Strangers Stopping Strangers

For most people, it was a typical Wednesday night commute.  Not for me, since I don't live or work in New York City.  I was on the train, heading in to go to a concert, to see my favorite bass player*, Phil Lesh, in  a concert in Central Park.  So while most people were just thinking about getting home, I was excited to meet my brother and friends for a fun night under the stars, listening to my favorite music.  I knew the band Phil (we all call him Phil, with love and reverence) had put together would be stellar, and historically, New York City seemed to bring the best out of him.

The ride from my town to Secaucus was uneventful.  I texted with the people I was going to meet, and did a crossword puzzle.  At Secaucus I had to change trains for New York's Penn Station.  This is a 16 minute trip that delivers you right underneath Madison Square Garden.  It's the best if your concert is right there, but still pretty handy to get anywhere else, because it's a subway hub.  (Not that I have the slightest idea which subway lines go where, but luckily, my brother does.)

It was on that 16-minute ride that something somewhat extraordinary happened.

I found a seat right away, and gave the guy already sitting in the other seat the "mind if I sit here?" look.  He moved his stuff away, but apparently he did mind. He was wearing khakis, and a short-sleeve plaid shirt, and now put his brief case on his lap to make room for me.  He gave me a sort of put-off quasi-disgusted look, as if I just ruined his day.  (Yes, I had showered that day, and NO I was not wearing patchouli oil.) I sat down, putting my bag with the concert supplies on the floor, and my pocketbook on my lap.  He took his phone out and was furiously texting or emailing. 

As the train started to go, we sat like that, in silence, ignoring each other. I was lost in thought.  He was typing away on his phone.  

About 6 minutes into the ride the door between the cars opened, and a man came stumbling into our car. He seemed to be an older guy, pants drooping down, three or four shirts sloppily layered on, with a torn jacket over all of them. As I was on the aisle, I could smell him as he walked by, an unpleasant smell of urine and something else... beer maybe?  His hand was out, and I remember his hands most of all. Gnarled knuckles, and fingernails that were too long.  They looked like old man's hands. I saw two different sleeves, frayed and torn. 

And he was shouting this up and down our car,  "I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. Who's gonna give me my two-fifty for the 3 train uptown?"

Everyone looked down.  Or out the window.  Or at their iPhones, which don't work under the Hudson River. But I didn't look away. I looked at this guy.  Wandering on a train asking for $2.50. 

And I did what I always do.

I took out my wallet.  And if the story ended there, I would not be writing about it.

But as I was getting money out for this man in need, Mr. Plaid Shirt was taking out his wallet, and saying to me, "I'll split the difference with you."  

I just looked at him, and started to smile.  

He continued, "If you will give it to him."

I took the dollar from Mr. Plaid Shirt and took a dollar from my wallet, and stood up and yelled, "Excuse me, sir?" and the man stumbled back to where we were sitting and took the money.  He had almost left the car when he remembered to mumble, "Gah bleh you" before the door slammed shut.

Plaidman was a different person now. He smiled at me and said, "I was making all kinds of excuses in my head about why I couldn't give him the money.  I can't reach my wallet.  We're almost at Penn Station. What if it's not safe to give it him?  What if he just spends it on drugs?  Then I saw how easy it was for you to do it and I realized I could do it too. Thank you."

"Yea," I said, "It's not up to us to decide what he might spend it on, it's sad enough he's at the point where he needs to beg. I give it to him and remember to be grateful that I can."

My new friend smiled and admitted that he always wants to give, but he just walks past "those people."

Remembering the countless stories I'd heard from people who had found themselves homeless, I said, "If, God forbid, I am ever down and out, I hope my acts of kindness will come back to me.  Maybe your act today will start a chain of good deeds."

"I was thinking that maybe by helping that guy, I just prevented something really bad from happening to me," he replies.

"Oh, I never thought of that.  So if you go and have a fantastic day, you'll know you got your reward?"

"Something like that!" he says, and he is smiling now.

"I picture you walking around the city, just barely missing pianos and anvils falling on your head!  You could write a children's book about that!" I say, now really enjoying the idea of doing a mitzvah and protecting yourself from harm.

"I think that's for other people to do."

We are almost at Penn Station.  We are both standing up near the door.  I wonder if he will be empowered to give to the next person in need.  He is certainly a different person than the one I sat next to 14 1/2 minutes ago.

We say good-bye.  He goes off to his life, protected, I hope by his act of kindness.  I go off to mine, already in progress.

As a reward for my act of kindness, Phil plays a song just for me.  I hold it close as the music and words pour into my soul and fill me with joy. 

And for a little while, all is right with the world.

Photo credit: Jack Baribault

Pictured: Jack, Peter White, me, and my brother Geoffrey's back. I forget why we are showing the number one. Maybe someone can enlighten me. 



*Phil Lesh is my favorite bass player, except for my cousin, Rick Cantor.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles. But mostly planes.

