Cookie meet Meow

So, Cookie had just taught a kickass Zumba class.  It took place on a rooftop in NYC and all the attendees had a great time.  A woman came up to Cookie and asked to have a photo with such a cool person even though the evening was hot as can be.  I took the photo and we all chatted.  Cookie asked the woman's name and she said, "Meow".  Cookie said what a great name.  Meow said "Cookie's a great name."  Meow turned to me and said, "what's your name."  I said, "Ann."  Meow said, "we all have cool names."

I thought, I like my name, it's an ancient name, cool, I'm not so sure about that.  So I said just that.  Meow said, "a little bug running around, that's cool." She had thought I said "Ant."

So Cookie met Meow and Meow met Ant.   And Ann was there, somewhere in the mix.

He knows from Max Beckmann

So, one afternoon I ran into a friend, Jonathan, who had just come from the Max Beckmann exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. I had a bad boyfriend who was a bad artist who pretended he was Max Beckmann, so I know from Beckmann.  I asked, “How was it?”  “Great,” he said, "and a little emotional.”  Jonathan too knows from Beckmann.   

Jonathan’s Great Grandfather, Ludwig Schames had a Beckmann hanging in his living room.  Ludwig, part of the thriving art community in Frankfurt before WWII, had owned an art gallery.  Ludwig represented many prominent artists of the time particularly those in the German Expressionist movement  – Max Beckmann, Ernest Ludwig Kirchner and Ludwig’s brother, Fritz Schames.  Until of course, the Nazis came to power.  

Ludwig and Fritz Schames, both Jews, escaped Germany in 1938, just in the nick of time. Ludwig had brought with him only a small amount of art from his collection. If you’ve ever seen the movie Woman In Gold, you know a little bit about the confiscation and destruction of art that was owned by Jews. Jonathan thinks Ludwig might have had an agent help sell off his large collection of art before escaping Nazi Germany.

Ten years ago Jonathan was on a business trip in Frankfurt and very spontaneously decided to visit the Frankfurt Jewish museum. He walked in to see a big banner that proclaimed a special exhibit on the art of Fritz Schames. He thought, isn’t he my uncle?  A quick call to his Aunt Harriet the family genealogist, and she said, “of course, he’s your great uncle.”

Fritz Schames died in the 1960s but his wife, Edith lived until the 1990s.  When she passed away the family noticed that she had no art left, apparently she had been selling it off bit by bit to survive.

So it seems as if a circuitous route took Jonathan back to his family legacy when he chanced upon the exhibit honoring his Great-Uncle in Frankfurt and later when he decided to visit the Beckmann exhibition at the Met. Emotional and great.

Clever As A Fox

So, I grew up with a dachshund, Missy and a whippet, Heather.  They were very different creatures.  Missy was clever as a fox and if it suited her could figure out the code to a safe. Heather was the sweetest thing, but not the sharpest tool in the shed.  Heather has her own story but this one belongs to Missy.

We knew we wanted a dachshund.   Missy the only girl, out of a litter of 6, jumped all over her brothers.  She was clearly ours.  For a low riding dog she had a big personality, big bravado and within a short period of time, she had us all figured out.

She was young when we noticed she was putting on weight.  It seemed odd, we didn’t over feed her (at this point) and she was always on the run.  What could it be?  After a few months we discovered her little trickery.  We’d let her out to run around, and she would go to our next-door neighbor, bark at their door, and they let her in.  Oh, look, Missy’s here!   And they’d feed her.  When she was done, they let her out and she went on to following next-door neighbor, bark at their door, and they let her in.  What fun, Missy’s here!  And they’d feed her.  And then she’d come home for dinner!  And we’d feed her!  She was gaming the entire neighborhood.

One early wintery morning it was my turn to walk Missy.  It was freezing cold and I must have been about twelve and she two.  I was half-asleep, wanting to get the walk over with, when I sensed that Missy was prancing.  I looked down and she had a bird in her mouth.  I could not get her to drop the bird.  She was very proud of her accomplishment.  It was her bird and she was keeping it. She walked down the street with a swagger, and a cartoon bubble saying – “I’m bad, I’m bad, I gotta bird, I’m bad!” I knew she couldn’t bring the bird into the house and she wasn’t letting it go, so I rang the front bell and got my dad. 

It wasn’t until my dad was on his deathbed that I learned how he got her to drop the bird. He tried tickling her, no. He put the hose on her, no. Remember it was freezing.  Finally he grabbed her by her hindquarters and shook her.  That did it.  Down went the bird. 

