Tag Archives: The Write Side of 50

Like That Old Fireplug I Found, I’m on Automatic

26 Tuesday Feb 2013

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automatic fireplug. west 20th street.

Automatic fireplug – West 20th Street.

BY JULIE SEYLER

There are certain things that stay the same, no matter which side of 50 you are on. Like a morning routine. The a.m. personality, and its peccadillos, gets fixed in stone at some point, and either you are a bright popper-outer or a groaning bear. Coffee must be imbibed ASAP, or it can wait until you get around to putting the water on the stove; or coffee is completely dispensed with because you only drink tea.

One of my morning routines is to swim. In 1980, I moved to Washington D.C., and promptly found a pool to do my morning laps in. When I moved to New York in 1988, I found a pool to swim in before I found my apartment, (which, for perspective sake, turned out to be a 4th floor walk-up studio with a sleeping alcove for $900/month. Cheap by today’s standards.) These days I swim at a pool which overlooks the Hudson River and Hoboken, NJ.

24 East 21st St.

24 East 21st St.

Sometimes I take the bus cross-town, and sometimes I walk.  If I walk, I travel the same three streets, cross the same 10 avenues, and have seen the same set of buildings for the past 16 years. Some are old, not old like Europe, but 19th century old. Some attempt to evoke a Greek-Roman essence.

Face on a building on West 21st Street

Face on a building on west 21st street

Faces are carved into the limestone facades; appear on portals above doors; adorn lintels.

Door portal on Gramercy Park East

Door portal on Gramercy Park East

Perhaps faces were the architectural rage of that moment the way glass buildings are the cultural rage of this moment.

Recently, I was doing my trek crosstown when something caught my eye. It was a white plaque nailed onto a wall of an apartment building on 20th street that read AUTOMATIC FIREPLUG, with the words A.F. A and E Co. written underneath.  I’d seen the sign a 1000 times, but this time I stopped to ponder what is an automatic fireplug and who was A.F. A and E Co. on 294 B’way.

The Internet was useless on A.F. A and E Co., but quite informative on fireplugs.  They plugged water.  In the 1800s, the best way to access water in case of a fire was to cut a hole in the main water pipe and insert a hose to direct the water to where needed to trounce the fire. The hole would then be plugged until next time it was needed. Ergo the fireplug. I just wonder when that sign was installed and when was the last time the fireplug was used?

I took the photo (at the top of the post) and kept on walking so I could complete the a.m. routine:

Get to pool; swim laps; shower; get ready for work; walk to bus stop; get back across town from the west side to east side; take
subway uptown; order iced green tea to go from Starbuck’s; turn on computer…

My Mom’s Dementia: Foggy Memory, Charred Pots, and a Cheshire Smile

25 Monday Feb 2013

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Nana final

Art by Abby Smith.

BY BOB SMITH

Mom, now 86, is still physically robust. Granted, she’s unsteady on stairs and can’t lift anything heavier than a magazine or cup of tea, but her appetite is great. She even enjoys a glass or two of wine with dinner. Mom had always been cheerful and optimistic, too. And she still is. But her mind is slowly, but surely, fading away – lost in the encroaching fog of dementia.

When her short-term memory first started to fail, she would become agitated because she knew she had once remembered the name of that green stuff on her plate, and was frustrated at finding herself unable to identify it as broccoli. But as she slid deeper into decline, she found peace because the fact of how much she actually used to know was itself a lost memory.

We first noticed Mom’s dementia when she moved in with us a few years after Dad died. She insisted on cooking dinner, but routinely boiled vegetables until they were liquefied, and added so much butter to mashed potatoes that they were the color of daffodils. Once or twice every week, she would completely boil away all the water in the pot, and leave the vegetables cooking until they burnt onto the bottom of the pan.

Once it became clear she couldn’t handle cooking dinner anymore, we started telling her it was “cook’s day off,” and that we would prepare dinner for her – or buy takeout. Whatever. Just so she wasn’t tempted to put food in pots and fire up the burners.

But although we told her she couldn’t cook dinner, we figured it was O.K. for her to make her own tea. I would make sure the kettle was full of water before I left in the morning to ensure she wouldn’t put the flame under an empty pot. This worked reasonably well for a while, but then one Saturday I discovered her at the table drinking a glass of cold, whitish water.

“What are you doing, Ma?”

“Having a cup of tea, what do you think?”

“There’s no teabag. And it’s not hot.”

“Oh. Must’ve forgot,” she shrugged, and drank the milky water anyway.

