Nancy Davidoff Kelton's Blog, page 6

JOHN WATERS, PRIDE, AND LILI

“If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t f_ _k ‘em.” John WatersThat John Waters sentence is on tee-shirts, tote-bags, mugs and magnets sold at the Strand Bookstore, where I’ll be offering a writing workshop August 22. According to the Strand cashier, who rang up the books I just bought, the merchandise with Waters’ sentence sells well.Waters, a bibliophile, an openly gay man, and an avid supporter of gay rights and gay pride has given us a whole lot more than ‘Hairspray.’ He’s been in my thoughts. I thought about him June 24, as I watched the Gay Pride Parade go up, not down Fifth Avenue, a stone’s throw from my apartment. Pride in full regalia and in all forms: gay, human, and family is particularly moving nowadays.According to Waters’ Wikipedia, he was heavily influenced by the 1953 movie, ‘Lili.’ Mel Ferrer, the carnival puppeteer, used 4 puppets to talk to Leslie Caron’s Lili. I saw the movie four times opening week: with my parents, my grandmother, and two shows in a row with just my father on a Saturday afternoon. I was 6. And in love with that movie. I plan to write to Waters at Atomic Books, an independent bookstore, in Baltimore. He gets his fan mail delivered there.Baltimore, Waters’ hometown, is where he still mainly resides and where his films are set.There’s the flasher who lives next door. There’s the drunk on the barroom stool. They wish me luck on my way to school.There’s Passager Books, my ‘Finding Mr. Rightstein’ publisher at the University of Baltimore. Anne Tyler lives in Baltimore. Her 22nd novel, ‘Clock Dance’—set there, as are her others-- comes out July 11.Mostly, I’m thinking about the Waters’ quote about homes without books. And the below quote that was over the corn and peas at Laube’s Cafeteria in Buffalo where, as a child, I regularly ate with my parents and sister.We may live without friends, we may live without books,But civilized men cannot live without cooks. I thought they had it all wrong up there and that ‘books’ and ‘cooks’ should be interchanged. Except for her brisket, much of what my mother made had too much paprika or was overcooked. My father didn’t cook. He read. I cook a little. My husband cooks a little less. We live with books. My family of origin lived with books. My bloodline lives with books. I am proud of that. I can’t imagine it any other way.

Encore! Encore!

It won.The audience of the Woodside Summer Play Festival voted the opening monologue of my FINDING MR. RIGHTSTEINstage adaptation, “Best Comedy” and it tied as the Festival’s “winner.”My actress, Cynthia, gave excellent performances. Her talent was obvious when she auditioned. Her warmth and generosity of spirit were obvious before I heard her read a single word. We’re meeting Friday to discuss the play’s future.“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” --- Rick Blaine, played by Humphrey Bogart in the film, CASABLANCA (1942) and Nancy, played by Nancy in this blog post (now).I saw both parts of ANGELS IN AMERICA last Wednesday and THREE TALL WOMEN the other night. I am grateful for Tony Kushner, Edward Albee, Andrew Garfield and Glenda Jackson. Angels on the page and stage. NOBODY’S FOOL was just on at three am. Again. “Not now. Not ever,” Paul Newman says to Jessica Tandy, his landlady, at the beginning and again at the end when she offers him tea. And in between: like Wow!!Sometimes I’m grateful for my insomnia. I am always grateful for Paul.Love 'n Stuff,NancyPs. And…I’m grateful for your comments and also to learn what plays, movies, actors, and writers are always or newly on your gratitude list.

Treasuring happy times with a Dad who knew what mattered

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.

