Nancy Davidoff Kelton's Blog, page 3

The Heckler ‘n Other September Stuff

At Writers’ Night at a Chelsea bar, my talented friends, Mindy and Stephanie, read their work and my play section with me.The heckler, who joined us, is not pictured here. He was at the bar. Man, was he loud!Repertory theaters and play festivals without bars have begun accepting my play and short sections of it for staged readings. I’ll post information on my website soon under ‘events.’Hecklers: don't bother reading. Or attending. Go to the bar or stay home.Longtime and new members of my Wed. night writing workshop had an excellent first night. They have what to write about. And write well. So do some of my family members. Touching and funny stories, observations, and essays have been emerging from them. My heart soars.It soared, too, watching the CBS Sunday Morning segment about 6-year- old Finn Daly in West Hartford. He has Down syndrome, is autistic, and finds comfort and joy looking at American flags. A neighbor with a flag Finn liked made a bench on which he sits and enjoys it. An act of kindness.This is my birthday week. Lotsa candles. Lotsa thinking. Lotsa love. No room at the inn for negative stuff.Kindness and a generosity of spirit are where it's at.

Not Labor Days

My biker guy, who rode 88 miles for Dana Farber in Massachusetts, rode the Pacific waves in Santa Monica on a boogie board. I boogied in the pool. Babysitting our favorite charges and hanging out with them and their folks filled us up more. So much laughter. So much love. As Cole Porter put it, “What a swell party it was!”In between and on the plane, I read. “The Fault in our Stars” got me. And sticks. I discovered and flipped over author, John Green, watching his “60 Minutes” interview. Talk about empathic. Courageous. Talk about a poignant, funny book with terrific characters. It’s a beautiful story about love, choices, family, friendship, illness, our common humanity, death, everything. Jonathan loved it, too. Green’s enormous following is so well-deserved. Never mind the label “YA novel.” Never mind any labels, but that’s a whole other story.Now I’m writing, revising, and revising some more.I’m excited to resume teaching my Wednesday night class of advanced writers—longtime and new--and offer a new 2-session New School workshop October 19 and October 26. Here’s the registration link if you’re looking for an inspiring class and live nearby. (Link). I’m excited, too, about Writers’ Night at Kasteli’s Café Sept. 9. I’ll read, with Stephanie Hart and Mindy Greenstein, two dear friends and great writers who'll be reading their own work, a 10-minute section from my play. Join us.

Writers' Night

I am honored to be reading with these talented writers at Kasteli Cafe on Sept. 9. In addition to reading their work, my friends and gifted writers, Stephanie Hart and Mindy Greenstein, will read a section of my play with me. Join us if you are in or near NYC.

TRUMP’S RACIST BONES TO BROADWAY’S SCOUT

Inspired by Trump’s claim that he doesn’t have a racist bone in his body, Nicholas Kristof wrote this gem for the NY Times op-ed page.My young, strong, gem of a biker guy rode 88 miles Saturday in the Dana Farber Pan Mass Challenge from Wellesley to Bourne, Mass. And drove home to NYC Saturday night. Great bones! Great muscles! Great spirit. Great guy! People who have had the privilege and pleasure of meeting Toni Morrison having been saying the experience was life changing and that her warmth, brilliance, humor, wisdom and empathy shine through her every word and action. I have had the privilege and pleasure of reading her books. Talk about life changing. I am about reread “The Bluest Eye.” RIP Toni Morrison. You are BELOVED. Jonathan and I hadn’t planned on seeing “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Between the book and movie, we thought we’d done it. Upon finding out our neighbor plays Scout and won a Tony, we changed our minds.Wow! Talk about great acting. A great character. Kindness and our common humanity. Speaking to the Klansman in her amazing Scout way. Taking Boo Radley’s hand. Walking him home.Thank you, Scout. All Rise!!!!!

