Come From Away

A KR backdrop of Hopewell Junction that Sue and I painted for a camp musical.
Those were the days when a set dressed the stage.

Broadway has changed, and I don't mean the couple of city blocks now lined with tables and chairs. The entire experience has changed. I can remember when our seats faced a velvet curtain and an overture filled the air with music and anticipation. A full orchestra was as important to the Broadway experience as the illusion a set designer created behind the velvet. Shows do not have overtures anymore and they all seem to have taken down the curtains that used to rise into the rafters. The stage of your next show will probably be in full view as you walk in, with members of the cast or crew roaming around and setting things up. Nothing is hidden, not even the actors; the audience is the one making the dramatic entrance.

An intermission is something else that seems to have become a thing of the past. Better locate the restrooms before you find your seat.

Not everything has changed. Ushers in uniforms still escort you to your seat, hopefully on an aisle or with lots of leg room. Last night all the ushers in the Schoenfeld Theater wore the usual tight black pants and jacket, a crisp white button-down shirt, and a colorful tie. I happily thanked ours for our Playbill even though I can't remember the last time I actually read the program. Now we just hold it up in front of us for a Facebook selfie and hope a little square piece of paper does not fall out. Last night, an understudy was given the break she was waiting for, but it didn't much matter to us when the notice fell out of the program. It wasn't like Carol Channing was out sick. All the actors in this show were wonderful. It was more of a team effort, a far cry from the days when there was the star and then there was the rest of the cast.

Our audience was of a certain age, like me. Most would remember Broadway as I remember Broadway. In the row in front of us sat an older gentleman with an impressive head of silver hair and bright red glasses. His wife (I assume) had bright red hair and silver glasses. I found that amusing and I wondered if she dyed her hair to match his glasses. Next to them sat a couple we met while we were waiting outside. As it happens in Jewish geography, we knew people from their over-55  neighborhood in New Jersey. And they went to Tilden High School in Brooklyn, just like my husband. People of a certain age not only have people and places to talk about, but they help each other take selfies. I know it is not really a selfie, but sometimes you need another set of hands to get your face and the sign in the same picture.

Come From Away hangs a poster outside the theatre just for your selfies.

People of a certain age also tend to dress up for the theatre. Last night, I admired how proper and fancy one man looked with his suit and tie. His wife was dripping with jewels. (I forgot to wear mine.) With this age bracket of theatergoers, the actors get to enjoy a well-dressed audience.

The set for Come from Away was not dressed to impress. Trees lined the simple stage and we were invited to watch the musicians set their stands and instruments among the branches. Chairs and tables were the only props. The small cast of twelve actors moved the furniture around themselves and they played multiple roles, taking off a jacket or adding a hat for a simple costume change. It was all so minimalistic.

Come From Away is not the story of 9/11. It was the story of 9/12 and the days following the attacks. Travelers to the US were diverted to a small town in Newfoundland. Canada welcomes us every time we need to escape our country or our airways. From Vietnam to Trump, we always have a reason to cross the border. This show told us the story of the stranded plane people and the amazing friendly neighbors in Canada who embraced them with open arms, a change of clothes and a place to sleep. I could not imagine such a horrific tale set to music, but the show ended with a big song and dance finale, so I guess it could be defined as a musical. A Tony Award show, Come From Away was very well done... even without impressing us under the Broadway lights we remember.

If a stage does not have a curtain, can the actors still have a curtain call?

A better question is why we went to see a show about planes making emergency landings just days before we board our United Airlines flight for a vacation. Let's just hope our landing does not become a story that deserves a stage.

Baby, it's cold outside!

This was our Aunt Elke, shown here with her nephews.
She had flown up from Florida to celebrate her granddaughter's wedding.

We woke up to 34 degrees. A cold morning. Our old blankets outlived their appearance and warmth after a dog and two humans snuggled into the fibers for so many years. During the summer, I made my bed with a lovely new lightweight quilt. It came with a fancy pillow sham and it was fun to dress the mattress each morning. My bedroom became a symbol of a perfect house.

Once the temps dropped, the old covers were thrown back on and my carelessly made bed came back home like a child from college. So as any good homemaker would, I used my 30% off an already cheap sale price at Kohl's and bought two new warm blankets in a pretty color. My house is well dressed again. Now we are enveloped in warmth at night. It was close to freezing this morning; we need the warmth.