Then one afternoon my son came downstairs, and the house reeked of gas. He discovered a full kettle on the stove with the burner turned on full blast, but no flame. He shut off the gas, opened all the windows, and found Nana in her room off the kitchen, fast asleep.

The next level: We taped a handwritten sign at eye level over the stove that read, “STOVE BROKEN, DO NOT USE.” We would reinstall the knobs in the evening so we could use the burners to make dinner, but leave the sign up for the next day to avoid having to re-tape it over and over. The combination of the missing knobs and the explicit sign convinced Mom that the stove was off limits.

After a few days, however, she grew impatient – and she wasn’t stupid.

“The sign says the stove’s broken,” Mom said as she watched me sauteing onions for
dinner.

“Yeah, Mom – it is. I just managed to get this burner working for now.”

“It’s been busted a while now.”

I silently stirred, hoping the conversation would end there.

“Public Service’ll fix that, you know. Give em a call.”

“I did call – they haven’t come yet,” I lied.

“Goddamn PSE&G. They make you pay enough. They can’t come when you call?”

“Damn those utility companies. Hey, how about a glass of wine?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she laughed.

Mom is now living with my sister where she can be supervised all day, and her decline continues. Because of her good nature, she’s going cheerful into that good night. But like the Cheshire Cat, she’s fading out, and soon all that’s left will be her smile.

The Saturday Blog: The New Jersey Turnpike

23 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by in Art

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NJ Turnpike 1.19.13

Photos by Julie Seyler.

Mentioning the state of New Jersey to most people elicits either a groan or an eye-roll of of pity. Visions of endless traffic jams on the Garden State Parkway, coupled with memories of the redolence of sulfur around the Amboys, simply do not trigger fond memories of a great road trip. But we are here to proclaim that with the right eye, and mind, the scenery that dots the Turnpike has a poignant beauty. Perhaps you have to have a certain affection for the exoticism of the urban landscape. We do. So here’s to the industrial towers, telephone lines, train switches and smoke stacks that caress the New Jersey Turnpike.

turnpike 2

Some Tips (Bring Your Coins!) on New York Restaurant Week

22 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by in Food

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Is there enough there for dinner?

Take your coins out to dinner.

BY JULIE SEYLER

There is a phenomenon that takes place twice a year in New York City.  It’s called Restaurant Week, and many restaurants, including some top Zagat picks participate, which means that it is possible to nab delicious three-course lunches for $28, and dinners for $38, when normally it could run double the price for the identical meal. So the possibility exists to grab a bang-for-buck experience if you order wisely.

As soon as Restaurant Week restaurants are announced, I scan the list for special treat places that are not on my usual roster. This year, I made a reservation at Rouge Tomate, a 2012 Michelin choice on 60th Street, DBGB Bistro Moderne, a gem in the stable of the the Daniel Boulud empire on 44th Street, and Telepan, an Upper West Side place that I had heard had a cuisine kinship to Gramercy Tavern, but at lesser price points.

Each experience was different and memorable, but not because the meal ended in a deal. That was thrown out the window with the check.

At Rouge Tomate, where I had invited my mother and my sister to dinner, I found out, after we had ordered the wine, that they did participate, but only for lunch. I had forgotten to read the “fine” print and we were handed the regular menu, where some of the entrees are priced at $38.

I went with a friend to DBGB Bistro Moderne for lunch. Everything was perfect, from the appetizer of a winter salad to the braised beef paleron (actually a very tender wine infused brisket), to the cheese plate offerings for dessert. Of course I had to have a glass of wine, and of course, the cost of the wine was basically equal to half the cost of the prix fixe meal. With tax and tip, my prix fixe lunch came in at double the bargain. It was delicious and lovely and a treat because certainly, a three-course feast at lunch on a Wednesday afternoon is an excessive indulgence.

Then there was Telepan.

Everyone has said, “You must go.” I asked a friend of mine if he was available. He told me he was in the middle of a budgetary balancing act. But I am persistent, and repeatedly mentioned $38! For a three-course meal! At a great restaurant! I (and a menu featuring smoked brook trout, shrimp with grits and a medley of heritage pork cuts), wore him down. With a little creative financial juggling, including a raid on his coin stash, hoarded in a plastic food container, we had a yummy dinner at Telepan. But not for the amount we calculated based on the Restaurant Week special.

Rather, the bill was three times the amount of the $38 dinner per person.

Telepan pairings 2.7.13

Telepan pairings 2.7.13

 

Willpower went out the door when we saw the wine pairing option. Who could resist? Each selection a perfect foil for the food, and even though we’d eaten three courses and were stuffed, we felt compelled to order dessert. So, throw in tax and tip, and there you have the killing of the bang-for-buck theory.

