A Glimmerglass of H Ope-lahoma, Friendship, Surreys & Fringes

When I was a kid, my sister and I used to gather around the upright piano in Queens to play and sing Broadway musical duets, from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Carousel and Oklahoma! to Lerner & Loewe’s My Fair Lady.

My Dad, a great jazz pianist, accompanied us both as we sang, alternating between alto and soprano lines, and even reaching for the way-too-high notes of West Side Story and The King and I. Who cared if our friends were out playing ball? We were the ones having a ball.

I guess those were my formative years, when all my friendships and social behavioral patterns were evolving. Little did I know that my elementary school days were prophetic.

I attended elementary school P.S. 46 in Queens. Number #46. The Psalm that’s addressed to the chief musician. 1946. The year the bikini debuted. The year Bill Clinton, Barry Gibb, Uri Geller and Dolly Parton were born.

The same year the profound Frank Capra film It’s A Wonderful Life debuted with Jimmy Stewart. The year Tupperware was introduced to American consumers. The year The Things We Did Last Summer was composed, which I first heard from my jazz counselor dreamboat at Stonegate Music & Arts camp in the Adirondacks. FYI, there are 46 peaks in the Adirondack Mountains, none of which I‘ve hiked up.

In class, I sat next to my schoolgirl crush, Ricky J, who promised to become an architect, and who drew me sketches of the home he’d build for us to live in. I turned down Steven S., and instead went to the prom with Ricky. That persistent Ricky kid used to come over to my house, sit down at the piano without waiting to be invited, and play hours of Chopin and Rachmaninoff like there was no tomorrow. He loved the romantics, and I was soon introduced to Tchaikovsky’s “Tears”, Opus 46.

Since P.S. 46 was so close to home, I’d often walk home for lunch: my Mom’s lovingly prepared macaroni and cheese, or roast beef on white bread sopped with gravy. 46 became my mantra. I cracked rocks at the curb and remember noticing a silvery white quartz-y sparkle that reminded me of Palladium, the 46th element in the Periodic Table.

Since I was rather obsessed with numbers and details, and slicing my toast in half, dividing my pencil case in half, and separating my books in half to distribute things evenly, 23 became my magic number (½ of 46).

When I graduated to Benjamin Cardozo High School, I auditioned for – and got the lead part of — Laurey in Oklahoma!, which became the 46th state to enter the Union. (I later found out that Steven S. became a cancer surgeon in the Sooner State of Oklahoma).

Oh What a Beautiful Morning that was. While waiting on the long line of potential Laureys, I heard Mr. Segal, the theater director, whisper to me, “Sing your heart out.” And I did. It was one of those moments on one of those crisp-beautiful mornings, when I intuitively felt myself grasping the brass ring before I got on the horse; I felt the success before I even sang a note. I just knew I’d get the role. That feeling is precious and rare, and has only actually happened to me a few times in my life, due to a solid inner confidence, following my passion, and timing. My Mom even sewed me a chartreuse skirt with rose pink bric-a-brac for the show. I still have it hanging in my closet to remember that tingly feeling of teen mini-stardom.

Turns out Ricky (yes, my Ricky) landed the male lead role of Curly. Now wasn’t that just perfect? Two young sweethearts crooning about surreys with fringes, “not giving no mind” to caring if People Will Say We’re in Love.

Fast forward to Summer, 1972, in the midst of my undergraduate years at Cornell, when I entered Aston Magna baroque music Academy, where I met Christine Lindsay, a charming harpsichordist with an artistic spirit. She also had a most unusual family; we all became fast friends for the next four decades. Husband Ken — art historian, professor and Renaissance man — would host parties which I imagined were straight out of Plato’s circles or Medici’s court. Only in Lindsay Land there were no divisions of class.

One day that Winter, my Dad had a sudden medical heart issue. I was packed and ready to go back home, when my mother said it wasn’t as serious as expected. So instead, I was invited to the Lindsays’ homestead for a special spiritual weekend in Binghamton. Turned out it was filled with music (Western Wind Ensemble guest workshops and performances), philosophical talks around the Lindsay breakfast table, crosswords, cryptograms, dialogues about atheism, art, Kandinsky, jazz, and martinis.