Not me.

In order to really grok where I am coming from, start with these two pieces of understanding.

• I am a Jewish educator.  I used to run the religious school of synagogues, and now I run programming for many synagogues' schools.  
• There is no need for regular travel for work in my business.  I live in an area where there are many synagogues, and many opportunities for work without having to travel, except for the occasional educational conference.

Me, doing what I do.

But as luck would have it, I was asked to fill in as an interim school director for one year in a state that pretty much could not be farther from my own.  Most of the time, I do the work from home, working on the computer, timing meetings with the 3-hour time difference in mind, and using Skype,  texts, and emails to keep up with the faculty and families.  Once a month, however, I fly out to Portland and drive up to Washington State to be present at this synagogue.  

No kidding, the view from my office window.  Mt. Hood.

When I am there, I love it.  The people are warm, gracious, laid back and appreciate of my hard work.  The teachers are a joy to work with and make me want to work harder to bring them to be their best.   The Rabbi is the reason I said yes in the first place. She's dedicated to the congregation and gifted with the students in a way that I have missed dearly in my new ventures in Jewish education. 

But this flying thing is another story.

When did flying start to suck so much???

I don't want to sound like Dennis Miller going off on one of his 1980's rants, but really?? When did the passenger on the plane become the bad guy?  From the minute I get near the airport, I feel like I am being punished, and vaguely guilty for a crime I'm not quite sure of, but I've committed it with a lot of other people.

Last year I had to commute in and around New York City, Westchester, and Long Island. Sitting in my car on the Long Island Expressway, not moving, listening to traffic on the 8's made me want to take that perky traffic reporter and throttle her.  On one occasion, it took me so long to get home, I had to find a place to stop to use a bathroom and to eat something.  I had been on the road for hours.  I found myself in a shopping mall on Route 4 in Paramus NJ (luckily it wasn't a Sunday, just saying...) and found sustenance. On my way out, I was accosted by kiosk workers who tried to tell me my skin was overly sensitive, my hair needed straightening and my nail beds were in bad shape.  (My NAIL BEDS?  I don't even know what they are and you can see they need fixing as I zoom past you?) 

Then there were days when my work took me into Manhattan.  Taking the train to NYC was not as bad as driving.  Until it was. Until your train just is not running that day, or your car is overcrowded, or your seatmate wants to chat, or is already chatting, loudly on her cell phone, or has fallen asleep and is drooling way too close to you, or he's wearing short shorts and his sticky sweaty legs are touching yours (the WORST).  Or you miss your express train because of traffic getting to the station and the next train stops at EVERY. SINGLE. STATION.  

"Never Again!" I vowed as I searched for a job closer to home (New Jersey).  No bridges.  No tunnels.  No train stations and bus schedules. No figuring out the subway system in New York, only to have it shut down and then figure out the bus.

So now, what have I done? I have traded all that for flying across the country.  

I guess it was my last trip when it finally all started to get to me.   

My hotel in Vancouver, Washington is a short drive from the airport, and I'm packed the night before. I'm organized and ready to go so I can get as much sleep as possible.  What can go wrong? 

After getting up at 3:30 in the morning, I returned my rental, WITHOUT filling up, because, DUH, gas stations are closed at 4:15 am.  I dragged my fairly heavy suitcase, laptop and pocketbook through the tunnels to the Portland, Oregon airport... it's a long walk, but I know it well by now... over to United Airlines.  Of course when I get there, it's  completely unclear where to go, and I chose poorly.  After being redirected up the escalator to the correct counter, I wait (of course) on a long line of people fumbling at the check-in kiosks.  

I have come to the conclusion that at any given time, the make-up of people who are flying is about half newbies and half regulars.  The regulars are really annoyed that the newbies do not know exactly what they are doing.  The newbies are completely frustrated that there is no one to help them.  The check-in would go much faster if someone would just stand there and help people who have never checked themselves in before.   Even my machine said "check in with a driver's license, passport or credit card," so I put in my driver's license.  The person next to me said, "Oh, these machines don't recognize your license, they only recognize Oregon licenses, you have to use a credit card."    AND I'M NOT A NEWBIE. Regular, smart, functioning people are now reduced to feeling like the new kid at a new school where you don't speak the language. 

I checked in, it's now about 5:00, for a 6:50 flight, and head to the security.  The line is ridiculous. The longest I've ever seen it at PDX (Portland Airport).  I eat my yogurt and banana on the line to save time. I observe about 10 mini-dramas.  I think maybe I'll tweet them, but I refrain. I try to take a photo of one guy's massive leg tattoo  (why is he wearing shorts in December?) declaring his everlasting love for Rosinda--could make a funny post on Instagram-- but again, I decide not to.  (Not because I'm afraid he'll see me and possibly hurt me, but because I can only do so much, what with holding my laptop, pocketbook, empty yogurt container, water bottle and banana peel.)

