Reunited, and It Feels So Good

The 40th reunion of the Union Avenue Elementary School in Irvington, New Jersey had been in the works for months. My husband and his former classmate, Ruth, were chatting on Facebook one day about their last reunion 10 years ago, and she said that she wished that someone would organize another. My husband, who has a knack for suggesting just the right course of action to other people, said, “Why don’t you organize it?”

Ruth decided that she would do just that, and immediately became a sort of Reunion Planner Extraordinaire. She tracked down former classmates, near and far, using Facebook and any other means possible. She asked other classmates to help her, not just to find folks but to talk them into attending. She booked a party room in Long Branch, right on the ocean, and reserved a group of rooms at a reduced group rate at a nearby hotel, for those coming from out of town. She started a blog about the reunion, so that she could keep everyone updated without contacting everyone individually, and generally generate interest and excitement.

When the time came for the reunion, more than 30 of about 50 classmates were planning to attend, a pretty extraordinary response. My husband was really looking forward to seeing and spending time with his old schoolmates, many of whom he had already been reconnecting with on Facebook.

We arrived the day before the reunion because we had tickets to a show the night before at the Paper Mill Playhouse in Millburn. The hotel was lovely and our balcony overlooked the ocean. The reuniting began when we had a really nice lunch with six of my husband’s classmates at a little restaurant on the boardwalk.

The reunion that evening was one great party. There was lots of good food and drink, and even a deejay playing music so loud that those in attendance had to shout to be heard (ah, just like the old days!). The classmates fell in together like they were in grade school again, laughing and talking and catching up. They talked about their teachers and their classes and their memories, and what they have been doing in the 40 years since grade school. One classmate brought a whole display of photos from their childhood, with copies made and ready to share.

I met my husband’s first “wife” – they were “married” in the third grade. She said that he would fall on the floor every time he saw her. He doesn’t that do that when he sees me. You know, he’s older now and getting back up off the floor is a lot harder than it would have been in the third grade. A couple of his classmates made a point of telling me what a great guy my husband was, and that I should treat him well. They were preaching to the choir – I am my husband’s greatest fan. There were lots of great stories about the old neighborhood and the school. My favorite was the reminiscing about the old bagel shop in Irvington, which I already knew had the best bagels in the world, even though I’ve never been to Irvington. They went on to lament the fact that they just can’t find bagels like that elsewhere.

It wasn’t surprising that the classmates fell in together so easily. That’s what people who were friends as children do. Ruth was right that despite the passage of time and lives lived in the interim that they were essentially the same people that they had been in grade school.

What was surprising was how comfortable I immediately felt with all of them. Maybe it was because they were just so friendly and nice. Maybe it was because I have always had an affinity for people from New Jersey. Maybe it was because Irvington, where my husband grew up, and Swissvale, PA, where I grew up, were very similar places. They may have not been talking about my teachers and my memories, but they could have been.

Because I still live in the area where I grew up, I keep in touch with many of my childhood friends. Two of my best friends today I’ve known since I was five. I keep in touch with several more, and very recently reconnected with a whole group of schoolmates via e-mail and Facebook. Jeanne,who is our Ruth,has been talking about a class reunion. I can hardly wait.

"Little House" in New Jersey

When I first read in Playbill that there was a musical stage version of Little House on the Prairie playing to sold out houses at the Guthrie Theatre in Minnesota, I was excited. When I read on to discover that Melissa Gilbert, who played Laura “Half Pint” Ingalls in the TV series was playing “Ma” on stage, I actually got chills.

While I never read the books, I was a huge fan of the television show. Little House on the Prairie was damn near perfect. It had heart and warmth and humor and drama, and it featured interesting characters played by some pretty fine actors. I feel happy inside just thinking about that show. And I am a sucker for a good stage musical.

Of course, I wanted to see the musical version of Little House featuring Melissa Gilbert as “Ma.” It was going on tour after its run in Minnesota was complete, and it turned out that it would be playing at the Paper Mill Playhouse in Millburn, New Jersey the same weekend that we were attending my husband’s eighth grade reunion in nearby Long Branch. We bought two tickets for the Friday night performance the day the tickets went on sale to the public.

I read a review or two of the Paper Mill production before seeing it, and they were mildly positive but qualified. I wondered if these were pretentious critics who just couldn’t bring themselves to flat out admit to liking the show, or (heaven help us!) television actress Melissa Gilbert in the part. Mind you, it didn’t matter to me if the show was the greatest musical ever or if Melissa Gilbert could sing (I mean, really, who cares – she’s Melissa Gilbert). If it was true to the source material and spirit of the TV show, I would have a great time.

I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. I can’t tell you the number of women, upon hearing that Little House was being made into a musical, shared their stories of loving Little House with me. They were either devoted to the books, the television show or both, and more than one of them had daughters named Laura, after the author or the character.

