Nancy Davidoff Kelton's Blog, page 4

Mrs. Maisel and Other Marvelous Sights

Watched “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel” crew shoot an episode for the third season on Fifth Avenue between 11th and 12th Streets. Rachel Brosnahan, several extras, two 1950's cars, and many camera people were there. “Lost Bread Co.” a new vendor at the Union Square Farmers Market' has samples with delicious crusts.I try not eat a lot of carbs, but will splurge on a loaf for company, or just because.The pianist at Union Square made playing a Liszt sonata seem easy. Ha! His mastery amazed me. So was the way he moved his grand piano there.A new stack of “Finding Mr. Rightsteins” is out on the Strand Bookstore memoir table surrounded by those of both Obamas, David Sedaris, Anthony Bourdain, Mary Karr, and “Educated” by Tara Westover.Three hours at the Leonard Cohen exhibit totally filled me up. I can't wait to go back. At the museum entrance, my guy stands beside him. Let's all dance to the end of love.Love ‘n Stuff,NancyNext week or the week after, there'll be a contest here for you. Meantime, how about writing your thoughts in the comment section below on the above post or about your special haunts and places in your heart. “That’s how the light gets in.”

PASSOVER/EASTER RHYME

(updated version of April 3, 2012 Passover/Easter Blog) On Easter Sundays when I was youngWe went to the Buffalo ZooTo participate in the egg huntsWe found nothing, had no clue.Until we spoke to the egg-hiderDad always knew “The Man”He led us to the hiding placesWe gathered pastel eggs and ranTo the booth to collect our prizesChocolate bunnies we took homeWe ate our bunnies that same dayBut this is not the end of my poem.Passover was more than an egg huntIt meant the world to meWe had Seders at Aunt Yetta’sShe lived downstairs of Grandma D.Uncle Lou or Dad conductedWe had every homemade dishChopped liver with schmaltz, hard matzo ballsAnd Grandma’s gefilte fish.Uncle Lou’s Seders went on and onDad happily skipped pagesFour questions were asked by eight first cousinsWe came in a wide-range of ages.We left Buffalo for work and marriageAnd no longer returned for the SederGrandma Davidoff moved to HeavenThe next generation went later.I didn’t make schmaltzy liverWhen alone, then with Jonathan made SedersOur grown kids asked four questionsIt continues getting later.Our kids and grandkids live elsewhereWe’re headed to Boston, Mass.To Seder with Jonathan’s familyI miss my brood, alas.We’ll be seeing some on Mother’s DayCalifornia, soon we’ll comeFamily photos surround me nowI hold one of Dad and Mum. The Endps. Do you have Passover or Easter memories? Share them in the'comment' section. Or just post a comment. Happy Passover and Happy Easter to you!!

Dinner and Authors and Books, Oh My!

Joyce Carol Oates did not attend the Hunter Writing Center Dinner at the Sherry Netherland honoring Joyce Carol Oates. Her husband was ill. She flew to his bedside. I still ate many hors d’oeuvres, dinner, and dessert, a cake with the names of the invited writers and Hunter faculty members. Seated next to me at dinner was a prominent doctor, older than I am, who said that in all his years practicing medicine, he never prescribed as many antidepressants as he has since the last presidential election. I didn’t want to go there, not in a little black dress at a fancy event. I didn’t want to discuss Trump or anyone else, particularly not Betsy DeVos, who would keep my food from going down. I steered the conversation with the doctor to other aspects of his work and then to our kids and grand kids. The company and evening turned out lover-ly. ***** “Educated” by Tara Westover is good. Shopping at the Strand yesterday afternoon and seeing “Finding Mr. Rightstein” on the memoir table between “Educated” and Michelle Obama’s “Becoming” was better. I skipped to the check-out with my purchases, smiling at the John Waters’ picture and also at the magnets with his quote, “If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don't fuck them.”What do you think: Have our current president and Betsy DeVos ever been inside the Strand Bookstore? Inside any bookstore? Have they ever heard of John Waters?