This was Norman's text to me this morning.
 He likes our new blanket, but not New Jersey.

Norman says he needs Florida. I have never been to the state where old people go for warmth. Do they have well-lit rooms down there for artists who retired but still want to paint as well as keep warm?

I don't think Florida has our beautiful New England trails covered in fall leaves, but honestly, my perfect fall season only lasted a couple of weeks. It is already much too cold out. Today, I will skip my brisk walk around Covered Bridge and I won't be hearing the crunch of autumn leaves in the park. I guess I won't reach my goal of 10,000 steps again until the spring.

I don't know if I could embrace Florida living. Norman has relatives and friends who migrated south with the birds and he flies down to visit them regularly. These people seem to love living there. Problem is, I do not want to be so far away from my children. I need to feel the warmth of their hugs, not just hear their voices over a phone. If I could uproot my whole family and take them with me, I would live there. I guess. I've never been there. How do I know I want to live there?

Next week, we fly down to Dave's neighborhood along with the rest of New Jersey. We'll be staying in Aunt Elke's place and I'll find out if this lifestyle could be for me. I am excited to visit with Delmi, Dave, Doris, Joel and Aunt Sonia. I hope I like Florida, but I'm still not moving there.

So I say.

The jackpot for the lottery is way up there, into the billions. I don't need a billion dollars. That would come with way too much responsibility. A couple of million would do the trick. I would pay off our bills, invest the rest in our children and our future, and happily buy a home in Florida to escape the frigid temperatures. I would also buy a home in the Berkshires where I could "summer" like rich artists do... and keep my home in Jersey where I can enjoy a hug from my children. Three homes. That's my dream.

Buy a lottery ticket because you have to be in it to win it.
What do you do to keep warm?

What's in a Name?

Two friends, four names.
Norman is Leo and Teddy is Buber. 

If Norman makes a reservation at a restaurant, he always puts it under the name of Leo. His friends call him Leo, Buck and all sorts of other names I wouldn't know or care to repeat. He was Dean Levine at school and Stormin' Norman at camp. My husband has many handles, as do his many friends, Buber, Whitey, Shakes, Doodles, ponytail Richie and Chuckles.

His parents gave him the name of Norman. No middle name or anything, just Norman. I think he actually likes his name. He has a collection of Norm's Beer and Wine coasters, Norm's Body Shop T-shirts and other cool Norm finds. He is pleased to be included in the Norm clubs of the world.

So why does everyone call him Leo? I think it stands for Let's Eat Out, from the days before he met me. My husband does enjoy a good clementine. Perhaps his nickname actually stands for Let's Eat Oranges. All I know is that if some random person calls out, "Leo," Norman will answer.

Choosing just the right name for a child, or even a dog, could be quite an ordeal. We rescued Murray when he was a stray pup in need of a home. He did not come with a name and I would call him Barney for no good reason. I call all dogs Barney. For his official name, we thought of athletes from Norman's favorite teams and even had a dog tag printed with the name of Mookie.

Our little rescue dog enjoys running after a tennis ball so we eventually settled on the name of Murray, in honor of Andy Murray and Norm's good friend Murray Shabat who loves tennis. We did not realize at the time that the real Murray was not a dog lover. My dog is now named after a man who hates dogs. Oh well, I rarely call him that anyway. To me, he is still Barney or Barnes 'n Nobles or Barney Rubble (Fred's friend), and sometimes when I am really mad at him, he is Mr. Murray. My confused furball will answer to anything if there is a cookie in my hand.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
-Juliet

Good old Billy Shakespeare had the right idea. A name does not define us. Murray would still be the greatest pet in the world, even if he wore his Mookie necklace. And my husband would still be the best dad in the world, even if his mom decided to call him Mookie Levine. I don't know if I would have married a Mookie. Our camp friend Barry married a Cookie. Now that's a different story.