Our next door neighbors decided to get a dog of their own and opted for two. German Shepherds.  They would come out, bark for Missy, she insisted that she join them, out she’d go and back forth they went barking and running with each other.  For hours. She would run as if her back legs were trying to catch up with her front legs. Although these dogs looked scary, we all knew who ruled that pack.

I remember how determined she was to get the left over chicken off the kitchen counter.  She wanted it and she was going for it.  She gave her best vertical leap repeatedly until she finally made it.  The chicken landed on her back, but her rewards were quickly rebuffed as we placed the chicken in the trash.  Chicken bones and dogs are not a good thing. 

Missy was quite the character.  She was the boss of us and knew it. Inches off the ground but mighty and fierce.  What a fabulous combination.
 

Come to the Dark Side Easter Egg Hunt

So, I worked in a big, beautiful, important, old theatre when I was quite young.  I looked around the theatre and thought; this would be a great place for an Easter Egg Hunt.  Mind you, I had never been to an Easter Egg Hunt, being of the tribe that does not partake. All my life I dreamt of the scene – me in a pretty pastel dress with pretty shoes and a pretty basket. So here was my opportunity to make one happen, minus the outfit.

I started mentioning it to my fellow workers, they talked it up and suddenly it was an upcoming event.  The House Manager, a scary woman, called me into her office. I went in there shaking. She said,” I understand you’re putting on an Easter Egg Hunt.”  “Yessss,” I said, my voice a quiver. “Well, I’m going to give you money for it.  And I’ll buy the chocolate bunny prize,” said the not so scary now House Manager.  I was grateful and realized the hunt was bigger than I thought.

The engineers sought me out.  “You the one giving the Hunt?”  I nodded. “What kind of eggs?” “Chocolate covered,” I said, thinking – is that not what you use for the Hunt, not being in the know, after all. I was told I had to make a map and know exactly where each egg was placed and after the hunt I had to make sure each and every egg was taken away before the nights performance. They did not want to invite any potential mice that might be in the vicinity.

I invited the front of the house and I put up a sign backstage inviting the cast and backstage crew.  With the money the House Manager gave me, we had a lovely spread. And her prize for the winner - a giant white chocolate squirrel.  I thought this is a little odd, but what did I know?

Suddenly it was time and the Hunt began.  Guess who came to my Easter Egg Hunt?  James Earl Jones.  Yes, Darth Vadar came to my Easter Egg Hunt. And Christopher Plummer. They were so nice and fun, crawling all over the theatre looking for eggs.  We had refreshments after and lots of laughs.

I had labeled it as the First Annual Easter Egg Hunt of the Theatre. Well, it was the only one. A juggernaut of a show moved in, and that was that.  Darth and I, well, we have our memories.

Included With The Apartment

So, I have a friend who has a friend I shall call Audrey.  Audrey is over the age of 70, retired, and decided to be careful with her money.  She came to the conclusion that it would be good to rent a room in an apartment.  Audrey looked and looked and couldn’t seem to find anything decent.

Finally, Audrey came upon an apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. A couple was renting out one of their bedrooms.  The apartment was large, had light and was in a great location. 

Audrey sat in the living room as the couple enumerated all of the benefits.  Audrey could share the kitchen and the living room.   And the couple mentioned something else that was included – a ménage a trois. 

Audrey’s first thought was – Me?  Couldn’t you find anyone younger?  The couple was in their 60s, so maybe Audrey was exactly what they wanted.  Audrey decided the package was not what she was looking for.

When I was very young, I had a boyfriend.  We liked to think we were adventurous.  So we talked about the possibility of a ménage a trois.  My boyfriend lived with his friend, he asked his friend and his friend agreed.  We made plans for the event.  About a week before, I freaked out.  I could not do it.  Something deep in me swelled up and said –NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! 

So, I’m not that adventurous.  I wonder how many people really are.  And what the aftermath is like. 

Sophia

So, I first met Sophia in my ancient Greek history class at university.  Apparently, I would enter the class by dancing down the aisle (I don’t recall it, but don’t deny the possibility) and she thought I must meet that girl. As the world would have it, we lived on the same floor in the dormitory.  Eventually we would share an apartment off campus. 