Mr. Know-it-All

I read “Mr. Know-it-All (The Tarnished Wisdom of a Filth Elder)” by John Waters by the water. The ocean. In Montauk. It went down well with waves and sand.Talk about hilarious. Cool. Daring. Outrageous. Inspiring.Waters’ truths, eccentricity, and wisdom belong in our souls and tickle our funny bones. In the section, Gristle, he imagines the restaurant he’ll open. He wants people with food issues to stay home. And not because he plans to serve kittens. He shares hysterical, nontraditional ways of raising money for his films and ruminates on his favorite music ranging from 1960s car-accident teen novelty records to Glen Gould’s piano playing.I loved tragic car-accident records. And Glen Gould’s piano playing. Still do. Talk about genius. Talk about a human being mastering Bach. My mother took me to a Gould concert at Buffalo’s Kleinhans Music Hall. She was the only person with whom I shared my Gould excitement. In 1958, I knew no one else who heard him play. Or knew of his genius. Thank you, Mom.Thank you, John Waters for entertaining me, making me feel less alone, sharing who you are, inspiring me, and for reminding me a writer’s job is to surprise. Yes!“Mr. Know-it All” made me think of the not-as-funny, not-as-cool, not-as-honest and not-as-intelligent know-it-alls I’ve tolerated. And try to avoid. Along with Waters’ ‘food issue’ folks, they should stay home.Upon finishing the book, I sang every word of the setting sun song I helped my Color War teammates write 60 years ago about camp spirit and sportsmanship (of course, of course) as I watched the sun set in Montauk.

Pride

Still using rainbow plates and napkins from my reading. Some audience and cast members gave me super comments after, while eating the sushi and sandwiches I served. Grateful for ‘peeps’ who show up with ongoing support.And for the musicians who play string instruments at the pier. Did I hear a waltz last week on my Hudson River walk? Yes, by Strauss. I waltzed. The backdrop: New Jersey, Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.Proud of my students who were at my Hunter Conference memoir panel and told me of the writing they’ve been getting published.Proud I graduated from NYU 50 years ago, that Langone is giving NYU medical students full-tuition scholarships, and Langone’s float on Sunday was spectacular.Proud I’ve been watching the Parade since 1970, live a stone’s throw away, and just saw the biggest, most thrilling one yet.

With Love on Father's Day

Below is an essay I posted here last year. It was published as an op-ed piece in The Buffalo News last June. The above picture was taken at the 40th birthday party my friend, Judy, threw for me. I wish my father had gotten to meet my husband and my son-in-law, both terrific, loving dads. My View | Published June 10, 2018By Nancy Davidoff Kelton__________My father in his coffin looked better than most of the men I dated.That is the first line of my memoir and stage adaptation of “Finding Mr. Rightstein,” which begin and end in Buffalo. It was my first thought in 1997, alone in the Amherst Memorial Chapel before Dad’s service. Before the funeral director closed the coffin, I put in two decks of cards: one from a bank where my father opened an account, and another from an airline. Banks and airlines once gave things away.My father liked “free.” He took whatever “came with.”“Buy? Whoever heard of buying paper?” he said, when I showed him a legal pad from a store. “It comes with.” On Saturday at his office in the Ellicott Square building, as we put pencils and pads into an accordion envelope, he reminded me where to get supplies.At dinner at Laube’s Old Spain when I was 6, after filling up on three courses – soup, salad and the turkey entrée – I told the waitress I didn’t want dessert. “You do,” Dad said. “It comes with.”My mother’s mental illness, manifesting itself with depression and indifference to me, turned me to my father. We painted by numbers, spent time at the Buffalo Zoo, and played games. I laughed at his remarks and disdain for pretension.“She’s the only person who says ‘yes’ in two syllables, ‘Ye-es,’” he said about a stuck-up aunt who bragged about her address near Delaware Park. I made Dad laugh with my own comments.“The getting is in giving and in showing up,” he said.For my plays at PS 66, he arrived early and sat in the middle of the front row. Each year at the Peace Bridge, as my camp bus pulled away, he remained at the window waving, sometimes crying, as the other parents headed to their cars.A month after my parents saw “The Miracle Worker” on Broadway, which enthralled him, he and I flew to New York for the matinee. Years later, whenever I visited from New York, my father stood in front of the other people waiting for the flight, beaming.“Find work you love. You do it every day,” he insisted, long before the women’s movement was underway, when it became clear my mother’s struggles weren’t only in her head and I should have fulfilling work, creative pursuits, and passions.At Bennett, I felt pained, not being one of the girls, and decades later the same way as a single parent. Dad said, “Don’t try to keep up with the Joneses. They don’t know what they’re doing.”My father wasn’t one of the boys. He had a few close friends, one a master bridge player as was he, but next to the company of his family, he enjoyed his time alone, reading and playing bridge hands on the cocktail table.He wrote “Don’t sweat it” letters when I worried about grades in college. In one, he said, “Some get A’s, some get B’s, some get ejected, some get mono, some get pregnant, some don’t stay. It doesn’t matter what you get as long as you keep your sense of humor. We love you no matter how it comes out.”One Friday, when my grandmother arrived at 5 p.m. for dinner, earlier than usual, Dad, already out of his tie and jacket, was playing gin rummy with me.“You won’t get rich at home playing cards,” Grandma said, mentioning two wealthy, prominent lawyers who worked long hours and entertained at “the club.”“I’m very rich and I’m not a big-shot lawyer,” he shot back.Right. He was a big-shot dad.Nancy Davidoff Kelton, a Buffalo native, has written six books in addition to “Finding Mr. Rightstein” and essays for numerous publications.Dear Readers: Feel free to comment below on your fathers, other men in your lives who've taught you a thing or two, or on whatever you wish. And....if you live in or our around NYC, I'd love to see you this Saturday, June 15. at the Hunter Writing Conference. I'm on the memoir writing panel, but will be there the whole day. CLICK HERE