I listened to the Goop podcast yesterday on my walk with Murray. Gwenyth Paltrow was interviewing Stella McCartney. It was an interesting conversation between two very good friends. They have both lived a life of privilege and they admit that easily. Is that why Gwenyth felt empowered enough to name her daughter, Apple and her son, Moses? Apple's godmother is Stella McCartney and grandmother is Blythe Danner. I am sure there are scores of other privileged people with better sense who could have advised Gwenyth on a name. Yet her teenager goes by the name of a fruit and the mention of the girl in her mom's podcast just made me hungry.

My mother decided to call me Barbara Hope after her dear departed Uncle Barney and Uncle Henry. Somewhere in the archives of birth certificates, there is another form filled out for me under the alias of Suzanne Helene. I guess it was more important for her to honor Uncle Barney than it was Uncle Sam, so my name was changed. At home, Yiddish words sprinkled into our conversations and my grandmother was fluent in the language. So I was also known by my Yiddish name, Basha Hannah.

My brother used to call his annoying little sister, The Human Dud, but to this day, he still affectionately refers to me as Bashie. Like my dog, I will answer to anyone with a vegan/gluten free cookie in their hand.

People can opt out of their given names. My dad was born as Reuben and officially modernized it to Robert at some point in his life. My grandmother was born as Rebecca and changed it to Reda to sound more American once she came off the boat. I like the more traditional names. At least my relatives did not become a fruit or a vegetable.

Framed and signed as BLevine '18

I just signed my latest dog painting. I always sign my work as BLevine. It is not because I don't want to include my first name, or I am hiding the fact that I am female, as artists and writers did in the past. I like my name and I am proud to be a woman. You might call me Barb or 'Hey You,' but I am not a Bobbie or a Babs like Ms. Streisand. I am also not a Barbie as in Ken's girlfriend or like a Playboy bunny. I sign my name B because it has fewer letters to paint and over the years it has simply become my signature.

Our friend Buber (aka Theodore, Ted, or Teddy) calls me B. That works too. If you are looking for a pet portrait I will accept a new commission by any name you like. Call me.

The Tides of Change

Katie and Murray in my daughter's bedroom before she moved out.
I cried for days when the room changed and it was no longer her room.

I am not that great with change. Change can be scary and definitely not for the meek at heart, like me.

My daughter has a physical reaction to the change in temperature. The shifting of the seasons is always heralded with a rash on her legs. Doctors have tried to give her a textbook diagnosis over the years along with some soothing ointment, but her body simply reacts to a dramatic change in a thermometer reading. When temperatures settle down, so does my daughter.

Global warming, otherwise known as scientific evidence branded as a hoax by our President, means that winter could very well be an unseasonably hot one, or we could have a pile of snow to shovel before Halloween. Both have happened in recent years, Mr. President. I have to dress in clothing meant for all four seasons in one outfit so I can strip down if it gets too hot or bundle into another sweater when I get cold. I refuse to blame it on my "changes." I'm done with that, thank heavens. Mother Earth is now going through her changes and the man we put in charge withdrew from the Paris Climate Agreement with as much lack of concern as he does for all for women, even for the one that gives him a home. My daughter has a powerful voice when it comes to women's rights and she empathizes with the tears of Mother Earth by suffering the consequences of a climate change all season long and not just on the equinox.

I apologize for that rant, but my reaction to change is not so much a physical thing, it is a mental attack. I fight my way through every level of change, even if it means I'm going in a good direction. Every time my computer software changes to a new version, I scream at the monitor. Every time my phone updates, I scream at the phone. I was once a fan of technology. Now I just feel old and it's getting harder to keep up with the change.

Teachers at my school facing another change in the schedule

I am one of those people who waits until a trend has been popular for at least two years before buying the newest style of anything. I like to shop for classics, just like those mom jeans I wore before I was a mom and now I can proudly wear again. At least, I think they are back in style.

In my art class, I used to introduce abstract art to my 3rd graders with a story about a hat. I would pick a volunteer (someone who enjoyed playing the clown) and told the class to imagine there was a big, ugly hat on his or her head. The hat was a hideous color and had pockets all over the top. The giggles aimed at my brave model told me what I already knew, that even kids are afraid to accept a new trend if it means being the source of embarrassment. I explained that my model could come to school without carrying a backpack. There was room for a water bottle in her hat, textbooks, a binder, cute pockets for pens, and hooks for keychains that made them look like cool earrings. I would say that my model wore her hat proudly to school for days and finally her best friend asked her mom to find out where she could get one too. Eventually, backpacks became a thing of the past and Ranney School designed their own big hat in blue and white with the school logo on the front.