Finally, I'm near the top of the line, where they are yelling instructions.  And I realize that several people have to get out of line (newbies) because they won't get through security.  But if they had said those instructions at the beginning of the line those people might have saved about 20 minutes.  As grouchiness is starting to set in, the TSA agent looks at my passport, looks at me and says, "For real? Your hair? It's beautiful."   Ok.  Grouchiness averted.  FOR NOW.

And here we go.  Shoes off. Belt off. Laptop out. iPad out. ("Oh, Miss, you don't need to do that." "Well, I did in Newark, and it's out, so there you go.") Hand cream, contact solution, chapstick, in a ziploc out.  Watch off, pockets empty, coat off.  

Have I just been arrested? I'm going through the motions and I see that people in wheelchairs get to go right through.  I wonder how I feel about this.  My mind wanders. No terrorist has ever been physically challenged?  Or pretended to be--

"Miss, this is over regulation."

WHAT?

NOOOO.  My Ahava hand cream is over the size limit by one ounce.  Newark let it go.  Portland is gonna be a stickler.  

"Oh, please?  It's the best cream.  It's very expensive and it's so great for the ..."

"Do you want to squeeze it into smaller containers or give it to a companion at the gate?"

"no" I say in a small voice, of someone who has been caught doing something horrible. "I don't have a companion over there, and I have no empty containers."

That was the last I saw of my fantastic, skin-saving Ahava Dermud  cream. She let me take one last squeeze. I feel anger and grouchiness returning.

Good-bye my precious.

I re-dress myself and amble to the gate.  

I'm there early enough. I buy my $5.00 water for the plane, peruse the magazines and settle into a seat.  I check my email, 15 minutes until we board.  

I call my husband (it's three hours later) as they announce first class, and people in the military.  Zone 1. (I check my ticket, and I am zone 7. ) Zone 2. Zone 3. People with babies.  And then there's some whispering and a lot of buzz going on at that desk.  I'm watching them with great interest.

"Yes, um, there's going to be a slight delay with our boarding. Please take a seat."  

No problem, as I hadn't gotten up.  

It turns out that something had broken on the plane overnight.  Oops. 

When the captain was doing his safety check, he found it, which I must say I appreciate.

I don't appreciate a lot of what happened but I do appreciate not flying on a broken plane.

They announced that we should make alternate plans.  They offer to help people re-book their flights, and most of the people quietly line up at the three computers and patiently wait their turns as they are shuffled around and put on new flights.  (I mentioned that this is Portland, not Newark, right?) No one cursed. No one yelled, except those, like me, who chose to call United Airlines directly and were heard yelling into their phones this phrase:

"SPEAK TO AN AGENT."

When the automated system did let me speak to an agent, I finally got myself on to US Air, getting two flights to Newark, which would have me landing at about 7:30 pm, after changing planes in Phoenix.  As the agent on the phone was giving me a confirmation number, the ground crew at United announced that the broken part was fixable, the new part was being flown up from San Francisco.  This plan should be good to go at about 11:00, getting us to Newark by about 7:00 pm.

Hmmm.  Stay on the broken plane, spend 3 more hours at the airport, but then have a non-stop flight home which is BOUND to be less crowded?

or

Accept the new flights, risk losing my luggage, run over to US Air, fret about the change in Phoenix, and get home at the same time.

I told the agent on the phone to put me back on the United flight.  She said she couldn't .

I said she could.

She said she needed a manager.

I told her to hurry up and get one.

She felt inconvenienced.

I felt my New Jersey coming on.

Eventually I was back on my flight.
After the line went down, I confirmed with guys at the desk at the  United counter that I was indeed on the flight and that my luggage was staying on it too.  They gave me a $10 voucher to buy breakfast.

Hah.  Even in Portland $10 does not buy breakfast at the airport.  But it did buy a humongous Bloody Mary, which helped reduce my stress level by about 30%.

I walked the entire length of the airport a few times so I wouldn't fall asleep before my flight... (It almost worked.) I tipped the guy playing Christmas carols on the xylophone, and the guy playing Bach on the mini-cello.  (That's probably not what it's really called.)  Back at the gate I went onto United.com and changed my seat on the flight so I could have three seats all to myself.  I was fairly smug about that clever move.  I then got a new boarding pass, and asked the attendant to try to keep row 31 clear for me. Wink Wink.

Eventually the flight took off.  They did not give us free food, but it seemed that people who ordered beer or wine were not being asked for their credit cards.  After that I conked out for 2 1/2  hours, stretched out like 9 year old, using my laptop case as a pillow.  It was the first time I had been on a flight that wasn't packed.

For our trouble, United gave us a token of appreciation, $75 off any flight, good for a year.  I was hoping for a bit more...(First class forever?  Free drinks forever? Free companion flights forever? )

But I made it home safe and sound... and I was greeted by two bounding dogs and a happy husband who had dinner ready and a cocktails on the counter for the weary traveler.

