"Those were the days, my friend. We thought they'd never end."

I was sad to receive a letter yesterday from Catherine McAuley High School in Brooklyn, informing me that the school is closing in June. I look back on those years between 1951 and 1955 with so much appreciation for the wonderful education by the Sisters of Mercy. Sr. Mary Theophane, for example, showed me how much fun geometry could be and Sr. Mary Vianney was the first teacher who praised my writing.

The factors for the school's closing include "declining enrollment, fewer numbers of young women choosing Catholic high schools, rising costs, on-going budget deficits, the current economy and the possibility of students to attend nearby Catholic high schools."
(Several years ago Catherine McAuley H. S. became a boarding school during the week.)

My high school years are full of wonderful memories: of ugly uniforms (maroon and gold), of gym classes where all we learned was how to do the Peabody, of the terror of chemistry class with Sr. Mary Josephine and so much more.


Those were such innocent times.

Movie Time

Are you as tired of hearing about the Oscars as I am? The attention is endless: newspapers, of course, magazines, online surveys of “your picks,” radio discussions, TV specials, apps for your iPad  - every media outlet, it seems, is highlighting the movie industry’s annual awards ceremony. Unless you’ve been camping in the Himalayas you know that the presentation of the coveted statue is tomorrow night. The hype and the hoopla have reached new heights this year, it seems to me.

Before you jump to the conclusion that I’m against the whole glitter-and-glamour display of Oscar night, let me say that I’ve not only loved movies since I was ten years old but I’ve paid attention to the Oscars since the late 1940s. Those were the times before the annual event was televised, meaning I listened to the ceremony on the radio while I lay in bed.

  I sort of pride myself on having been an astute movie critic even then. In 1946, for example, after seeing “It’s A Wonderful Life” at the RKO Kenmore, I remember praising it to my friend Margie and her mother on the bus ride home. It wasn’t until years later, however, that the film became extremely popular, thanks to its annual showing on television and Zuzu’s “Teacher says, “Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.”

And I remember coming home from the College Theatre and telling my mother that I thought David Brian should get an Academy Award for his performance opposite Joan Crawford in 1950’s “The Damned Don’t Cry.”

  Years later personalities sometimes played a role in the movies I liked: Montgomery Clift, for example, who made his debut “The Search," a story of Berlin after the war, and the western “Red River” with John Wayne. He was one of the handsomest men ever!

 In 1954 when my girlfriend Carolyn and I learned that he was to appear off-Broadway in “The Seagull,” we bought tickets. I remember the man at the Phoenix Theatre box office remarking with a smile, “Oh, so you like Chekhov?”

  In high school, Carolyn and I would often take the subway into Manhattan. In 1954, we were at the opening of “On the Waterfront” at the Astor Theatre. While waiting on line, we saw Karl Malden walk by. When we were seated I happened to turn around and see Eva Marie Saint and her husband sitting a few rows behind us. No Marlon Brando, however.

  I still like the movies and manage to see all the contenders each year. As I watch the Oscars tomorrow night – haven’t ever missed it in over sixty years – I’ll have my favorites and probably gawk at some of the outfits. I also expect to hear Seth MacFarlane say things that would not have been heard in a radio broadcast in 1946.

Two Weeks at The Monterey

 

Whose idea it was to switch the keys is not important. We both knew it was wrong, yet my sister and I deliberately abandoned our customary roles as good little girls.   We were in Lakewood once again for two weeks at the invitation of Aunt Virginia who owned The Monterey.

 It was August 1948. I was ten and Nancy was eight. This year, instead of sitting on a Greyhound bus or a train that took hours, we arrived at the hotel in the green Hudson Dad had bought shortly after the end of the war. During the ride from our quiet Brooklyn neighborhood Nancy and I remembered some of the fun of previous years when we discovered the back staircase which we used to explore the hotel’s nooks and crannies and to spy on the maids and handymen.   

As soon as Dad parked at the curb, we were out of the car careening up the steps and across the lobby until we found the poster for the Strand theatre.  We knew from previous years that the movie playing there would be the same as the one now playing at Radio City Music Hall. That meant we wouldn’t have to wait a whole year to see it at a theatre in our Flatbush neighborhood.

 By today’s standards The Monterey was not a big hotel. The main floor comprised a large lobby filled with over-stuffed high back chairs, and a writing room adjacent to the reception desk.  Rising from the reception desk was a circular staircase that led to two floors of guest rooms. From the third floor, Nancy and I could look down over the banister and see who was checking in or leaving. One time, with our cousin Greg as a resistant accomplice, we dropped a long piece of string to see if it would reach the person at the desk.

 Back then, hotel keys had leather tags embossed with the room number. Guests were asked to leave their keys at the reception desk whenever they left the hotel to spend a day at the beach or to enjoy dinner at a local restaurant. Guests complied by putting their keys in the pigeonholes marked with their corresponding room number.