Enter Jennifer, the ethereal, burst-into-laughter, attentive-to-your words, jazz loving, storytelling, crush-prone, ruffles and cashmere-o-phile, unpretentious daughter. She was to become a friend for life.

I’ve now schlepped upstate to Binghamton on the bus to celebrate birthdays, memorials, awards and Christmas holidays for 46 years. I know that Binghamton bus station like the back of my hand. So many times Jenny or Ken would pick me up at the downtown Greyhound/Shortline bus depot lot and we’d race over to the Old World Deli to buy a pint of my favorite cole slaw.

Or we’d drive over to Weis’ to buy the chickens that Christine would lovingly prepare. Or the olives that Ken would swirl into his perfect dry martinis. One summer my Mom accompanied me on the Greyhound to splash in the Vestal Hampton Inn pool and visit Christine, Ken and Jen. She instinctively knew as she boarded the bus: “This is probably the last time I’m going to see the Lindsays.”

She was sadly and maddeningly correct. Jen and I were parallel caretakers of our respective Moms, having lost both of our darling Dads. Both fathers’ lives were cut to the quick, but we all still had our music to carry us through. My Mom played her mandolin, and Christine played her keyboards until she couldn’t any more.

Christine Lindsay, pianist, accompanying Mia Berman on recorder - Vestal, NY, June, 2014. Musical Selection: Allegro by George Philipp Telemann from Old Dances and Airs for Descant Recorder and Piano

On a perfect Indian summer day in late August, I trekked up yet one more time from Port Authority, to visit Jen, whom I’ve known now for 46 years. Jen was waiting there for me at the bus station (which now sports an adorable diner), and we bolted over to our beloved Binghamton carousel.

It’s a simply charming carousel, one of six in the Greater Binghamton area donated by George F. Johnson for use by the public, free of charge. Holly Golightly had her Tiffany’s. I have my merry-go-round. Jen and I never stopped chatting, from pick-up to drop-off.

Listening to one’s heart is an art indeed – what job to take, what mate to choose, and most importantly, which friends to keep and which ones to “white out,” (as my friend, DJ Tim Bird once told me back in the 80’s).

Time drips away with true friends like Jenny. We’ve been writing each other letters, cards and notes for 46 years. And of course we talk on the phone.

But nothing truly ever replaces the live visit.

We stayed up in our favorite flannel p.j.s till nearly 2:00am, chatting about everything from boys to books (she’s a passionate reader); dissecting the plot outline of my YA fantasy novel; discussing the shared dilemma of flat hair. Her house rules? Feel free to roam, do just about anything, open the fridge, take whatever you want. She’s the real deal example of the sisterhood. She even made a special Starbucks run for my nightly ritual of storing a doppio in the refrigerator overnight to have iced expresso at the first wink of dawn. After my night of migraines, rotating ice packs and morning caffeine, we were off again — this time to Owego to see dear Christine, now being cared for by a devoted soul named Marion, in a home filled with sweet chirping birds, a hammock, a pond, and a most tranquil, divine kharma. It’s pretty much God’s (and Goddess’s) country.

At 93, charming Christine, who studied in Paris with renowned pianist, Mme. Gaby Casadesus, is still persevering, with a twinkle in her eye, especially when I mention Telemann, Purcell or Dowland.

Her soft pouffy curls are mindful of a French Gigi-esque schoolgirl, and one can see her reminiscing in her mind’s eye as I talk about the old Great Barrington days of Aston Magna, the countertenors, the creaky church floor and the great harpsichord maestro, Albert Fuller.

Jenny plays some delightful piano music to accompany the conversation, as Christine and I reach back in time. We leave Christine dreaming peacefully and take off for the Glimmerglass Opera, where Chris had been some years ago to see Rigoletto.

Jen and I were having the time of our lives, singing our hearts out to the car radio blaring The BeeGees, like the teen-agers we were in 1971, like the joined-at-the-hip adults we are now, like daredevils Thelma and Louise, cruising into Cooperstown like two outlaws, roaming through crystal and tarot shops searching for turquoise, our beloved, bonding stone.