Reading and Writing and Promoting and More

Because it’s almost June. June, June, June. Just because it’s June. June. June.No sparkling prose. No flat prose either. Just updating. May: Tootsie-I didn't leave the theater singing. Not a single song. We've gotten used to that. But I laughed more than I've laughed in any show lately. Doesn't humor--from the writing, acting, and characters--trump a lot? The creators, Santino Fontana and the whole cast, take a bow.Peggy, too. My friend and 3 other talented women, sang and told their very different stories in a show at Don’t Tell Mama. I’ve known Peggy since we’re 22 and taught together. So lovely hearing her sing.I've been invited to participate in Times Square Playwrights and have attended two Tuesday night sessions. Actors do cold readings of our scenes. I like it there. An opportunity to grow. My favorite part of May: time with my wonderful family. It was Some Enchanted Visit. Of course.June: Monday, June 3 ---7 writers are each reading 10 minutes of their work at Kasteli’s Cafe in Chelsea. I am one. Come if you live in or around NYC. Saturday, June 15 --Would love to see you at the Hunter Writing Center Conference. I’m on the memoir panel. The conference is informative and fun for aspiring writers to seasoned pros. Click here for information.

Rejection Party, Tic and Tac, Your Contest

On Saturday, I attended the Dramatists Guild Rejection Slip Festival at a bar in Brooklyn near Prospect Park.I recently joined the Dramatists Guild. “Finding Mr. Rightstein,” the adaptation of my memoir with the same title, is my first play. I brought a rejection I’d gotten for an early draft I shouldn’t have submitted to my first ‘rejection slip’ event.I’ve gotten more than a few for my essays and books. In “Writing from Personal Experience,” I mention accumulating 156 before having anything published. I remind longtime and new students to put on ‘Don’t take it personally’ hats upon getting a ‘no.’Playwriting makes essay and book writing seem easy. And no writing is easy. It’s all challenging. Scary. Exciting. Fun. I am grateful I write. Grateful I heard rejection tales Saturday. Doozies, too. A new friend, Jeff, a widely produced playwright and screenwriter, is meeting me for coffee to schmooze and will attend my June play reading. I’m grateful for all support. Sharlene, an actor who participates in my readings, invited me to her weekly theater group. Tonight, members will read my scenes.I’m grateful I saw Tic and Tac perform again Sunday in Washington Square. They’re hilarious. Talented. Their well-honed act is a hoot. Better this year. I love reminders that making it look easy requires WORK.I’m grateful for my readers. Here. Everywhere. Grateful some of you entered the mom contest. The entries are good. The judges chose Lisa Alexander’s. Read it on my last post--May 5—in “Comments” after my Boston Globe piece. Read them all. Congratulations, Lisa. Congratulations, everyone.