The Gym and the Rare Book Room

(Peter, the Strand events coordinator, with me in the rare book room)What NEVER gets old or unexciting for me:--my love and gratitude for my family--my love of writing--my joy offering workshops in Strand's rare book room--my ‘high’ when my work is published. My current Buffalo News op-ed makes me as giddy as my first published piece in 1972. I shared my journey to the Buffalo News spot last Wednesday with my writing class.I’ll share more at my Strand Bookstore workshop March 14 and include: how to target, submit, persist, edit, edit some more, work with editors, and remain true to oneself. I’ll give writing exercises my students and I do and love, which can turn into published pieces, or simply trigger other ideas that are expressions of one’s heart and soul. I love the Strand’s staff. I love being surrounded by rare books. I love working with the attendees from beginning writers to seasoned pros. I know several of you who have already registered including: a retired business woman who has never written anything personal and a published novelist/essayist who gets inspired by my prompts. Newcomers and returners: Come join us in this super cool room for an inspiring, fun night. Details and registration information on this link: Nancy at The StrandAnd here’s the online version of my February 25, 2019 Buffalo News Op-ed piece:My View: Squat, stretch, repeat: adventures in the gymPublished February 24, 2019 By Nancy Davidoff KeltonMy husband suggested I join the health club where he is a member, saying it would be fun. Fun for whom?I joined. It is a new year. I got a decent price as the second family member. At my next annual check-up, when my internist asks about my exercise regimen, I will have more to say than, “Huh?”Here are my 37 musings before and during my so-called workout:]1. When will I eat? 2. Where? 3. What? 4. Pizza is my first choice. 5. Probably a bad idea after a workout. 6. Bad for whom? 7. Maybe pizza instead of the workout. 8. With seven locations of the club, I have choices. 9. One is to stay home. I could have my pizza delivered. 10. Or go at a different time or to a different location from my younger husband. 11. His workouts are longer and more focused than mine. He does balancing things, on one foot, that I cannot pretend to do. 12. His thighs are thinner. 13. At the beginning of my complimentary session with a personal trainer, when she asked if I had questions, I said, “One. Will you promise this is it for us and you won’t try to sell me a package?” 14. She promised. Then she showed me the best ways to squat and stretch. 15. I squat and stretch. I also do planks for 60 seconds. 16. Counting by threes. 17. And two sets of 12 repetitions on the machines she taught me to use. 18. Unless I do none. 19. I use more towels than machines. 20. My favorite gym activity: using many towels. 21. My second favorite: yoga. Restorative. With every other kind of yoga, I get stuck in the pretzel pose. 22. And I only like Shavasana. 23. I pretend I like everything about restorative yoga so I can lie still at the end. To music.24. My third favorite activity: swimming. 25. If I don’t have to share a lane. 26. Particularly with the man who splashes and uses two noodles. 27. And between laps, talks to me. He may even be flirting. 28. Which is surprising. I wear a bathing suit, goggles, a swim cap, a wedding band and my thighs. And I am a senior citizen.29. He is more senior. Maybe late 70s or 80. 30. My friend, with whom I discussed these pool episodes, said he is definitely flirting. 31. And “age appropriate.” 32. I wonder if my thin, younger husband, who does balancing things on one leg, would be jealous or amused about the flirting. 33. I wonder if other “age appropriate” or inappropriate men will flirt with me. Ever again. 34. My other gym activities include: using weights and more towels. 35. At the end of my complimentary session with the personal trainer, I asked how I can lose weight. 36. She said exercise alone will not do it. Neither would Shavashana. After reminding me to go easy on the sugar and carbs, she said, “Eat smaller portions. Much smaller portions. Only eat when you’re hungry.” 37. Oy!Nancy Davidoff Kelton, a Buffalo native and published essayist and book author, teaches writing at the New School and Strand Bookstore in New York.

Russell Baker - THE GOOD TIMES

Russell Baker August 14, 1925-January 21, 2019 Last Wednesday, I dimmed the lights for the first minute of class in honorof Russell Baker. Then I read the first and last few pages of his memoir,THE GOOD TIMES to my students. Baker's mother was after him to achieve more and "amount to something" even after he won 2 Pulitzer Prizes and years after her death. She appears to him in these first few hilarious pages. The ending, her funeral, is arresting. (Mimi was Baker's wife. Others mentioned are his relatives). I treasure his words and his wit. Ending

I RESOLVE…..