Jenny and I were exhilarated about the road trip, and about the prospect of sharing the Glimmerglass Festival 2017 production of Rodgers & Hammerstein’s musical Oklahoma! We arrived at the Glimmerglass estate, a rolling hills landscape of curves and greenery, shimmering like the #46 Palladium I discovered once upon a time.

Yes, Glimmerglass is a gem of a place. Radiant Artistic and General Director Francesca Zambello welcomed the packed house warmly. This past 2017 season focused on the notion of identity and homeland, from Porgy & Bess’ Catfish Row to the corn-is-as-high-as-an-elephant’s eye Oklahoma Territory....and even a special gospel concert titled Comin’ for to Carry Me Home.

Ironically, I felt right at home at the Glimmerglass Festival, sitting in the Alice Busch Opera Theater — possibly because I was with my dear friend Jenny, possibly due to the plush and comfy seats, the warmth of the staff, or the glimmer of the sun-splashed afternoon. Zambello reminded the audience of the Festival’s range of innovative programs, from solo pieces (one-woman show Voight Lessons) to spoken word; evenings of paired songs and stories; readings (David Sedaris); literary talks (Margaret Atwood); the Young Artists Program; ShowTalk series; and collaborative projects with prisons — yes, Glimmerglass even “hit the road” for a one-hour August matinée of excerpts from Puccini’s La Bohème at the Attica State Correctional Facility.

Back to the Oklahoma home front. When Jarrett (”Curly”) Ott burst into the theater, and paused exactly at the aisle where Jen and I were seated, singing “There’s a bright golden haze in the-meadow,” my heart just about stopped. Time and friendship, romance and heartbreak all collapsed into a single moment. I was back in Benjamin N. Cardozo High School on stage with Aunt Eller, Ali Hakim, Ado Annie & Will Parker.

The stunning staging, dream sequences and choreography (Parker Esse), the saddles, the chaps, the gingham, the frills, the long skirts (Ilona Somogyi, costumes), the exuberant baton of conductor James Lowe, and the elegant, feisty direction of Molly Smith all blended into a glimmering ball of memories, hopes, dreams, laugher and heartache. Laurey had to look into her heart and make a decision between Jud and Curly. Ado Annie had to look into her heart to choose between Ali Hakim and Will Parker.

We all can identify with Ado Annie’s “zest-for-life to a fault” behavior when she sings the charming I Cain’t Say No. Or maybe it’s just my Sagittarian flair, always wanting to do it all.

Afterwards we ran into Emma Roos (Ado Annie) — quite the rope-slinger, lasso-ing in suitor Will Parker, and Ezekiel Edmonds (dream Curly), two of the most down-to-earth Oklahoma-esque actors I’ve met in a long while.

Ooook-lahoma, the exuberant closing song, was described by lyricist Oscar Hammerstein in the following 46 enchanting words: “...where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain/And the wavin' wheat can sure smell sweet/When the wind comes right behind the rain ... Oklahoma, Ev'ry night my honey lamb and I/Sit alone and talk and watch a hawk/ Makin' lazy circles in the sky.”

Jen and I drove off in a combined state of exhilaration and meditation. I almost wished we were back in Manhattan on West 46th Street — Restaurant Row, where my Mom had taken me for one of my special birthday celebrations, for a juicy sirloin at Bistecca Fiorentina or Broadway Joe’s.

But instead, we stopped at the adorable Alex’s Bistro, and sat at the bar, savoring our char-broiled burgers and chatting with darling bartendresses Valerie & Samantha, marveling at the giant martini glass beckoning us all.

These were some fine Oklahoma cattle-worthy chunks of Angus beef…and the saloon café “barely breaks even” because Alex’s Bistro simply wants to be known for the best burgers in Cooperstown. Nothing like sharing angus and fries with Jen-girl. The true sisterhood. Sorta like Ado and Laurey. Or Mom and Christine.

As long as there are musical duos like Rodgers & Hammerstein; caring hearts for elders like Marion; passionate protectors of theater like Francesca Zambella; sweet arts spaces like Glimmerglass; girlfriends like Jennifer and Christine Lindsay, and an OK wind that comes sweeping down the plain — well, then, there’s still a glimmer-glass of hope for living well.