Lessons From Mom

(The below essay was originally published in The Boston Globe Magazine on May 9, 2010. When you finish reading it, there's a little "Mom" contest for you.)By Nancy Davidoff KeltonIt takes a village to raise a child, but it can take a lifetime to appreciate Mom. I recognized the wisdom of her lessons as she was doling them out. But only now, years after her death, do I truly understand her spirit and legacy.In 2000, on what was to be my last visit with my mother, I brought my then beau, a well-dressed CEO with a fine coat of polish – a card-carrying mother pleaser – to the nursing home to meet her. Sitting together in the living area while he made calls, I asked, “What do you think of him?”“What I think doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re the one who has to go for him and maybe eventually sleep with him, right?”“Right.” I cracked up, reaching for her hand. At 52, I wasn’t about to spill the details of my present or “eventual” sex life, but I recognized how human, perceptive, and on the mark my mother, a proper lady with a long list of “shoulds,” really was.She reminded me my gut was my best guide in all circumstances no matter who stuck her two cents in. I was 8 and in a department store fitting room, trying on a plaid dress I hated and she loved. “If you’re not sure, don’t buy it. You are the one who’ll be wearing it.” We left without that dress.At 12, I was on the phone with my first boyfriend in my parents’ bedroom while Mom sewed. I had remembered her advice to my older sister that she, not boys, should be the one to end phone conversations. When I told Danny I had to go, he said, “I love you.” I said, “I love you” too. When we hung up, I panicked.“Mom, I just told Danny I loved him.”“So.”“When I said I had to go, I’m not sure if he said ‘I love you’ or ‘I do, too.’ Now I feel like a jerk. Even if he does love me, I was forward saying it.”She looked up from hemming. “He probably said it. If not, it’s nice you could. It’s hard to express certain things. You let him off the hook.”And she did me. Another night years later and also while sewing, she told me to wait until I was married before going all the way.“What if I fall in love with a garage mechanic?”“You probably won’t.”“But say I do, Mom.” At the time, I viewed the opposite sex as bad boys or bespectacled dorks.She took a beat. “Then I guess it would be OK.”“To sleep with him before we’re married?”“Just sleep with him,” she said.The desire for a bad boy was not all Mom understood. In 1963, when I was in my teenage sassy-sulky phase and angry she was neither Betty Crocker nor working at an interesting job, I was watching my stupid soap opera when she walked into the living room with a book. “Read this instead. It’s important. You’ll understand me and figure out your life better.” It was "The Feminine Mystique," the ground breaker I had read about. WOW! I ran to my room and dipped in.The following day, I showed the book to my friends at school. “My mother would never read that or allow me to,” one said. The other girls felt the same way. I devoured it, appreciating Betty Friedan’s powerful message but my mother’s even more. How I wish I had thanked her for sharing her frustrations and for guiding me to a fuller life. (Mom, my older sister, Susan, and little me)I understood her better when I became a mother, my most important and challenging job. After my divorce, when I began dating, I got that she understood me.“I see why you like him,” she said after meeting my first post-marital beau, who was more garage mechanic than dork.“I doubt I’ll marry him, Mom.”“I see that, too.” A pause. “If you tie the knot again, make sure that physical bond is there. Marriage is hard. That glue helps.”“Do you have it with Daddy?”“Sure.” She blushed. “Can’t you tell?”I nodded. Even in their 80's, the attraction was apparent in their eyes, their touch, their laughter. Lucky them, I thought.I have that now. I brought a richer, more loving and accepting woman to my present husband. That glue is there. Thank you, Mom. ****Feel free to post a comment on what you read.Then, if you wish, enter the below contest:In 40 words or less, share a lesson or truth you learned from your mother, stepmother, or from a mother figure (eg. grandmother, aunt, teacher), Do NOT write more than 40 words. Two judges, not I, will pick a winner. I'll post the winner's name here May 23. If I don't know you, please go to'Contact' on my website and leave your name and email.