The last print issue of Glamour (January 2019) is on the newsstands.One of my earliest listicles, “31 Things I’m Not Going to do Wrong in 1979,” was published in Glamour’s January 1979 issue. Below are 19 of those resolutions I wrote 40 years ago for that Glamour piece. They include several about Cindy, my close, loving friend for 59 years. She died last week. I am writing an entire blog about her which I’ll post next week, although words will never do justice to how she showed up for me and how much I am thinking about her.Cindy will remain at the core of my heart forever.Take a vacation from my guilt. Do not spend another New Year’s Eve at Janie Bachman’s house unless she has something more chocolaty to snack on than apples.Continue writing for Glamour, The New York Times, Parents, Redbook, Learning and other newspapers and magazines where my work is published.Pitch to new publications.Do not wallow in self-pity with rejection slips.Remember: they are part of the deal. The writers I admire most have plenty.Do not gossip.# 7 is ridiculous. Do not gossip with anyone but Cindy. She knows more and talks faster than my other friends. At restaurants, do not refuse desert and then eat half of everyone else’s. Be nice to all relatives including Cousin Sharon, who invariably lets me know whenever I buy anything from a cantaloupe to a kitchen table where I could have gotten it for half the price.And nice to Cousin Arlene, who looks at me, studies me, makes a little face, the kind the principal might make, and asks, “Is THAT REALLY how you want to wear your hair?”Remember: some people say silly, silly things.Recognize there are certain things about certain people that will never change even though I wish they would.Recognize there are certain things about certain people that will never change and never should.Try to open wine without getting cork particles in the bottle.Maybe just stick to vodka.Eliminate talking on the phone from my daily routine.#17 is impossible. Eliminate 10 minutes of the hour I talk each night to Cindy.Put these resolutions in my top desk drawer to use again in 1980.

SUNRISE, SUNSET

I hadn’t planned on seeing FIDDLER ON THE ROOF in Yiddish. I know very little Yiddish other than words and phrases I picked up from my parents and grandmothers and I’d seen the show in English 4 times from 1964 with my parents and Zero Mostel to 2016 with my husband and Danny Burstein.I went on the recommendation of my new friend, Ilene, whose opinions I value. I loved it. Loved Steven Skybell as Tevye, the fiddler, a woman who stood not on anything resembling a roof, but on old wooden chairs like the kind Housing Works Thrift Shop rejects, the simplicity of the staging, the familiarity of the work and the score. Oh, the score.All day long I’d biddy-biddy-bum…But I missed the horse that pulled Tevye’s milk cart and his parting words as he pats him in the barn upon leaving Anatevka, “Thank you for everything.”I felt my parents’ presence. I invariably do at the theater. They took me to many plays beginning in 1957 with THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK at the Cort Theatre on my first NYC trip. I was hooked.Opera and tenors did not figure into my childhood. When my mother put on her MADAME BUTTERFLY LP and disappear into the kitchen to sort of cook, my father, mumbling something about Renata Tabaldi’s screeching, picked up the needle to silence it, replacing it with MY FAIR LADY, OKLAHOMA, or nothing.I found Andrea Bocelli on my own. The other night, Jonathan took me, as part of my birthday present, to the Bocelli concert. Angels wept.Last week on what would have been my father’s 110th birthday, we saw Mike Birbiglia’s THE NEW ONE. Funny and poignant on his illnesses, doctors, sofa, marriage, the differences between men and women, sex, and his journey to fatherhood, he hit the right notes.We sat in the fourth row at the Cort Theatre. Two rows behind where it began for me at age 10.One season following another Laden with happiness and tearsThank you for everything.

COW CUDDLING

The November 9, 2018 issue of THE WEEK had a paragraph on cow cuddling. A human being can have a 60-minute session, starting at $75 with a 1,000-pound cow at Mountain Horse Farm in upstate New York. The cows, sensing “if you are happy, sad, feel lost, anxious, or are excited, respond without judgment, ego, or agenda.” And impart a sense of calm.With no car or medical insurance for cow cuddling, I turned to:List making Learning Glamour Magazine is disappearing—where my lists were published in the 1970sBabka buying—for my friend who is illHospital visitingCA visitingCA treasuringPlane missing (by minutes, a first)LAX Airport sitting (for 5 hours)5 hours of family video and photo viewingAnd noodle eatingRed-eye flight takingMuch readingHome sleepingNewsletter and email unsubscribingGym avoidingHouse keys losingSocks losingShort-term memory losingGym facingLocker combination forgettingToo much holiday partyingHoliday party avoidingBabka, croissant, chocolate chip cookies, and more babka buying-for myselfHouse keys losingEye glasses, an earring, and a glove losingShort-term and long-term memory losingMind losingTime to cuddle with the cows.