We arrived at the theater to see the show. After settling into our seats, the gentleman next to me struck up a conversation. It seems that his wife and he had seen the production in Minnesota, and really enjoyed it there. Hmm. This couple was even more “mature” than I am, and I wondered why they were seeing the show a second time in the second city in which it played. Were they “Bonnetheads” following the show around from city to city in a van? The man thought I would never ask. Actually, their son was playing Almanzo in the show.

I was sitting next to Almanzo’s father!!?? This was getting better and better. He proceeded to tell me how his son and the actress playing Laura had fallen in love not only on stage, but off stage as well. She was a very sweet person, and his wife and he were just crazy about her. Unfortunately, she had laryngitis, and would be replaced by her understudy this evening. What about Melissa Gilbert? I asked, alarmed. Oh, no, she was fine, she hadn’t missed a performance yet. Whew! We talked some more about his son’s career. It turns out that we saw him perform in the Deaf West production of Big River when the tour came to Pittsburgh. Almanzo’s dad and I agreed that it was a small world, and then it was time for the show.

All sentiment aside, I really loved the show. More tellingly, my husband, who is far more critical when it comes to musical theater and has no sentimental connection to the material, also thought the show was very good. Truly, the show couldn’t have been more delightful - it really did an exceptional job of bringing the compelling story of Laura Ingalls Wilder to the stage, from portraying the struggles of pioneer life to showing Laura coming of age. The score was beautiful and interesting, and the production values were top notch.

The actors, including Steve Blanchard as Pa, Megan Campanile as Laura (filling in for Kara Lindsay) and the proudly-parented Kevin Massey as Almanzo, did a great job of bringing the characters to life for us. Melissa Gilbert was terrific in her role, independent of her history with the material. She held her own in her dancing and her singing, and brought me to tears with her solo ballad “Wild Child” in the second act. As someone who loved her so much in the role of Laura, seeing her interpretation of Ma was especially interesting – I could see how the Laura I knew could have been the child of this Ma, and not just because they were played by the same person.

Almanzo’s dad told me during intermission that the show had been revised since the version he saw in Minnesota, that there were plans for a cast album, and that the producers hoped to take it to Broadway. This would be a perfect Broadway show. They have a built-in audience - generations of women who love Little House, and children of all ages (and their parents). It is absolutely critic-proof, and it is an exceptional piece of musical theater.

The show was over, we bid farewell to Almanzo’s parents, and headed back to the hotel. I felt a little let down. What now, I wondered, now that Little House was done? I perked up. The first season of thirtysomething was back at home just waiting to be watched.

A Member of the Household

The first time I met my future husband’s family was at his nephew’s Bar Mitzvah. This was pretty terrifying for a couple of reasons. First, I would be meeting his entire extended family at the same time. I’m a pretty outgoing person, but when meeting a whole group of new people for the first time, I like to hang back a little and observe. Not happening here. I was the “new girlfriend” of one of their own, and therefore the subject of intense curiosity. Also, this would be my first Bar Mitzvah.

I was raised Catholic – VERY Catholic. I attended St. Anselm School for 13 years. Our next door neighbors were Methodist, and I knew a few Protestant girls in my Girl Scout troop, but I was under the impression that most people were Catholic. I knew Jewish people existed, of course. They lived in Squirrel Hill, just a few miles down the road from my hometown of Swissvale. We were taught that they believed in the Old Testament, but did not realize that the New Testament was gospel (okay, that pun was intended, but I just couldn’t help myself). I never actually met a Jewish person until I was 17.

As an adult, I developed a very strong and personal spirituality. I believe in God, and believe that it is my responsibility to treat people with kindness and to conduct myself in a moral and ethical way. I believe that organized religion provides a framework within which people can worship God, and that each and every religion is equally valid.

I also wholeheartedly believe in miracles and was blessed with one when I met my husband. After we started dating, my husband invited me to attend synagogue with him, assuring me that his was a very progressive and liberal synagogue. I was curious about Judaism, and wanted to learn more about something that was so important to him, so I agreed. Well, I fell in love again – this time with my husband’s wonderful synagogue. It is full of warm and caring people who welcome everyone, whether or not we have any business being there in the first place, including rewriting their prayer book so that it is more accessible to Jews and non-Jews alike. I have found a spiritual home and community there.

Religious beliefs aside, the biggest difference I have found between the Catholics and the Jews is their approach to questioning their beliefs. Questions were not encouraged in my Catholic school. We were taught that one should have blind faith in the teachings of the Church, and to question them was a sin that would put you at risk of going to Hell. That seemed harsh for just asking a question.

According to my husband, for every two Jewish people there are three opinions. The Jewish people I know welcome questions about their religion and traditions, and freely admit when they don’t know the answers. They will sometimes espouse theories about why they do what they do (nothing set in stone, mind you). They also embrace discourse and argument. I find this unbelievably refreshing, even when it meant having to consult three people to find out why I was doing what I was doing during the Sabbath Prayer number in “Fiddler on the Roof.”