Sophia was tall and strikingly beautiful.  She was Greek and looked like an ancient statue come to life.  She was intense, looked intimidating but was a kind and golden soul. We were very different people but had much in common.  She was getting her degree in art history and I loved art.  I was getting my degree in history and she was fascinated by it. She took a modern Japanese literature course and I read every single one of the books. When it was her turn to cook dinner, she did it with a zeal usually seen in conductors of great symphonies.  A towel thrown over her shoulder, her hair in an eighteenth century bun and the chopping, peeling or brazing would commence.  The meal was always an event.

When Sophia came to visit one summer, I had the brilliant idea of introducing her to Alana, a friend from home. I thought they’d be fast friends, after all they had so much in common.  Both specializing in the same period of art history, they read the same books, liked the same music and so on.  The setting was my bedroom.  The dislike for each other was instantaneous.  I tried to get the party started, playing favorite songs, reminding them of conversations we had, but they weren’t interested. An hour was eternity.  It was a life lesson, just because everything points to friendship doesn’t mean it will happen.

One very cold snowy night (this describes every night at school) we were comfy in our apartment when Sophia got a phone call.  Professor xxx was coming over.  She grabbed me and said, “Do not leave the room.  You stay with me.  Promise!”  I promised.  Ostensibly he needed to go over Sophia’s senior thesis.  All three of us knew otherwise.  He came over and was chatty and chatty.  Time passed. He got less chatty. Sophia went to make popcorn.  The professor glared at me.  I was taking his class at the time.  He was a prominent art historian and his Modern Art class was a must.  I’m thinking, he’s going to fail me!!!  The night stretched on and on.  It was a battle of wits.  I never left Sophia’s side.  Eventually we wore him out and he left.  We both aced our classes.

 

Upon graduation Sophia married her childhood sweetheart and moved to Chicago.  We lost touch. A few years ago I went to run the Chicago marathon, and I thought how nice it would be to connect up with her.  I discovered that Sophia had passed away from the same cancer that killed my mother.  I ran the marathon in Sophia’s honor.  It hurts to think of her.  She provided a mooring in my life when things were rather untethered.  I will always be grateful.  Golden Sophia.

Piglets In A Basket

So, many years ago I rode my bicycle in Vietnam.  It wasn’t a tourist bike group with van support; it was two girls with panniers and a map.  This was long after the war and just at the time that Vietnam was beginning to open up. 

This friend I went with had ridden her bike all over the planet.  It was she that got me into endurance sports.  She was all about the basics.  She mocked fancy equipment.  All you needed was spit and guts.  So for a long time I felt the same. Vietnam was a country of bikes and our mountain bikes attracted a lot of attention. 

Vietnam at that time was one of the poorest countries in the world.  Upon arriving I was shocked at the level of the poverty.  I had been to poor countries but not on this level.   It was beautiful and the people were very kind.   I began to understand that people who have nothing give everything.  It’s when you get some worldly goods that you clutch onto them.  Camel and the eye of the needle and all that.

I had many adventures, but for now I will tell but a few.  We rode south from Hanoi, there was one main road and we’d pass through many towns.  It seemed everyone was learning English and would like to practice on us.  Hello!  Where are you from!  Often people would ride with us.   People would be on their way to market, and sometimes you’d see piglets in a basket.  One time a guy had a large hog strapped on the back of his bike.  He rode a little too close to me.  I wanted to say, “excuse me sir, your pigs nose is rubbing against my thigh.”  I didn’t, I tried to create space but he wanted to ride with me.  Fortunately it was a small town.  

Frequently, schoolboys would want to race me.  I’d say, “guys, I’m happy to ride with you, but I’m going another 40 miles and I’m not racing you right now.”  They might not have understood the exact words but they understood the sentiment, and seemed to content to ride alongside me, each waving as they made the turn to their homes.

We landed in a small beautiful fishing village and stayed for a bit.  One day I went to the market with my bike just as kindergarten let out.  Instantly, 50 little children surrounded me, each wanting to touch my bike.  I smiled and let them.  And then it was time to go.  They weren’t letting me.  I said, please, please, please.  They answered back in high-pitched voices, please, please, please.  I said, lam on, lam on, lam on (please in Vietnamese).  They answered back, lam on, lam on, lam on (okay they probably didn’t know I was trying to speak their language, but they were very good mimics).  I tried, I must go.  They responded, go, go, go.  This went on for a bit.  I’m not sure how I managed to untangle myself.  They were very cute, but wow, the power of multiple 5 year olds!

It’s a wonderful country and a fabulous trip.  Perhaps I shall write more about it.