Who would want to hang a Jackson Pollock over their couch when the Mona Lisa is what art means to the world? It took years for abstract art to become accepted as real art and for museums to display the modern pieces in their galleries. I also transition slowly. I resist the tides of change, even in something I identify with, such as art. I like to watch the spread of acceptance before it becomes okay for me to follow. I know that about me.

The problem is, Mother Earth does not have much time. We are destroying our forests, our wildlife, and the fragile balance that exists between species. The year can no longer be defined as having just four seasons and entire cities are being wiped out with powerful storms. The world is changing whether we are prepared to accept that as fact or not. Do you think the President is happy when his apps update and he can't tweet the same way he did the day before?

Maybe change can be a good thing.

This is us

This is Norm and this is Sam.
My kids have no problem knowing who their real father is.

Thank goodness for Youtube, Netflix, and Hulu. These channels were created for people like me who suddenly have time to catch up on shows everyone else watched on television.

I am now up to Episode 15 of This is Us (Season one) and still going strong. I'd love to go back in time to the last couple of Emmy's and see the actors win their awards now that I know who they are.

Zach laughed at me because I would text him while I was watching the show. "I get it!!," I wrote at the very beginning. "Kevin, Randall, and Kate are the triplets!" Now it seems obvious, but how brilliant was the realization when it first hit? Flashbacks explain everything, just as they do in real life.

This is us

Now that Zach is engaged, I can't help but remember my son as a little boy, how gentle and protective he was with his brother and sister, and how those qualities have stayed with him as a man. I am sure those precious memories will play through my mind in a confusing, out of order video on the day of his wedding, just as they do in the show. This is my son, my family. This is us.

Every time Sam slips on his crooner's hat and sings a Sinatra tune, he takes us all back to another time. Sam loves the same music and the same hats as his father does and as Chuck enjoyed before him. It must be a Levine gene or something. Music and memories all float through our minds like the storylines do in the show. History repeats itself in my family as I would suspect it does in all families. This is Sam's legacy and he wears it well under a distinguished looking hat.

Years ago, Katie stepped out of Sylvan Lake, dripping wet and as glorious as Bo Derek. Katie will always be a ten. Anyway, I overheard someone say that Katie is so much more beautiful than either of her parents. Of course, I was pleased. Any compliment meant for my children is a compliment given to me. Then, I realized I was just duly insulted. That's okay, I would hope Katie is better looking than I ever was. My daughter has inherited the best of both sides of her family, and she carries her ancestry proudly. With the photos she scanned into the computer and the VCR tapes she transferred to Youtube, we can now thank her for having our memories treasured for life. This is us, saved somewhere in the cloud.

This is Us is a show that portrays the evolution of a family tied together through many different moments. Our family has its memories too and here is one from 1960. Please enjoy this scene of Peter beating up his older brother, Norman, and their dad enjoying his boys.

Telling Time

It was a phone, but could it tell time?

Time is not an object we can hold in our hands. We can't see it, taste it, or feel it, but it can mean so many things.

I am tired, it must be bedtime.
I don't have time for that!
The Renaissance was a glorious time for artists.
Sam taps his feet and keeps time to the music.
We had a great time at your party!
This is not the first time you said that.
Glen ran a race in record time.
The criminal does time for a crime.
Who is Father Time and how did he get to be a father?

I like knowing the time and I always like being on time. I am retired and I don't have to clock in anywhere. I don't have to wait for a Saturday when a Tuesday appointment will work just as well. I've got plenty of time on my hands, so why am obsessed with the hands of a clock?

Now that time is in the 'cloud,' cell phones, Fitbits, and cable boxes are always on time. There are only a few old-fashioned clocks in the house that might need adjusting. A battery might die or a storm comes and we get a power outage... stuff like that happens. But I don't understand when crazy people who decide on such dribble, ask us to turn the clocks back an hour. They gift us with extra time, only to take it away again later in the year. Who are those people anyway? Isn't it time to stop changing the time?