My Play’s My Thing / Vote

“The play’s the thing….” said Hamlet. My thing, too. I’m adapting my memoir, “Finding Mr. Rightstein” for the stage, blogging here about it to be accountable--like dieters let people know they’re on a diet; I’m not dieting—and to continue this journey unafraid.They say it takes at least 1O years from the time a play is ready for it to be produced. I write. Revise. Write. Revise. Listen to my gut, dramaturgs, the director and actors with whom I’ve been working, then write and revise some more.Abraham Lincoln said, “I shall study and prepare myself so that when my chance comes, I will be ready.”Lincoln said everything brilliant Mark Twain, Shakespeare, and Oscar Wilde didn’t.My play reading Friday, organized by my talented director who brought a talented cast, was terrific. Many want to continue on this challenging, fun ride.So....FMR and I will be at the theater in 10 years, give or take a few, even if they bring me from what Roz Chast calls ‘the place.’Vote on November 6.

A Halloween Ride

(This story, among my first published efforts, appeared 45 years ago in the October 1973 issue of Wee Wisdom Magazine).It was Halloween afternoon. Bentley had no one to play with. His friends were getting their costumes ready for the big night. No one had invited Bentley to go trick or treating, just because he was a dog.He sat down in his comfortable chair where he did his deepest thinking. Everyone will be out tonight, even the cats. I don’t see why dogs can’t celebrate Halloween, too, thought Bentley. He wanted to join in the trick or treating fun. First he had to get a costume.He walked down the street and stopped when l he saw two friends, Danny and Barbara, who were carrying an enormous pumpkin. “Hi, Bentley,” said Barbara. “Where are you going”” “I’m going to buy myself a Halloween costume.” said Bentley.Barbara and Danny looked at each other and giggled.“You’re silly,” said Danny. “No one’s going to sell a Halloween costume to a dog.” Bentley didn’t answer. He couldn’t let them see how sad he was as he walked away.Soon something made the drooping corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. The entire window of a five and ten cent store was filled with costumes.The store was crowded. Bentley walked in. No one noticed him. People pushed and shoved from all sides. From down where he stood, it was hard to tell where anything was. But all at once he heard many excited voices“Hey do I look like a monster?“You look silly in that mask.”“Do I look scary?”Bentley walked around a counter and found dozens of children trying on costumes.He stood up, with his front paws on the counter and tried on a monster mask. When he first looked into the mirror, he couldn’t find himself among the masked faces, but as soon as he did, he was not at all pleased.“It’s just not me,” he said. “I’m not the scary type.” The king’s mask made him feel too pompous. The dog’s mask made him feel too normal, not like being dressed up.Bentley spotted something unusual on the counter. It was a little yellow bonnet with big white daisies on the brim. He put it on and looked in the mirror. “How cute!” he chuckled. “I’ll dress up as a baby.”As he went around the counter to find the rest of the baby costume, a woman from behind started shouting, “Would you mind taking off my baby’s bonnet, sonny? I just put it there when she got warm.”“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Bentley, as he turned around to see a cross looking woman holding a baby. “I thought it was part of a costume.”“Some nerve,” she said. “And you shouldn’t be trying on more than one costume at a time, anyway. Where’s your mother?”“I’m not wearing a costume,” said Bentley, “I’m a dog, and my mother hasn’t been with me since I was a puppy.”The woman shrieked. Just as she was about to call the manager, a little boy in a cat’s costume crept up behind her and shouted, “Boo.” She jumped up screeching and the baby began to cry.“See what you did, Peter,” yelled his mother.Meanwhile, Bentley sneaked around to look at costumes on the other side. A little girl pointed her finger at him.“Mommy,” she said. “I want a costume like that. Ask the little boy where he got it.”“On which counter did you find that dog costume?” the woman asked Bentley.