In any case, I would definitely return to this place. The impeccability of the way the food was prepared and presented, combined with the feeling that you are dining in a friend’s home conspire to make a wonderful experience. But you can have it all, and probably cheaper, if you decide to stay away during Restaurant Week.

My “Torch Song” to Sondheim

21 Thursday Feb 2013

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Sondhein with group

There’s Frank – second from right. Photo courtesy Frank Terranella.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

Recently I attended one of those cultural events that only happen in New York. The New York Philharmonic played an entire evening of the music of Stephen Sondheim with the composer in attendance. We reveled to an orchestral music-only evening of selections from “Sweeney Todd,” “Sunday in the Park with George,” “Into the Woods,” and other less, well-known masterpieces like, “Pacific Overtures,” and “Stavisky.”

As I sat there listening to the concert, it occurred to me that I have been enjoying the music of Stephen Sondheim on New York stages my entire adult life. I saw the original productions of,” A Little Night Music,” “Pacific Overtures,” “Sweeney Todd,” “Merrily We Roll Along,” “Sunday in the Park With George,” and “Into the Woods.” This was as a result of being turned on to Sondheim by a college professor whose History of the American Musical course that I took in 1973 named Sondheim as the current torch carrier for the art form.

In the late 1970s, I started to correspond with Sondheim. I found him to be a most diligent correspondent. He never failed to answer every letter I sent him. I treasure those today. We conversed about his work on, “Do I Hear a Waltz?,” with Richard Rodgers, and his adaptation of George Kaufman and Moss Hart’s play, “Merrily We Roll Along.” He shared his feelings about collaborating with Leonard Bernstein on “West Side Story,” and about “Sweeney Todd” being performed by opera companies.

Over the course of the next 20 years I sometimes spied Sondheim on the streets of New York. I saw him outside the theater where a revival of “Follies” was being staged, and he sat behind me at a revival of “West Side Story.” Abiding by the unwritten code that New Yorkers have regarding celebrities in their midst, I did not try to engage with the musical master. Then, in 2007, I had a chance to meet Stephen Sondheim, and spend some time with him discussing his work. A good friend of mine, who teaches theater at a Midwest college, was leading a theater tour of students through New York and London.

Knowing what a big fan I am, he and his wife graciously invited me to join a small get-together they had arranged where the students would meet with Sondheim and get to ask him questions. And so on a spring day in 2007, I found myself shaking hands with Stephen Sondheim and sitting around a table asking the master questions. It was a delightful hour. It’s not often you get to meet someone who has given you so much cultural enjoyment over so many years. From the movie versions I saw of “West Side Story,” “Gypsy,” and “A Funny thing Happened on the Way to the Forum,” in the early 1960s, through “Assassins and Passion” in the 1990s, it has been a wonderful ride.

Unfortunately, with ticket prices now routinely more than $100, and nearing $150, Broadway has turned away from the Sondheim type of show in favor of spectacles like, “The Lion King,” and “Wicked.” These days, the master can only get revivals of his earlier work produced on Broadway. Sondheim ’s latest musical, “Road Show,” was seen only off-Broadway, and out of town. There has not been a new Sondheim show on Broadway in nearly 20 years.

However, the change in Broadway fashions has not reduced the respect that the New York theater community has for Stephen Sondheim. We know that we are not likely to ever again see such a talent writing for the musical theater. But we will always have his great works. And perhaps the master, who will be 83 on March 22, will give us a few more masterpieces in the years when most men are long-retired. After all, he’s been through “Phantom,” and he’s been though “Spiderman” too, and he’s here. He’s still here. And aren’t we lucky.

MH and Me: Love Birds

20 Wednesday Feb 2013

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Birds flying over the Nile River, Egypt. December, 2009. Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY MARGO D. BELLER

Ever since my husband (MH), and I moved to our home and got a feeder for a housewarming present, I have been watching birds at my feeders and chasing them around fields, forests and seashores for over 10 years now.

The number of feeders has only increased with my desire to see more birds, which in turn, has led me to try and see even more farther afield.

There are many reasons I enjoy doing this. I like a challenge, particularly one that gets me out of the house and into the wood. I’m forced to sharpen my wits, use my eyes and remember many things, including field marks and songs. It gets me enjoyable exercise, walking long distances in new areas to at some very pretty (and sometimes not-so-pretty, birds), and it gets me away from the barking dogs and the noisy neighbors with their tech-savvy kids, who think I’m a strange old lady in this suburban neighborhood for going out in deep snow to shovel a path to the bird feeders.