I can’t wear many watches because I have a strange reaction to metals. I think it is mainly to nickel, the five cent coin metal used as a component in cheap jewelry and on the back of a watch face. I have bought so many pretty watches over the years that I could not wear. Their batteries died out without ever telling me the time of day. My Fitbit, however, is made of plastic. I love my Fitbit. It tells me when it is lunchtime and when it is time to get moving again. It'll even applaud me for taking a long walk with Murray.

Question... If I walk 10,000 steps on my two legs, would that mean my dog with four legs clocked in at 20,000? If they don't make Fitbits for dogs, they should.

I followed the Alex and Ani craze a few years ago and bought a few bangles with charms telling the world I am an artist, a mom, and a dog lover. They were fun to wear until my wrist starting itching from the cheap metal they must use. I guess my wrist has a problem shouting out my identity to the world. I will never be a trendy girly girl.

Then there was the time I went with my friend Joyce to the mall and learned about a new watch trend. She had a credit to a very fancy watch store. Companies in the business of telling the time are joining the Fitbit and Apple craze by bringing the internet to people's wrists with their new hybrid designs. Remember when Maxwell Smart made a phone call on his shoe? I still think that is funny after all these years, and it is just as funny watching someone talk into their wrist. Whatever the trend, watches will always keep the time and keep up with the times. Just remember folks, you have to set your Rolex back on November 4th. Fancy people and others not so fancy, like me, will all gain an hour of sleep and get confused at the time in the morning.

Now I have to call for an estimate on a window replacement in my house. Let's hope the window guy comes on time. My Fitbit and I have a lot to do today.

Lions, Tigers and Bears. Oh My!

"Bear"
Acrylic on canvas 18" x 24"

I just finished the last few strokes on my painting of a beloved dog named Bear. It is ready for the frame and to be presented to its new owner.

When I think of bears, cute black doggies never came to mind before. I would think of panda bears, polar bears, adorable bear cubs, and cuddly teddy bears. I wonder why Phyllis, the best friend of my beloved friend Ruth, chose that name. But Bear is quite smashing in his red plaid bandanna and he carries his name proudly.

I always think of bears when I remember my niece's wedding. Everything was perfect for her weekend celebration, from the lovely grounds of the ceremony to the sun that came out just for them. The beautiful bride and groom modeled what every couple should look like on their wedding day, even if I am a bit biased. She is my niece, after all. Becky is now a consultant for Beautycounter, a beauty regimen that carries no questionable ingredients (like bearskin). She gets to transform brides into princesses every day, and anyone can be a princess after Becky has her way with them.

On the very long drive up to Big Indian in the Catskills, for Becky's wedding, we followed a GPS along dirt paths, confusing forks in the road, and no signs of civilization. At one point I told my son to bear right. In the back seat, my stepmom came to attention. "A Bear? Where?" she wanted to know. We were in the country after all. It was possible to see one. "No," I replied, "we just need to 'bear' right." Oh, the joys of the English language. We did end up seeing a bear at the wedding. He was probably just laughing at us and waiting for the reception to begin.

I would not want to face down a real bear in our backyard, but I would never want to witness someone with a rifle shooting a scared and hungry animal either. Deer, rabbits, chipmunks, and an occasional red fox wander through the forest where we live. They all have the right to exist, even the scary ones.

Just this week, bears were mentioned on the news. It seems there is a ban on killing bears in New Jersey and only official bear hunts are allowed with archery as the weapon. Hundreds of bears have been killed annually this way. Ugh. Maybe, we're just living on their land? Did anyone consider that?

And then there was the fattest bear competition. Beadnose, chubby bear #409 from Alaska won the honor of most blubbery. Nobody actually weighed her. She got the most likes on social media for her size. Talk about body shaming! She has to eat enough salmon and cake to last through many months of hibernation. Really, folks.

And then, of course, there is my dog, Murray, who has a pet bear named Ted. This stuffed bear recites R-rated lines from the movie whenever Murray plays with it. The bear gives Murray many minutes of happy fun as well as making us laugh. Now that's a cool bear!

Bear the Dog was a joy to portray on canvas. His red bandanna was a special detail that I enjoyed painting as much as the whispy white fur surrounding his face. I hope this bear continues to bring many years of happiness to Phyllis and his painting will hang on her wall with honor.