Flying used to be special, and customer oriented.  Now it's something to get through.  Sitting on a cramped "air-bus" on a seat that reclines about an inch if you're lucky, next to someone who is sloppily eating a smelly Subway sub or buffalo chicken wrap because the planes are so stingy about their food.

But  still.  Every trip is a mini adventure.  It's exhausting, sometimes exhilarating.  The photos I took of Mt. Saint Helens and Mount Hood were amazing. The time I am in the sky is my only time "offline," except for Shabbat.   I've also gotten better at falling asleep sitting up straight.  And you'd be amazed at the great finds available in the sky mall catalog!  Dog crates that look like coffee tables!  A Snuggie that has your favorite football team printed on it that plugs into the car lighter!

Anyway, time to end this somewhat lengthy post and go book my next trip.  I'm sure it'll be uneventful. (Please read that with lots of Jersey sarcasm.)

Happy New Year.  Hope you don't have to travel to be with the ones you love.

Mt. St. Helens covered with snow, from my airplane window. Cool, right?

Air Alaska gives you a free beer on the puddle jumper from Portland to Seattle.
But you have to drink it really  fast. One flight attendant actually said, "Come on, down it like you're still in college!"

For the record, my miserable experience was with United Airlines... the photos are from Air Alaska.  Why not promote the Airline with whom I have had nothing but positive experiences and free beer?  :-)

On the Road Again (or Canandaigua Getaway, Getaway)

Click here to get some listening music for this blog. "On the Road Again" Baltimore Civic Center 4/19/82

For those of you who have been following along with the delightful drama that is my life... you may have picked up on the following.. 

• There are no kids (of ours) around again this summer... The coming and going has slowed, so it's grown-up play time.
• I just changed jobs AGAIN and sort of have the next two months off, not on purpose, but I can't say that I'm exactly bummed out, those two months being July and August.
• And what do you know, all this is happening just in time for the Furthur Summer Tour!  Time for me to take a little summer tour myself and catch a few shows! The Finger Lakes and Coney Island show tickets are on my bulletin board and I'm ready to plan some fun for my husband and me.

I took a little yellow pad, wrote a list of things we'd need, drove over to our local AAA office to get  a map. AAA is a wonderful resource.  I'll say right now that that although the woman helping me was as nice as could be, when I asked what she'd suggest for this road trip, she replied,
"Oh, my husband and I don't like to drive.  We only fly and we always go to Disney.  We love the Magic Kingdom."
(Yep, that's just who you want working for you at the Automotive Association of America.)  No ideas, no hints... nothing.
Nevertheless, I left with two car-ride mini-trash bags filled with a TripTik, a few Tour Books and a stack of maps.  (She also threw in a map of Long Island for our Coney Island trip and a Boston map for future trips to Boston.)

Figure 1: Triple A Treasure Trove

My vacation began Thursday, July 5.  Why not July 4? Why indeed...

My husband and I thought we'd stay in town for the local celebration, which includes live music and fireworks.  How silly of us, as the town moved the 4th of July to the 7th of July (Saturday night).  So on the 4th, we did what we've done for years, which is stand in our backyard and watch the fireflies, and wait for the fireworks from the next town, which we can see over the tree-tops.

(Not great pictures, and to tell the truth, not a great view, but there you have it.)

The morning of the 5th, we packed up the car, said good-bye to our pets and headed up north... destination: Watkins Glen NY.  Why? 

One reason.  The famous Grateful Dead / Allman Brothers Concert of July 28, 1973.  My husband and I had listened to a tape of the soundcheck from July 27 '73 for years, until it became unplayable.  Now I have the show on my iPod, and we played it on our long drive from NJ. We thought of Watkins Glen as a sort of Deadhead hallowed ground.  What to do when we got there?  I had a few ideas... but the main thing was to visit this town. It was a long drive and once there we were shocked to imagine over half a million people in this tiny town (which looked like it had not yet recovered).  

To hear a great version of the Allman Brothers Mountain Jam with the Grateful Dead playing in, click here. 

We stayed at a sub-par motel, with the last parking spot available, right next to an overflowing dumpster.  In Watkins Glen there are three things to do.  Go to the Speedway, check out Lake Seneca or explore the Gorge.  The Speedway happens to be the site of aforementioned concert, but we are not fans of car racing, and felt no need to go to the actual site and dorkily guess where the stage might have been.  But, being the proper tourists that we are, we did take advantage of our other two options.  Thursday night we hastily booked a "Burgers and Blues Cruise" on Lake Seneca, where a band played quite passable blues and we dined on not quite passable burgers as we motored up the lake.  The scenery and sunset made the trip more than worthwhile.   The cash bar on the "cruise" was a pretty good deal, as we are used to steeper prices down in the metro area.  