 Late one afternoon with nothing to do, Nancy and I came up with an idea.  As I said, I don’t remember who thought of it so we always considered ourselves equally to blame.  Suppose we mix up the keys? We could then sit unnoticed in one of the big high back chairs in the lobby and peek out to see the reactions of the guests when they couldn’t open their doors.

The Tally Ho cocktail lounge was situated just off the lobby. Decorated with wallpaper that featured fox hunt scenes, a fireplace, some small tables, and a grand piano, it was the place not only for hotel guests but also a regular gathering place for Lakewood residents.

 

While all the adults seemed preoccupied – either sitting on the large wrap-around front porch or enjoying a cocktail in the Tally Ho, Nancy and I quietly headed for the reception desk and started moving the keys around. No one caught us.  Not yet, anyway. 

It took only a few minutes for guests to hurry down the stairs to complain that their keys weren’t working. Some realized that the leather label with a number emblazoned on it didn’t match their room number. Mom and Dad who were sitting in the Tally Ho heard the commotion at the desk and soon realized what must have happened.  Our little plot was uncovered and we were scolded. Even Aunt Virginia who never raised her voice let her anger show. And Uncle Tom, who we feared anyway, made us cry and apologize.

We shared the guilt and both deserved the scolding.  Years later, Nancy and I continued to laugh about that time because we both recognized that it was the first time we deliberately set out to cause trouble.

Besides Aunt Virginia, Uncle Tom and Greg who lived in an apartment off the lobby, there was just one other permanent resident: Polly, a former “Ziegfield Girl” who was now nearly blind.  Everyone in Lakewood, it seemed, met regularly at the Tally Ho. In this large circle of friends was a man named Les who reminded my sister and me of the actor Joel McCrea. Whenever he came to The Monterey, he’d give Nancy and me great big hugs – and he became the first person my sister ever developed a crush on.

Though children did not venture into the Tally Ho in the evenings, we often sat at the bar in the afternoon and had a glass of Sarsaparilla. One year we were told we had to keep a secret. Behind a doorway in the Tally Ho a slot machine had been installed. I didn’t understand then why it was a secret, but I kept quiet about it.   The best thing about the Tally Ho, however, was Max, the piano player. On weekend evenings, the sounds of his wonderful music could be heard all the way up to our room on the third floor.  To this day, whenever I hear “Lazy River,” I think of Max and the Tally Ho.

All the guest rooms were covered in flowery wall paper that even extended across the ceilings. None of the rooms had a private bath. I liked staying in Room 66, not only because Max’s playing was loud and clear here but because of the bathroom which was midway down the hall. It had been constructed into two compartments. Once you entered, you had to go through a second door to find the claw foot bathtub sitting all alone in a large area beneath a skylight.

Behind the hotel was a small cottage where Sam lived. He was one of the handymen, tall and lanky, often moody and not very likeable. Early one evening when we thought he was working, Nancy, Greg and I crept quietly to Sam’s cottage and peeked in the window. Oh, my gosh!  There he is!  He was sitting in his chair reading a magazine. But it wasn’t Life or Collier’s.  It was a “girlie” magazine.  We were shocked and must have said something, because he spied us, got up from his chair, opened his door and yelled, “Get away from here.”

Another evening when my mother was sitting in the lobby reading “Nightmare Alley,” a tall, handsome man entered the hotel and requested six rooms – one  for himself and five doubles for the ten young women with him.  My mother must have suspected something was wrong, because a little while later while the group was settling in, she knocked on one of their doors.  I was with her but did not quite understand the conversation at the time.

I do remember her trying to dissuade two of the young women from continuing the trip. “Why?” I asked.  My mother told me they were headed for Atlantic City to “sell magazines.”  But, I wondered, why did she advise them not to go? The next morning the two young women were in the group as it left The Monterey and headed south on Route 9.

When I wasn’t playing with Nancy, I’d sometimes be in the writing room. A couple of large leather chairs sat before desks covered with green blotters. Pens and ink bottles, writing paper and envelopes beckoned me to write to my aunt in Queens and my young friends in Brooklyn and tell them all about my wonderful adventures. 

Though most of our fun we found right in the hotel, there were times when the town itself offered new experiences. On some mornings, my sister and I walked with Dad down to Lake Carasaljo where we fed the ducks. Sometimes we’d walk along the shore until we came to the grounds of Georgian Court College. We learned then that the town of Lakewood had once been a resort for affluent New Yorkers and that the beautiful grounds and buildings of Georgian Court College had been built in 1898 by millionaire George Jay Gould.

Everything we enjoyed was within walking distance– the Strand Theatre, Taylor’s Pharmacy where we sipped our chocolate sodas, and even the grocery stores.  And on Sunday afternoons a popcorn vendor set up his cart on a corner a few blocks away.

