't stop being a mom

when someone seems to need one."

These are my thoughts when my daughter hands my three-month-old
grandchild over to me. The baby knows me now, seems to love the
sound of my voice as much as I love the one-dimple-smile my
hellos evoke.

They are the same smiles I exchanged with my mother and you with
yours, some universal transfer full of a life-giving force. They make
me realize in a grand way, I'm still a mom.

The baby sings and kicks her legs in my arms, happy to be received.

"She loves me," I think, and my unexpecting heart knocks at a
familiar door.

I never had living grandparents. Well, that's not entirely true. I had
a grandmother in Texas who didn't seem to care for us. I only met
her once before she died.

Now I have the opportunity to be the presence in this child's life that
was always a hollow absence in my own.

As if that isn't wonderful enough, the baby is a gift from my beloved
daughter, the child who first  granted me membership in the fellowship
of moms.

As I breathe in the sweet smell of eternity from her child's neck,
my daughter smiles at me. She thanks me for "mom-ing" with her
these last three months and the circle of life whirls around us.

    

                       "A child breathed softly in the folds of my soul,

                                            The warmth became you,

                                            The child became me

                              And the love that was once was for all."

~anonymous

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MANHASSET STORIES (volumes I and II): available at all online booksellers

and The Little Shop in Manhasset, NY on Hillside Avenue.

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For Rhode Island Writers' Retreat Information, May 17-19 2013:
http://www.suzannerosenwasser.com/Suzanne_McLain_Rosenwasser/Writers_Retreat_Info.html