My Psychologist Friend and Philip Roth

(I wrote the below blog before I read the news of Kate Spade's death. Facebook writer friends have shared thoughts about it, about depression, and about suicide far more eloquently than I possibly could. Columnists will be doing the same. I'll just say that we don't ever really know what other people are feeling at a given moment, and even when we are aware of their emotional pain, we don't always know how to get through to them. "Shower the people you love with love." James Taylor ***The day after Philip Roth died, I got an email with a link to a NY Times appraisal from my friend, Barbara, a brilliant psychologist who used to give me ‘free’ mini-sessions between her 50-minute hours. She wrote she was sad. “You are the one person I know who I felt really appreciated Philip Roth,” she said. I used to talk about his books with Barbara. With my parents, too. Beginning in 1959, my mother referred to every splashy party--with or without the chopped liver--as “A Real Goodbye Columbus.”I loved getting Barbara’s email. We hadn’t been in touch. I wondered if she was angry. She said not at all. Retiring, moving to the Berkshires, and trying to sell her suburban house, which she just did, have left her immobile, unable to come into the city and do much else. Different places. Geographically. Then some. Busy in our worlds.I told Barbara to check out my Philip Roth posts on Facebook, write a comment, and read Larry Arnoff’s: “He(Roth) wrote directly about things that are hard to talk about. He confronted family and interpersonal relationships painfully, sometimes joyfully, but always honestly. The reader is forced to look within and may not always want to. His passing, I think, is also part of the passing of a certain world-view and an older way of presenting it. His novels were like feasts.”The last few years, Larry, a high school classmate, has been in touch with comments on what he reads and book recommendations. In 11th grade, he ‘helped’ me with Intermediate Algebra.Barbara’s helped with other things. We met on Fire Island months after my very blind date with her ex-husband. He said within our first twenty seconds together, “You and my ex-wife would hit it off.”We did. Talking about him (he was already history). Work. Books. Marriage. Being single. For years, we had dinners. Just us. With her second husband. Double-dated. She read my work at various stages and commented on it, because she had, she told me, a secret wish to be a writer. Our last mini-session occurred a decade ago, five months after I met Jonathan. An incident occurred that upset me. Barbara’s initial take was “Yeah, so.” I asked if I should still take him to my friend’s daughter’s wedding that evening, wondering if I should call it quits. “He made a little boo-boo. He’s nervous, still selling,” she said. “You can stay angry at the boo-boo. Or you can dance. You’re smitten. He’s loving. Giving. Unlike the jerks who gave you crumbs.”I danced. Still do. It beats boo-boo anger. Barbara is reading THE COUNTERLIFE. I’m reading THE FACTS. She asked if I'm going to an event next week to which we're both invited. I can’t. I teach that night. I treasure my long-term friendships. And sessions between the 50-minute hours.

Slouching, Backs, and Culture

Last weekend, I re-pulled the lower back muscle I’d pulled Mother’s Day morning. On Tuesday, I went to my gym on 23rd Street to use the sauna, couldn’t get comfortable, not because of pain, but because the woman on the upper shelf, whom I never met, opened her eyes and mouth to tell me about her obese cat, her troubled son, and her too-small Hampton beach house at which she’ll spend Memorial Day weekend entertaining obnoxious guests, who don’t use her heated pool.I left the gym, walking upright with my shoulders back, pulling in my stomach and backside, remembering my mother constantly telling me I slouched, and advising me to stand up straight. Mindful walking! Yes! I paused, as I often do, at 14 West 23rd where Edith Wharton once lived to take the picture of the above plaque. A Starbucks is there now. Wharton, the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for Literature, wrote THE HOUSE OF MIRTH, ETHAN FROME, and THE AGE OF INNOCENCE without a laptop or a grande.I walked my new walk to Duane Reade for more Ibuprofen and asked the pharmacist, whom I’d never met, if she could recommend something stronger for a pulled muscle. She suggested I see a doctor, then staring at me quite seriously added, “Bones get brittle when you get old.”Oy!I patted my grey hair and headed to Washington Square. The weather was glorious. My improved walking felt right. The pianist was there, playing Chopin’s E Flat Nocturne (the theme from THE EDDY DUCHIN STORY) on his baby grand. It sounded far more beautiful than when I attempt to play it. I put extra money in his bucket.At home, with my brittle bones, after I wrote and posted my New School grades, I stretched out on the floor. That felt good! I turned on the television. Paul Newman in THE VERDICT followed by an American Masters of Frank Sinatra singing felt better. After, I went to the piano and gave Chopin my best shot. Nothing like the Washington Square musician, but not horrible either.I’m fine now. No doctor. Lots of walking. About to walk to the gym sauna. Fortunately, the woman with the too-small beach house, is already out there with guests who don’t use her heated pool.I’m grateful for Chopin, the park pianist, Paul Newman, and Sinatra. I’m more grateful I had a mother who was right. About most things. Including walking tall and good posture.