When we are on vacation I like to chat it up with other travelers, and locals alike.  Our one interaction with another guy left us an awkward spot.  My husband and I had finished our meal and we were standing out on the deck of the Seneca Princess wishing the food would somehow digest.  We were enjoying the scenery and our cocktails, when a guy started to make friendly conversation with my husband.  He had a tattoo on his face, and a cigarette between his remaining teeth.  He was probably in his 40's but due to what I can only guess has been a life of hard-living, he looked like he was anywhere from 35 - 60. 

 "Hey man, do you know the song 'Smoke on the Water?'" he asked.  My husband said he did, and I, of course, tune in on this conversation.

"Wasn't this the lake it was written about?" he asked my husband.

Oh brother.

Before my husband can really even answer, (and he has no idea what the guy is talking about)  I say,

"Um, no. This is Lake Seneca, in New York. That was about a fire in a bar on Lake Geneva. You know, in Switzerland?" The "You idiot" was not said but even I could hear it in my tone.  My husband went off to get dessert.  I felt terrible.  To make amends I said to the dude, 

"Sorry if I sounded a little bit dismissive.  I'm not the expert on Lake Seneca.  We are only here because the Grateful Dead once played a concert in Watkins Glen."  I give him a BIG SMILE.  "And Geneva is the town at the north end of this lake... so I can see why you'd think..."

"Oh," he interrupts, with a look of disgust, "you're Deadheads." And he turned around to speak with a woman next to him. 

I felt that my penitence was standing there and taking 6 or 7 minutes off my life by breathing in their second-hand smoke (on the water).
To learn more about this little chapter of musical history, click here.   To hear the classic Smoke on the Water, which admittedly, I then couldn't get out of my head, click here.  (This is a live version, the album versions all had ads in front of them which ruins the karma of the blog, in my humble opinion.)

After the cruise, we walked back down the main street of the town, we knew that this had been our best bet for an evening activity, every store, restaurant and bar was closed up for the night.


The next day we checked out of our little motel room and headed for the Gorge.  What a great surprise.  Although the temperature was soaring up into the 90's this mile and a half hike up and down into the waterfalls was mostly cool and always breathtakingly beautiful.  My pictures don't come close to doing it justice, but we were in awe of the beauty of this place.

We left Watkins Glen and headed to Corning to check out the museum.  Also a pleasant surprise, although we wished we could have gone into the town for lunch instead of the museum's cafeteria.  But it was Friday, concert day, and we wanted to get up to Canandaigua, find our hotel, America's Best Value (turns out it was!) and check in, and then find the concert venue, as this was new territory for us and we weren't sure how long things would take.  

Our timing worked out just fine and we got to the Marvin Sands Performing Arts Center (CMAC) in time to eat our very meager dinner and have a cold drink before braving the 97 degree heat and leaving the a/c of the car.  The crowd seems different than the usual cast of characters... I can't put my finger on it... even now as I'm reflecting back a few days later... were they locals who come out to see every show and not really fans?  Were they wine enthusiasts (we were in the heart of New York wine country after all) who thought they'd see what the Grateful Dead were up to after all these years?  Tourists in the right place at the right time hoping to hear a greatest hits show?  If you are reading this and you were there... I'd love to get your feedback on the show and the crowd.   

Once the music started, I became even more baffled.  As a veteran concert-goer, I know that it sometimes takes one or two songs to get the sound mixed just right.  But even at the cavernous Madison Square Garden, where the noise bounces all over the place, eventually, no matter where you are sitting, it does settle in to place.  But much to my deep chagrin, that was not the case at Canandaigua.  For nearly the entire first set, the sound was entirely muddy and the vocals were inaudible.  And we had pretty good seats.  So good in fact, that I got some very good photos. (See for yourself...) I was shocked, and very disappointed, that a nice little amphitheater did not have better sound.  This, coupled with the 97 degree heat made for a very lack-luster first set.  And it seemed that the band was not giving it their all.  

I started to bum out.

I hadn't heard sound this bad since The Boston Garden Show in 1979.  Then they played a pretty nice version of Crazy Fingers.  And my husband said with a smile, 

"Next week we have two nights at Coney Island.  Cheer up."

And I did.  Mason's Children was a rare and unexpected treat.  We got a nice cold beer and a big pretzel during the break, and the sun set, cooling the air.

The sound got better during the break, and the crowd woke up.  

Bob and Phil gifted us with a Scarlet Begonias->Eyes of the World->The Eleven and life was perfect again.  I laughed to myself thinking how Smoke on the Water would be the perfect encore.**  Instead it was Touch of Gray, their legitimate hit, besides Truckin' and a real crowd-pleaser. 

