Some years back, my friend Harp died during heart surgery. He was only dead for a while because the doctors miraculously brought the old Cracker back to life, but not before he was visited by three men in long white robes who came out of the mist and said it wasn’t his time. They told him to go back and do two things: 1) Be as kind to people as you possibly can be. 2) Put all the fiddles in the right hands.

This might make more sense if you know that Harp loved Bluegrass music and liked to trade and collect fiddles of every kind.

I always knew Harp to be a gentle soul, although it was clear that he must have lost some capacity, sometimes showing up with his sneakers on the wrong feet. Still, I never knew anyone who was as kind to people as Harp was long before meeting those three men in the mist.

Harp drove an old wide-bodied pick-up truck with a topper that he kept locked. That’s because the back of the truck was full of fiddles. He traveled far and wide, making deals and trades. I wasn’t exactly sure what to make of it. He spoke of those three men often and took what they had said very seriously. But I couldn’t help wondering if Harp had bought into some kind of fantasy about the whole thing.

One day, I was having lunch with a friend who mentioned that her daughter was considering signing up for the violin class at school. The girl would have to get her own instrument and since she didn’t yet know how to play, my friend was hesitant about how much to invest in a violin. It occurred to me that Harp might be willing to rent her one of his.

When I spoke to him, he quickly agreed but insisted on not taking a penny for it. So, he handed me a case and I gave it to my friend, whose daughter brought it to violin class. About a week later, my friend called with great concern in her voice. Her daughter’s teacher, having noticed the unusual tone and timber of the instrument, had wondered where she got the violin. The girl told the teacher she had borrowed it. He was skeptical.

“Someone lent it to you?’ the teacher asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s a Stradivarius,” he said.

My friend was more than a little surprised and so was I. Harp had a Stradivarius? I was suddenly concerned about whether Harp realized what it was. I called him.

“Why, shoot, Miss Mary, I know it’s a Stradivarius.”

“Aren’t you concerned?”

“Why should I be concerned? I’m putting all the fiddles in the right hands?”

My friend’s daughter used the violin until the end of the school year when she graduated, then returned it, and Harp put it back in the old truck. A few months later, he was off again on one of his Nashville runs. There was a man he had to see there. Turns out that the man he had to see was a headliner, a legend in the world of Bluegrass. Harp showed up at the theater where this music star was appearing and asked to see him after the show.

“Sorry,” said one of the handlers, “we don’t let people come back. He doesn’t see anyone.”

“He’ll want to see me,” said Harp with a lilt in his voice. “I have something here that he needs.”

The man eyed Harp curiously, then told him to wait. He returned a few minutes later and walked Harp back to the dressing room.

“I’ve got something for you,” Harp told the musician.

“Sorry, I’m not buying anything.”

“That’s good,” said Harp, “because this isn’t for sale.” He opened the case and showed him the valuable antique fiddle he’d brought with him from Florida. “I want to let you have this to play for a while.”

The musician picked up the fiddle and played, dazzled by the tone of the instrument.

“I had a feeling you’d like it,” said Harp. The musician played that fiddle on tour for more than two years before Harp returned to Nashville to pick it up.

“I’d like to buy it from you,” said the musician.

“Oh, no,” said Harp. “I got to keep passing my fiddles on.” And that’s what Harp did. He passed his fiddles on and on, legendary instruments like the Man Claudiu, which he once let a Philharmonic First Violinist use for over a year. Harp had to be one heck of a trader because we all knew him to be a person of modest means, not the kind you’d need for this particular enterprise.

People often chided Harp, having no idea what he carried around locked up in the back of that old beat up truck of his. Even his family humored him. I can only imagine how surprised they all were after those three men in the mist finally beckoned Harp to come along with them.