“This isn’t a costume,” said Bentley. “I’m a dog.”The little girl giggled, but her mother got angry. “Don’t be such a wise guy. You can wait until later to play your trick or treat games.”The little girl pulled his tail to see if it would come off.“Ouch,” cried Bentley. “You’re hurting me. Let go.”A sales woman standing nearby overheard this and turned to Bentley. “You’d better scram,” she said, “before I call the store manager.”Just as she was about to chase him with the broom from a witch’s costume, a woman asked her where picture frames were, and a man wanted her to help him locate the shoe polish.Bentley spotted an empty baby buggy in the aisle and jumped inside to hide.Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice.“That looks just fine, Peter. Now take it off so we can go.” It was the mother of Peter and the baby with the yellow bonnet. As she went to put the baby inside the buggy, she saw Bentley. ” Help!” she screamed. “It’s that dog, again! Get him out of here!”Mr. Paloni, the store manager, was getting ready to close up for the night. Hewalked over, grabbed Bentley by the collar, and dragged him out of the store. Mr. Paloni pointed to the sign on the door that it read. NO DOGS ALLOWED.I guess I should learn to expect things like that to happen, thought Bentley as he plodded along. People weren’t always nice, especially to dogs.His head was hanging so low that when he turned the corner, he almost knocked over a little boy who was carrying a big box under his arm.“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” said Bentley. “Let me help you carry that.“Don’t bother me,” said the boy. “I’m late as it is.”Bentley tagged along behind. “I’m sorry. I’d like to make it up to you,” said Bentley.” “What are you late for anyway?”“I’ve got to return this horse’s costume to the store,” said the boy. “I should have done it a long time ago, but I was playing with my friend.”“Why are you returning it?” asked Bentley.“My mother got it without me. I want to get something else. Stop asking so many questions.”When they got to the store, it was locked for the night. The little boy started to cry.“Don’t worry,” Bentley said, “You’ll look fine in that costume.”“It’s not just that,” said the boy. “It’s late. My mother will be angry that I didn’t do it sooner.”Bentley had an idea. “Maybe if I ride you home, your mother will hardly know the difference.”“Can you go fast?” asked the boy.“I’ll try.”The boy hopped on Bentley’s back. “Take a left at the corner and go straight for two blocks.”“What’s your name? Mine’s Bentley.”“Charley Richards. You turn right at the next light.”“Are you going trick or treating with your friends?”“Of course,” said Charley. “How else do you go trick or treating?”“I really wouldn’t know,” said Bentley. “I’ve never gone in my whole life. I’ve never even worn a costume.”“Never?” said Charley.“No, never,” said Bentley, still running as fast as his legs could go.For a few minutes, Charley was silent. Then he said, “You take a left at this corner. It’s that big gray house.” Bentley let Charley off, “I’m glad I could help. I enjoyed being with you.”“Where do you live?” asked Charley.“On Rugby Lane, 191,” called Bentley. “Happy Halloween.”“Same to you, Bentley.”Suddenly, Bentley felt very lonely as he moped along to his house. He made supper, but when he sat down to eat, he wasn’t hungry. He took a warm bath with his favorite bubbles, but it wasn’t any fun.Bentley was ready to get into bed when the doorbell rang. Thinking that it was some trick or treaters, he grabbed his piggy bank and took out a few pennies.Standing outside in a cowboy costume was Charley Richards.“What a surprise!” said Bentley. “You look great as a cowboy. What happened to the one from the store?”Charley pulled out the big five and ten box from behind his back. He handed it to Bentley. “I can’t think of a better horse.”Bentley, too excited to even talk, put on the costume. He stared at himself in the mirror. All he could see behind a beautifully fitting horse’s costume was a pair of sparkling eyes.“Are you ready?” said Charley. He put the handle of a large black and orange trick or treat bag into Bentley’s mouth.“Hop on partner.” said Bentley.It was the most wonderful night of Bentley’s life. Everyone stopped to admire them, even the owls and black cats who don’t go in for that sort of thing. None of the children recognized Bentley. At least not until he jumped up and licked their faces to wish them all a Happy Halloween.