We drove back to our hotel, hot, tired and not too disappointed with the night.  I wanted to find other Deadheads and ask what they thought of the show and the venue, but there were none to be found.  The next morning we spotted a few fellow fans at Denny's for breakfast, but they were so busy complaining about the service (it was indeed horrible) that we did not invite them into lively conversation about the show.

While we were waiting for our breakfast, and let me just say, we had PLENTY of time... we plotted out our day's activities.  As I mentioned above, the Finger Lakes Region is known for its wineries.   So using the maps, guidebooks and handy iPhone, I found a winery that also had a brewery, and featured live music and a restaurant.  Sounds good!  We agreed that if we ever got out of Denny's we'd head over to this spot.  

After a lot of driving through beautiful farm land and a lot of vineyards, we found the place and enjoyed the afternoon.  It seemed it was a destination for bridal parties, there were three, and people were in very lively moods.  I don't drink wine, so I was the designated driver and photographer.  I believe I didn't miss much as my husband took many tastes and tossed out the rest of nearly every wine he sampled.  We did enjoy the beer tasting, but it was too hot to drink more than just a taste.  It was fun to sit in the shade and listen to the bluegrass band play and watch one particular bridal party mix it up with a motorcycle gang, all of whom were getting silly on some very sweet, very fruity raspberry wine.*  I tried to surreptitiously take a picture of these two vastly different worlds colliding over sparkly pink soda-wine.  By now the band was playing Marshall Tucker's "Heard it in a Love Song," which everyone was singing (incorrectly and incoherently) along to... "Purty Little Lo-o-ove Song... C'ain't be wrong!" 

Just the right music...

And a loopy bride-to-be and a biker get to talking...

And before you know it, worlds collide to a "purty little love song!"

  
After a long day of driving (me) and drinking (my husband) we ended up at our final destination, a lovely Bed and Breakfast in near one of the lakes.  It was then that my beloved husband  decided to tell me that he hates Bed and Breakfasts.  I sensed something was wrong as we drove into the parking lot and we were shown to our lovely room... the Blue Room.  There was no lock on the door or shades on the windows, and the proprietor was just SUPER friendly and just the tiniest bit racist... and breakfast was at 8:00, oh was that too early? ok, 8:30.  I had no idea that my husband didn't like B&B's, but we did not hang around long... we headed into town and to our great joy and surprise, got there just in time for the town's July 4th Parade (yes, critical readers, it was on Saturday evening the 7th!) so we enjoyed festivities after all!  

King and Queen of the Parade.  Oh, is it gonna be rough
when school starts back again and they realize they AREN'T royalty.

Why march when you can ride with your band on a flatbed truck? Why didn't my town think of this?

We found dinner at a local tavern that had a nice varied menu, and then hung out to hear the live band (heaven forbid a day go by that we did not hear live music).  To make the day just perfect, we even saw fireworks over the lake as we walked back to our car.  

Dipping our feet in Lake Cayuga, so we can say we did.

The next day we went home via Ithaca so that we could do a little shopping and eat at the famous Moosewood Restaurant.  The shopping was a great success (for me) but unfortunately, the Moosewood Restaurant was closed for lunch on Sundays.  We did have a great lunch at a Mexican place, and then we were on our way home.

So are we!

I plugged in the iPod and set it on "random."  Mark Knopfler  gets us started for a nice long string of musical selections that the iPod has magically chosen for this mellow ride.  I checked in with our kids and called the dog-sitter.  Just for fun I looked at the set lists online of the shows that Furthur played in Philly ...  and took out my little yellow pad of paper and started making my list of things to do before the Coney Island shows.  

The author, enjoying a pretzel  at the show.

*My comment to the bartender (BARTENDER? here I go again... ) local 21 year-old who's only talent to work here is that he can "pour," regarding that pink raspberry wine: "This must be the wine people use to get their kids to drink wine."  He looked at me like I was the worst parent on earth.  Clearly he has never seen some of the parents one sees regularly at Costco.


**Smoke on the Water is not a Grateful Dead song, it's a Deep Purple Song, and The Dead have never played it, as far as I know.  Okay, now I'm going to have to Google that.  I'm going to publish this anyhow, but I'll correct this if I find out otherwise.  How cool would that be??

Skip the Apple Pie

Click here for appropriate listening.

The New York Yankees just signed Andy Pettite for one year at $2.5 million.  (Read all about it here.)


I would like to get paid $2.5 million dollars for one year of work.  In my field of Jewish Education, that will never happen, and I will be lucky to ever even see a job that pays any Jewish Educator remotely what I believe we are worth, but that's not what this blog is about.


This is about one of the truly American things... BASEBALL.   
I love it.  Well, I love New York Yankee Baseball.


But, getting back to Andy Pettite, I'm sure that $2.5 is a lot less than he used to make, and he's gotta start in the minors, but still, I'm thrilled.  I like Andy a lot. In my mind he's a true Yankee and it will be good to see him in pinstripes again.