MH also enjoys watching the feeder birds and going out with me to see what he can see, although he isn’t as gung-ho about rising at early hours and driving long distances. Our different ways of looking at things shape how we go birding.

I have a camera with a longish lens, and if we are in a place far from home that we don’t get to very often, I’ll take pictures to help me remember the scene. If there are birds I can photograph, so much the better. But generally, I rely on my binoculars for identification.

MH has binoculars and a smaller point-and-shoot camera – much more sophisticated than the old Kodaks we had as kids. When we go out I find something, call it out, and he’ll take many pictures from many angles, hoping at least one or two will come out good. (It helps these cameras make it easy to delete the bad shots without wasting film or photo paper.)

Another difference: Say I’m out in the field and I hear something I’ve never heard before. I will stand and wait and wait until I see what called. I’ll note the size, the color, where I am (habitat, state), note any field marks, then come home to start digging through the many field guides I’ve bought to identify it. If that doesn’t work, I go through my CDs of bird calls.

MH has a more scientific bent. He will look, too, and tell me what field marks he sees. He leaves the identifying to me, but once identified, he’ll go to a bookshelf and pull out a historical reference to learn when was the last time that bird was regularly seen in a particular area.

Together we make a good team, and that has become one of the best things about our interest in birding, spending time together and adding memories. We may not have children together but we do have the birds.

We’re Three Months Old: Bring Out the Bling

19 Tuesday Feb 2013

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Sparkling jewels

Heads were up, and a big hand was extended, at Rolf’s at Christmastime. Photo by Julie Seyler.

Among our favorite places to sip martinis is Rolf’s German Restaurant on the corner of East 22nd and 3rd Avenues in Manhattan. Aside from the super-sized drinks, what we really love: they “change decor of the restaurant for different seasons.” Their Christmas interior is so garishly, yet gloriously, over-the-top, you can’t look down.

And since there is no such thing as an overdo of sparkle, glitter, and bling, we’re blinging it blue (and big), in celebration of the blog’s third anniversary, by raising a hand to Rolf’s, and to all our contributors, readers, and fans. Thank you, everyone.

Law Practice: Shining Shoes, Lugging Golf Clubs and Hauling Garbage

18 Monday Feb 2013

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Bob lawyer

The young lawyer. Photo courtesy Bob Smith.

BY BOB SMITH
I’ve been practicing law for almost 30 years, and am now a partner in the intellectual property group of a large New Jersey law firm. Though the path to my legal career was paved with menial jobs, I learned something from every one of them.

Coming from Cresskill, an affluent Bergen County community that had at least four country clubs within a five-mile radius, I had a lot of golf-centric jobs in high school: caddie, locker room shoeshine guy, and finally, greenskeeper.  Being a caddie taught me a lot about golf – how to play it well (at least in theory, as I never learned to play well myself), the reassuring fact that most people play quite poorly, and the surprising fact that, regardless of how prestigious or well-respected the player, he or she is often not above cheating in order to win.

As a shoeshine guy in the locker room I learned that fat old guys, no matter how rich, still look pathetic and saggy with their clothes off. And as a greenskeeper, I learned how peaceful it is to walk the course in the predawn darkness, sweeping the greens with a long bamboo pole to knock the dewdrops down so they don’t burn the delicate grass when the sun comes up.

the back of a garbage truck

Riding the back of a garbage truck afforded life lessons. Photo by Julie Seyler.

Then, during my last two summers in college I became a garbageman. I hauled smelly barrels of trash through the backyards of some of the finest homes in Tenafly. I learned many things at that job, including that people often threw away perfectly edible cookies and cakes; that if you drank too many of the free beers available in the summertime you lost all ambition (it took twice as long to finish the route), and that if a mass of rice in the trash was wriggling, it wasn’t rice at all.

I also learned what it meant to be invisible. One day I was on the back of the truck with one arm hooked in the metal grab bar, carelessly swinging back and forth with the rhythm of the ride as the truck swung around turns and jounced over bumps.  I was watching a well-dressed guy in a white shirt and tie who was driving behind us, drinking coffee and glancing at his watch and trying to see if he could somehow pass the lumbering truck.  I was smiling at him and gesturing with my free hand for him to slow down; lighten up, but he looked right through me.  I didn’t exist in his world.

Then the truck braked suddenly, the air brakes exploding with a series of percussive hisses as the driver pumped them to make us stop. I was pulled back against the arm hook, toward the front of the truck, but I kept my eye on Mr. Executive, who was deep into his coffee and didn’t notice our rapid deceleration.  I waved again, screaming at him at the top of my lungs to stop. At the last second, he looked up, saw the back of the truck approaching too fast, and jammed on his brakes.