The Play's The Thing (Hamlet Act 2, Scene 2) The Opening Monologue's Happening(Nancy Davidoff Kelton)

The opening monologue of my FINDING MR. RIGHTSTEIN play adaptation, accepted by Woodside Players of Queens Summer Play Festival, will be performed by an actress--as will other chosen play segments by other playwrights--on two Saturday afternoons in June. June 2 and June 16. Times and places below. I can’t promise a thing. Just my words. If you’d like to come, please email me on my website: under “contacts.” A playbill with further details will be available next week.My article, “From Page to Stage” is in the American Society of Journalists and Authors Magazine(May/June issue) Here’s the link: Love ‘N Stuff,NancyWoodside Players of Queens Summer Play Festival 2018June 2nd, 2018 2pm Queens Library Astoria Branch Auditorium 14-01 Astoria Blvd. Astoria NY 11105Free admissionJune 16th, 2018 12:00pm Steinway Reformed Church41-01 Ditmars BlvdAstoria, NY 11105Free admission

FISHS EDDY: UP & OUT

On Saturday, before buying presents at Fishs Eddy, I went out for breakfast with the owner, Julie, my onetime student/now friend. She showed me on her cellphone the writing advice I had given her. It included getting out of her way and doing it. Regularly. Preferably daily. No matter what was going on in her life and her store.Julie is the only person—at least the only one I know of—who has my advice on her phone. She follows it, too. In October, her memoir, MINDING THE STORE, much of which she wrote in my Wednesday night workshop, is coming out.Over our oatmeal and eggs, we talked. About men (Hers. She was going on a third date that evening. A doctor). Exercise routines (Mine. She doesn’t have one). Hair (Hers because it’s different. New. So is the doctor). Books (Mine and hers). I suggested she launch MINDING THE STORE with a reading/talk at Fishs Eddy. She hosted my first FINDING MR. RIGHTSTEIN event there among the dishes and glasses. No one broke a thing.After our breakfast, we went to her second floor office for a peek at new cups. And at illustrated book pages. I agreed to look at just a small section. I want the published book to be a surprise.Downstairs, I shopped. Then we went outside to her window with a picture of the White House and the list of people who resigned or were fired by Trump. (That’s where we are in the above picture.) Every Monday, the store manager adds names.On Sunday, I showed the Fishs Eddy window to my husband and stepson. The list is longer now.Someone is minding the store.

Retiring

Last Friday, I attended the retirement party for David Lehman, poet/book author/professor/cultural critic/mensch. I knew David’s writing and esteemed reputation when I was told six years ago that he’d be formally observing my teaching. Despite my then 32 years on the New School writing faculty, I freaked out.I believe we know something—a whole lot--about people within seconds of seeing their faces. When David appeared five minutes after I started class, I saw his intelligence, wit, and warmth. I continued doing what I do. When my department head sent me David’s report, I walked on helium.I then read his book, A FINE ROMANCE, Jewish Songwriters, American Songs, soaking in his knowledge and observations of Broadway musicals and the great composers, ecstatic he shared my love of Buffalo-born Harold Arlen, who attended the same school as my father. David and I began emailing each other about Arlen, Frank Loesser, and more. I was a guest blogger for David’s The Best of American Poetry blog.I asked David if his retirement from teaching meant the end of our discussing musicals.Of course not.Someone at the party asked me when I plan to retire.Probably never. I’m teaching fewer credit students, more professional and retired people who write and sell essays and memoirs, and more one-day and two-hour workshops at the New School (Click here for information about the next workshop), the Strand, and elsewhere. On September 5, I’m offering my first workshop at the Jewish Book Council.When my father started teaching law at the college level in his late 50s, he came home with a spark in his eyes that he had not gotten from his practice. I’ll keep at it until my spark disappears.I’m writing more. And in a new genre. It’s harder. And it’s not. I’m excited when my unconscious and I rock ‘n roll.A student my age, in my advanced workshop for 11 years, who sells his essays and is writing a memoir—it’s great—said, he’s starting to hit his stride.Yes!