As I said, love Yankee Baseball.  I know that if you live somewhere else it's cool to put down New York teams, especially New York.  Okay.  "Dis" all you want.  There's something very exciting about this team and they're starting to rev up now.


I did not grow up a Yankee fan.  I've lived in lots of different cities through my life, and had a only mild interest in baseball.  I don't like other sports at all.  (Rumor has it that a New York team won the football thing this year.  Big deal.)  I only marginally follow other sports so that I don't seem like a complete idiot if and when I am ever invited to a party and the discussion comes around to something other than Jewish Education, parenting or music.


When I lived in Boston in 3rd grade, the kids were allowed to bring in their transistor radios to listen to the Red Sox games in school, so I remember pretending to like baseball then.  My Grandmother was a baseball fan and I think my Dad might have taken me to Shea Stadium to see the Mets in the 70's.

I just spent an hour trying to photo shop my own face where Susan Sarandon's  face is.
If someone knows how to do this and then get it to stick on the blog, I'd be forever grateful.
And able to be even more hilarious.

While living in Durham, NC, I started to really enjoy the game, going to the Durham Bull Stadium to watch the Durham Bulls play.  The draw, at first, I'll admit was the dozen or so local brews on tap that they had, and the low priced tickets.  But I understood the game, and it was a fun, inexpensive night out.  (A short time later, the movie Bull Durham was filmed there, and by a lucky coincidence, I was there for a cast party and met Kevin Costner. I'll bet he remembers me too.  I'm not in the film, but my friend Jean is in some of the crowd shots.)


When life took me to San Francisco, my appetite for live music surpassed by far my interest in baseball, but I still took in a few games at Candlestick park and saw the SF Giants play there.


But it wasn't until 1995 that I became a Yankees fan.  I had been living in New Jersey for several years.  Three children, two cats in the yard...the American dream!  My husband and I were both working hard at our jobs and enjoying domestic tranquility.  We'd take our kids to the park, and to little league, and the movies, drive the carpools and have family dinners on Shabbat, and on Sunday nights with my parents and my brother's family.


And when it was time for the Grateful Dead to go on tour, we would line up our babysitters, save up our money, make some sandwiches, throw some beer in the cooler and spend a few nights doing what we loved best.  Going to concerts.


Until August 8, 1995.  That was the sad day that Jerry Garcia died.

Jerry Garcia, Captain of our team.

That night we put the kids to bed and stood on our back porch and listened to tapes till the middle of the night.


Everything was gonna be different.


And that was the summer I started to watch Yankee baseball.  I had concert tickets to a show that would never happen, and fan energy that had no where to go.  But the Yankees were on top... they were a young team with great energy and they were winning too!  My husband got a pair of pretty good tickets from a client at work, and we went on a starry summer night.  It was not a Dead show, but there was an undeniable air of excitement.  Yankee Stadium was fun.


And the the players!


Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Andy Pettite, and one year later, my favorite Yankee, Tino Martinez... young handsome guys just playing baseball, every single night (practically) all summer and right through October?  How come other women don't know about this!?


Going to more games turned out to be a challenge.  It was difficult to get tickets and EXPENSIVE.


I watched a lot of baseball on tv and listened to it on the radio.  Once in a while, we would get tickets.


By another lucky coincidence, an old high school classsmate met my parents at a diner and had a conversation that I can imagine went something like this:

"Hi Doctor and Mrs. Cantor."
"Hello, didn't you go to high school with our daughter, Juliet?  Didn't I fix your broken nose in 1983?  How are you? Do you live here?  How's your family?  Look at those pretty girls, your daughters?  Is this your wife? She's lovely.  Just look at these pictures of our grandchildren!  You know Juliet lives in New Jersey again now, these are her kids, aren't they gorgeous?"
"Um, yes... I..."
"So where are you all off to on this fine day?"
"We are going to a Yankee game."
"Juliet is a Yankee fan.  Here's her number.  You should call her, she doesn't really have any friends here in New Jersey anymore.  She and her husband would love to get together with you."
"Um, well..."
"Okay, well, here's our lunch, you should try the Reuben here, it's fantastic.  Enjoy the game, I think you should put on the radio and check the traffic at the bridge.  I'll tell Juliet we saw you."

And that is how it happened that I was the lucky recipient of fantastic Yankee tickets at least once or twice a season.


That gravy train ended when he gave up his tickets... when the new Yankee stadium opened in 2009 he opted out of the price gauging upgrade and we've been fending for ourselves.


March is a very long month.  Typically it's cold and there are no vacation days or days off, unless you are lucky enough to have Spring Break, which I have never had.  (Well, I have once, but I can't write about it because this is a family blog.)  But March brings spring training.  And that means you can count down til opening day!


But with the date of April 6 being opening day and the first Seder of Passover, my excitement for some Yankee baseball may have to wait for the first few home games of the following week.  In the meantime it's time to bring up the Passover dishes and the pinstripes too, both signs that winter is almost over (was it ever here at all?) and spring feels like its on it's way, with unseasonably warm temperatures in the Northeast.