His car screeched to a stop, maybe a foot short of the blunt metal edge of the truck’s hopper – one more second of inattention, and he would have gone right under us.  The roof of his car, not to mention his head, probably would have been ripped off.  I could see the pulse of a near-death adrenaline jolt in the wide-eyed shock on his face.

He glanced at me, and I smiled, raising my hands and eyebrows in a “close call” acknowledgment, expecting him to laugh. But he completely ignored me, turning back to his coffee as if I wasn’t there.

A few years later, becoming a lawyer was a fairly easy choice: clean, good-paying, indoor work where people usually acknowledged and valued your existence.  Usually.

The Saturday Blog: Reflecting

16 Saturday Feb 2013

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Prismatic light. Madrid, Spain.

Prismatic light. Madrid, Spain.

This photo reminds us of our four-day jaunt to Madrid, Spain in December 2011. It was taken inside one of the many cathedrals throughout the city that we would wander in to. Here, Julie caught and snapped the prismatic light that streamed through the stained glass windows to create patterns of abstract art.

At Least My Clutter is Out of the Closet

15 Friday Feb 2013

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P1090714

A masterful mess of man and nature. Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

I’ve noticed that a lot of my writing lately is under the umbrella of an ever-growing proclivity towards clutter. And that a number of my headlines contain the word, “mess.” It seems everywhere I go in my house, I leave behind a little bit (or a heap) of me. I don’t mean that I’m dirty, or sloppy, or don’t ever pick up after myself. I would never leave a mess in someone else’s house. I just love clutter. More than ever. While I’ve always loved the feeling of being snug and surrounded, and am a life-long fan of small rooms; big chairs (a favorite feeling is to be wedged between two people that I love in a big chair in a small room), as I get older, I’m becoming a downright master of the neat mess. A maestro. Many of my friends have stated that they, “Couldn’t live like that.” I say: Try it. Why spend half your life picking up and putting away things that you need everyday? It’s not natural, and not fun, to constantly pursue tidy and trim. The world outside our windows certainly isn’t orderly.

This doesn’t mean I’m not organized. And my love of clutter does not mean that I need a lot of stuff. I’m not a collector. I hate shopping. And I’m definitely not a hoarder. I have no problem purging my home annually of things that I no longer need or use. (Just look out my back door at the perpetual pile of things I don’t want that live next to the garbage cans.)

But a little self-study kicked an after I read an interview with Peter Walsh, an “organizing authority” (he’s been on Oprah!), in an article by Mary Beth Breckenridge, which was picked up by the February 14 Star Ledger. Apparently, “untidy spaces can mess with your head.” Says Mr. Walsh: there’s an “emotional component to disorganization.” He was also the organizational expert on the TLC series, “Clean Sweep,” a makeover show for people who are messed up by clutter. Another quote: “… that when people eliminate clutter, they become less depressed and more energetic.”

So I pursued this theory further. A little research produced a Web site called, the Institute for Challenging Disorganization, whose mission is to educate professional organizers and related professionals on the issues relating to Chronic Disorganization.

It has a free clutter-hoarding scale on their Web site – “an assessment measurement tool” … “to give professional organizers and related professionals definitive parameters. These parameters relate to health and safety.”

So, it seems, according to some experts out there – I’m sick. Chronically ill. Specifically: depressed, anxious, and I have a misplaced love of things over people. Wrong: I love a pile of people just as much as I love dirty dishes in the morning.

At least I’ve proudly come out of the closet with my mess. And my closets, by the way, (and kitchen cabinets, dresser drawers) are downright pristine – neat and tidy all of them. I always hang up my coat. I make my bed in the morning, and fold my clothes (sometimes I even put them in their respective drawers) at night. But that’s it. It’s what people see (on my floors, on the tables and desks) that they don’t seem to get. To me, compulsive neatness means you must be rigid, controlling, predictable. Isn’t that less desirable than: Untamed! Effulgent! And just beautifully messy.

I’d rather walk over and around myself all day, than pick up after. Really, at the heart of all this musing, is perspective:

I don’t see this as a pile of recyclables. I see it as, “Wow I love newspapers, and look how many I got through this week.”
papers2.

I get to be awash in my work:
Me Library 2

You’ve seen my wall:
P1130179

I’m having a party!:
IMG_0082

My own special morning-after party:
8087476940_cc213cb158_m

Look at all the extra space I have to throw things!:
books

My best friend is a mess too:
thesaurus

So I have no worries that I will turn into that little old lady who is surrounded by decades of stuff. I’ll be fine, because I will always see disarray as creative chaos. I would be depressed and less energetic otherwise.