All of this has led me to question my own religious identify. What am I, exactly? My personal spirituality allows me to worship anywhere – or nowhere- but to officially affiliate with any particular religion would not be consistent with my beliefs.

I am no longer a practicing Catholic by choice, but I couldn’t be even if I wanted to be. I’m divorced, and I think that the Catholic Church still excommunicates you for that particular digression. Yet I will always be culturally Catholic - that little Catholic girl still lives inside me. There are some things about being Catholic that I am not willing to give up, like my good relationship with St. Anthony. He helps you to find things, and he’s very good at it. The truth is you can kick the girl out of the Catholic Church, but you can’t take the Catholic school out of the girl.

Converting to Judaism, which I am not interesting in doing, is a far cry from attending a synagogue, especially one as non-traditional as ours. Yet I am beginning to understand and appreciate Judaism, and understand a little of what it is like to relate to the world as a Jewish person. So now the question for me was: where did I fit into the Jewish community, or did I?

My answer came one day when I was gathering demographic information for a project at work. I am one of 12,000 non-Jewish people in Allegheny County living in household with family members who self identify as being Jewish, or children being raised Jewish. I am a “member of a Jewish household.” (Source: “The 2002 Pittsburgh Jewish Community Study Final Report,” sponsored by the United Jewish Federation of Greater Pittsburgh in partnership with the Jewish Healthcare Foundation, Ukeles Associates, Inc., December 2002. http://www.ujfpittsburgh.org/local_includes/downloads/3864.pdf).

I am gratified to know that I am accounted for by the Jewish community. Mostly, though, it is just nice to have an answer to a question about religion.

Manners for Motorists

Now that the G-20 has wrapped up and we are all flocking back to the city, I am reminded what unhappy and sullen people commuters can be. I have come to the conclusion that the things that annoy drivers could be minimized and even eliminated if only we could all be, well, nicer.

Surely the commuter trail could benefit from the exercise of a few manners. With a few simple rules to follow, the whole process could be so much more civilized, not to mention safer. So I thought I would put together a few tips for those of us who forge our way into the city each morning.

Do not have an accident or breakdown in, or leading up to or away from, a tunnel or bridge.

People who engage in this sort of behavior probably have some repressed control issues, but I just know that we can’t condone it. It holds the rest of us up and accelerates the aging process. You’re probably thinking that you can’t help it, but just remember what Freud said – “There are no accidents.” Surely you can will that car out of that tunnel and off the side of the road before you break down. As for those disturbed individuals who sometimes hop out of their cars and walk through the tunnels for no reason, we have to question the fact that they have a license to begin with.

Maintain your speed when it rains.

Take my word for it- it really isn’t obligatory to slow down in a gentle drizzle or even in a nice steady rain. The rainy situations in which reduced speeds are necessary will be apparent if you just allow common sense to guide you. If you are blinded by the blowing, driving storm, or fear hydroplaning, by all means slow down.

Do slow down in the snow, sleet, ice or hail.

Treacherous winter weather will bring out the most macho tendencies in those same people who slow to a snail’s crawl in light rain. Do not tear impatiently and rudely past your fellow motorist during a blizzard. Remember the tortoise and the hare- slow and easy wins that race. Believe me, your frazzled nerves when you finally reach home safely are nothing compared with the angst overturning your car will cause you.

Practice courtesy in allowing your friend in the next car into your lane.

We all know that merging is a “catch as catch can” situation, but if we just take turns and let one car into our lane at a time it would make it much easier. Certainly if someone is already partially in your lane and is inching his or her way in front of you, to speed up to cut them off is just plain rude.

Thank people who do let you into a lane.

This isn’t really expected, but it is this kind of little extra that really makes a civilization, don’t you think? Just a simple wave of the hand may make someone smile in these adverse conditions, or at the very least, make them feel a little sheepish for the bad thoughts they were thinking about you.

Avoid hitting another car in order to prevent hitting a pothole.

Instinct will tell you to “SWERVE!” when you see that pothole up ahead. Nonetheless, you must take a second to assess the rest of your surroundings before acting. In either case, you might wreck your car, but it would be considerate of you not to involve the guy next to you. If these unselfish motivations do not speak to you, just think about your insurance rates.

Never, EVER shoot anyone in one of the other cars.

Although all commuters occasionally feel overwhelmed with the need to vent their frustration and anger, it is always in bad form to pull a gun on anyone. Shouting profanities and using obscene hand gestures are certainly on the edge of being considered bad manners, but can be considered acceptable especially if you are in a fairly soundproof car with the windows rolled up. It is certainly preferable to shooting someone. After all, as they are cuffing you, you will almost certainly see your response as an overreaction to whatever your victim did to provoke you in the first place.

Manners aside, our goal here is to come out of it all alive.