(And for those of use who can't wait, there's spring training baseball which is also televised and on the radio!)


So welcome back to Andy Pettite, I hope you play a lot this season and do what we need you to do for our pitching on the Yankees.  And good-bye and thank you to Jorge Posada for your great tenure as a Yankee since I became a fan, and was a real mensch and role model for (almost) the entire time. 


Anyone for a hot dog and a beer?

The Music Never Stopped

Click here for some appropriate background music.

Dead Freaks Unite... remember that?

When I first started my job, I was introduced to the people in my new office, and I remember going into Arthur's office at the end of the hall.  Arthur has two computers, one for his work and one for his music.  As I was brought in I heard Sugaree loud and clear from computer number two.  He didn't bother to turn it down, and we could barely hear each other.  And as I stood there, I spaced out for a second on our conversation as I wondered, "Jerry Garcia band, or Grateful Dead? No, must be the Dead, because that's defnitely Phil, not John Kahn.  That must be early 80's judging by the keyboards, gotta be Brent... I wonder if that's the Lewiston show..."  When I realized that it was my turn to say something, I said the only thing I could..."Nice to meet you Arthur!"


Our boss, who was introducing us did not seem to notice the secret handshake, or the quick acknowledgement of shared shows.  Well, that's because we Deadheads don't have a secret handshake (though some of us are huggers) and Arthur and I have not had the "favorite show" conversation yet.  


There's a T-shirt I've seen at shows that says "We are everywhere."  And I love how that's still true.

Yesterday, the Spring Tour was announced!


Yes, Furthur Fans, Deadheads, and Fellow Freaks on the East Coast spent yesterday calling, emailing, tweeting and texting each other to spread the news.  Boston, Connecticut, and, can you believe it?  The Beacon Theater in New York City.


So, while the rest of the world is up and at 'em, doing things like Christmas and Hanukkah shopping, driving their kids to sports, going to synagogue, and of course, sleeping, a tiny percent of us were decorating envelopes and taking out huge amounts of cash to be turned into postal money orders.  What am I talking about?  Read on.


The Grateful Dead has always been deadicated to their fans, in a way that has paid off for them with not only financial success but a fan loyalty that has spawned its own culture.  It's lasted since the early sixties and survived the decades of change, including the early and tragic death of beloved band leader (and now ghostly tie designer) Jerry Garcia.  One way in which the Dead shows their love is the fact that they allow people to tape their shows, despite the fact that you can buy the show from the website. 

He just keeps making them, and you guys keep buying them.  

Another way they have shown their love for us is by reserving blocks of tickets for all their shows for the fans to recieve via mail order.  It used to work by calling in to a certain phone number an writing down the info, now it appears online  at the Furthur website.  One of the sadder days in my life was receiving my tickets for the show right after Jerry died in 1995.  I still have those unused tickets.  That was the last time I did the mail order.    

My unused tickets.  Of course, they were horrible seats, but, oh how I wish we could have seen that show.

Until today.


After the news went viral yesterday that tickets were going on sale, I was pumped. I knew I could not be by my computer on Monday morning to try order online for the the eight night stand at the Beacon.  (I do actually have to work.)  Because they are playing in April during Passover, I have the whole week off, so it means I can go out late, sleep late, and just not eat or drink anything!  (Unless the Beacon has Kosher for Passover vodka, and this being New York City, that could be!)  So I got my mail order together, modestly decorated my envelope, and went to the post office with a huge wad of cash.

Waiting in line with everyone with their stacks of Christmas cards, and bags of gifts to be mailed, I smiled.  I hadn't done this in a while.  The geniuses at the post office, not thinking that today would be busy day, had two people working, so the line was out the door.  


As I waiting, I scrolled through the tweets on my phone.  Hot Tuna played last night at the Beacon.  I am going tonight, so I searched for the set list.  I texted a friend who went last night and asked for a run down of the show.  


After trying to ignore two very whiny children, a woman having a loud conversation on her cell that none of us wanted to hear, and three extremely inappropriately dressed people among a line of about 30 of us, it was my turn.  I asked for my postal money order for the exact amount for my four tickets.  $298.  I'm grinning ear to ear.  I take it to the filthy little work table where someone is addressing a pile of 110 Christmas cards.  (I know this because I heard him ask for 110 Christmas stamps 20 minutes ago.  He's nowhere near the end of his pile.) As I take my groovy envelope and put it into the mail slot, I hear the scruffy guy at the counter request a postal money order for $298 along with a stamped number ten envelope.   He and I did not do the secret Deadhead handshake... but I couldn't help but think...
"We are everywhere!"

P.S.  This was the first time I got my money order back.  I had to buy my tickets online with the rest of the world.