28 Updates on Bathing Suits, Culture, and Feet

1. My podiatrist’s receptionist has a foot problem. 2. Planters Fasciitis. 3. I had Planters Fasciitis. No more. It’s not the reason I recently saw ‘my podiatrist.’ 4. I had a teeny tiny different problem. It healed. I’m back at the gym (ugh!) and to walking (Yay!) 4.0-5.5 miles a day. 5. The podiatrist’s receptionist, also a walker, is taking buses and subways now. 6. He’s doing the exercises I suggested for Planters Fasciitis. 7. Fortunately, he’s doing the exercises the podiatrist suggested, too. 8. The one-man play/magical show, IN & OF ITSELF wowed me. Such fun!! The photo below on the left is me with Derek Delgaudio, the terrific writer/performance artist/magician after the show.9. Jennifer Egan spoke at the New School about her research on the New York waterfront and the Irish mafia for her wonderful novel, MANHATTAN BEACH.10. My friend, whom I took to the Egan event, told me her uncle was in the Jewish mafia.11. And that her cousins got used to seeing bodies in the trunk of their car.12. Jennifer Egan writes many drafts of all her books, her first by hand on yellow legal pads.13. After her talk, I bought a yellow legal pad.14. I attended the NY Times Talk at which Glenda Jackson and Laurie Metcalf, two of the stars of THREE TALL WOMEN which I’m seeing in June, were interviewed.15. Fortunately, the two tall women interviewed sat on the stage, not right in front of me.16. According to Michael Cunningham in THE HOURS, Virginia Woolf skipped breakfast and wrote for an hour before eating.17. I’m going to write before breakfast tomorrow.18. We’ll see.19. My New School spring class ended. A wonderful group. Strong writing.20. I am a little post-partum-y.21. Fortunately, students from the class were challenged, inspired and shared their best selves on the page. Some will be taking my advanced class and my one-day workshop June 23.22. Both upcoming classes are great! You, too, can register for my New School June 23 workshop at CLICK HERE23. Since my March 20 blog about the Strand Bookstore and bathing suits, people are offering me bathing suit advice.24. Which includes brands that could work and stores I might like.25. One person said that when I put on a bathing suit, I should hold my tummy in.26. Who asked?27. Fortunately, my dear friend, Peggy, told me she buys Speedos at Costco for $20 and offered to get me some.28. Fortunately, I’m having dinner with Peggy tomorrow, will give her the label of the Speedo I wear along with $60 for three suits, and pray I never have to try on bathing suits again, and that Peggy and me, and Peggy and Costco never have a parting of the ways.LOVE ‘N STUFF,Nancy Ps. Feel free to comment about anything including: the above list, what you’re reading, seeing, what you wear when you swim or don’t swim, or something about feet.

OH, WHAT A NIGHT!

Langston Hughes’ house in Harlem rocked Thursday evening. It was the second event I attended there. Renee Watson, the founder of I, Too Arts Collective and my onetime New School student, leased Hughes' house last year. Renee wowed me in class with the first paragraph of her first assignment. And now she’s wowing readers everywhere with her many books, which are garnering awards, including the Coretta Scott King Award for PIECING ME TOGETHER.I didn’t arrive early enough Thursday evening to sit super close to Hughes’ typewriter. I was giddy sitting twenty feet away and glancing over at it by the fireplace as I sipped wine, ate cheese, and listened to the three writers read.I was giddier about about what I heard. Iain Haley Pollock’s poems touched me. Got inside of me. In one, a child eats strawberry ice cream. I can still taste it.A lump formed in my throat when Renee read sections of PIECING ME TOGETHER. Talk about beautiful! Poignant! Great! I’m thrilled I am reading the entire book now at home.After Renee, author Jacqueline Woodson, read from her memoir in poems, BROWN GIRL DREAMING, which won the Newbery Book Award and the National Book Award among others and from her newest book, ANOTHER BROOKLYN. At one with her work, she is charismatic in person and on the page.When she and Renee did a Q &A in the Schomburg Library* auditorium last year, I didn’t get to hear them up close and personal as I did at Thursday's reading. What joy! My husband is in the middle of BROWN GIRL DREAMING. I’ll read it next.Love ‘n Stuff,Nancyps. Langston Hughes' ashes are interred beneath a floor medallion in the middle of the foyer in the Schomburg Center