Sometimes Nancy and I would be sent around to the grocery store to pick up a few items for Aunt Virginia. Never given cash, we were instructed to say to the store owner, “Just charge it to The Monterey.”  I’ve often wished I still had that option.

 My sister and I would recall those days as the innocent and simple times before our lives became more serious and more complicated than switching around a bunch of keys.

The Pros and Cons of Being Invisible

I began to notice my invisibility a few years after receiving my AARP card. As I saw each new wrinkle as it appeared on my face, I realized that I was fading further and further away on the world’s radar screen.  

As the years pass and we grow older, women start to see themselves becoming invisible. We’re not in the desired demographic of advertisers, unless it is for hearing aids, geriatric medications or Depends. And employers are trained to view both men and women over the age of fifty-five as not suitable.

On any street eyes will naturally turn to the young and stylish or the young and outrageous. So we pass by unnoticed. Sometimes that’s a good thing. No longer do I have to cringe when I pass by a group of construction workers taking a lunch break. The ogles and whistles are years in the past.

Over the past couple of months my friend Robin and I have been meeting in Manhattan to attend talk shows. The tickets are free, of course, so it’s an inexpensive way for us to get together and catch up while we wait to enter the television studios. Most of the audience – as you’d expect – are women. The sprinklings of young and attractive women in stylish outfits get the front and center seats. Robin, who has beautiful white hair, and I are usually delegated to the back row. That’s fine – I don’t need to be up front. These seating arrangements, however, are to me an obvious indication that our older faces are not what the show’s producers or advertisers wish to see when the camera swings to the audience.

While we older women may not be quite as visible as we once were, however, our voices remain strong and vibrant.

I love Robin’s take on this:  “I think being invisible is good.  That’s why I'm coming back as a hummingbird so anyone who crapped on me will have the favor returned but never see me coming.”

 

 

 

Not just for a haircut

 

How do I explain it:  driving from my New Jersey home to Albany every six weeks just for a haircut?  

The beauty parlor – or the salon as these places are now called – caters mainly to a local clientele, just as shops did when I was growing up in Flatbush. The grocery store, the butcher, drug store, stationery store, barber shop, library, bakery, doctors and dentists were all within walking distance. There was even a public pool just two blocks from my house. Not only did I walk to my elementary school and high school, I even walked to Brooklyn College. When I was in my teens and wanted to have my hair cut, three blocks away was my friend’s house where her mother had set up a beauty parlor in her basement. 

But that was a long time ago, before the growth of the suburbs and major highways made everything more accessible.

When I moved to Albany in 1995, my sister recommended The Cuttery on New Scotland Avenue and I have been going there ever since – driving, not walking, every six weeks for my appointment with Su.  

When I moved back to New Jersey in 2008, I vowed that I would continue to have my hair done at The Cuttery.  This raised a few eyebrows. I am sure some wondered just how long this would last. Wouldn’t I tire of driving one hundred and forty miles, two-and-a-half hours, up the Thruway “just for a haircut”?  Ah, but see, it’s not “just for a haircut.”

Number One:  Su is the ultimate professional who enjoys her work and who has become a friend. Over the years we’ve followed the paths taken by our children, discussed books and movies, our vacations, and talked about other mutual interests. In a wonderful stroke of luck, Su was an invited guest to a wedding in New Jersey on the same day of my daughter’s marriage ten years ago. Su made the trip from upstate New York earlier than needed so she could style Trish’s hair and mine.

Number Two: I use these trips to connect with old friends. If I want to meet someone for dinner or stay overnight and have breakfast with an old friend, I’d be welcome to a number of spare bedrooms.  In the past few years, however, my choice of bed has been my niece Carol’s home just a few blocks away from The Cuttery.  My stays with Carol are more than just a “hello and good-night.”  We have a chance to catch up.  She and her sister, Kathie, are my only nieces and they hold special places in my heart.

Number Three: I like to drive the Thruway.  In every season the landscape has its own style of beauty. I use the hours to listen to my favorite music or local NPR station or just to give free rein to my thoughts. I no longer do much local driving as the highways in northern New Jersey are training grounds for the Indy 500.

Recently I discovered I was not alone in my long-distance travel to a salon. My cousin Kathy, who lives in Sligo in the west of Ireland, regularly boards the train to Dublin for her haircuts.  Three hours each way! Although it gives her time to read, Kathy says she may have to reconsider taking the train if the free travel pass for seniors is discontinued in the next budget. “Right now, it costs me nothing but there are rumblings..... And with the winter ahead, taking a 7a.m train and not getting home until 7p.m is not ideal.”

 I also learned I was far from the champ when Kathy’s friend Marie, who lives in the Bronx, told me that she frequently returns to Baltimore for her haircuts. I know there must be a long list of people who will travel the distance and do what it takes to find what they want, even if it’s just a haircut.