 

 

 

There’s something about this time of year that tickles the nostalgia in me. I love seeing the supermarket bins tumbling over with BOGO boxes of crayola crayons. (You’ve read my blogs; you know how I feel about crayons!) Walmart aisles stacked with three-hole-punch lined paper, plastic bottles of white glue, binders and files in every color and pattern. Everything new and perfect…another fresh start…this could be one terrific school year. We might even learn something; well…let’s not go overboard.
Has anything more perfect ever been created than a brand new composition notebook? Listen to the crack of the spine, run your fingers over those pristine white pages. It would be at least a week before the potato chip grease set in. Ahhh, but for now…perfection. That unmistakable speckled cover. All those white splotches we would fill in with ink while the teacher was saying something…oh, yes…a homework assignment. Well, we’d just call a friend later and find out what that was all about.
Ticonderoga #2 pencils, sharpened to a pin point. New gym shorts. Clean. New sneakers. Un-scuffed. The smartest back-pack. Nirvana.
It was a honeymoon that for many of us would last about two weeks. That’s how long it usually took for the new pencil case to turn black from the pen with no cap, and for that little designer pencil sharpener to spill its shavings everywhere–an accident made especially unfortunate by forgetting to tighten the lid on the glue bottle.
By then, also, we’d have left our assignment book on the seat beside us at Wendy’s, spilled Diet Coke all over a library book. And…well…you know…the dog ate our homework, the school bus ran over our science project, and the backpack had morphed into a dumpster. It was also clear that the math teacher took no prisoners.
Things would get a little better…that special person we liked, kind of liked us back. Things would get a little worse…parent-teacher night. Still…like Camelot…there was that one brief, shining moment when it was all harmony and delight.

maryflynnwrites.com

My Uncle Eddie Flynn left Brooklyn in 1943 to join a B52 bomber team that eventually headed to Normandy in advance of the historic D-Day invasion. I was too young to see him go, but I’ll never forget his home-coming and the photograph of him standing in his crisp uniform next to that giant aircraft with the name “Louise” scrawled across the side.

On a Saturday night following his return, I knelt by a front window at my grandmother’s and looked out across Manhattan Avenue. Nana’s third-floor apartment was eye-level with the huge dance hall above the movie theater filled with soldiers and their girls moving to the music of Glenn Miller.

I could see Uncle Eddie dancing with the woman I would soon come to know as Aunt Rita. It’s a beautiful memory, but it took a few more years before I realized how lucky we all were that he had come home. Uncle Eddie had no war stories, at least none that he would tell. He took a job driving a UPS truck and never left Brooklyn again.

Memorial Day…or as we called it back then, Decoration Day…was an important day for us. We dressed in our Sunday clothes, my father gave each of us a little red poppy to wear, and off we went. Calvary Cemetery was clear across Brooklyn. It took nearly an hour and two trains to get there, but we never missed that time to honor the dead, especially the soldiers who were not as lucky as Uncle Eddie.

In the beginning, I was too young to appreciate the meaning of it all. The cemetery was a beautiful place with lots of flowers and flags and a big yellow Sabrett’s umbrella outside, which meant I got to have a hot dog.

With Benji it was different. In my teens we lived in an apartment in Flushing. There were five other families on our floor. One of them had a son named Benji, who was four years younger than I was. I always remember him in his khaki shorts, playing in the courtyard. He was a sweet and quiet kid, the only child of a nurse and a maitre d, lovely people.

I married and moved away in 1963. The following year, my mother called to tell me that Benji had gone off to Vietnam and had been killed two weeks later. He was eighteen. My heart broke for him and for his family. It still does.

Although I haven’t been to Calvary Cemetery in a long, long time, I still buy a poppy every year. I keep one on the rear-view mirror of my car. I had one with me when I ran my fingers across Benji’s name at the Vietnam Memorial in Washington.

Thank you, Uncle Eddie. Thank you, Dear Benji. God rest your souls.

Strange as it may sound, this is a story that I promise you is true. It happened quite a few years ago, but I was reminded of it just last week when I saw the 1967 movie, “Camelot.” The movie stars Richard Harris, a person with whom, as you will see, I shared a bizarre and fascinating moment in time.
In the town where I lived there was a lovely, elegant four-star hotel within walking distance of my home. The place was a magnet for celebrities and the highest level corporate executives. The local paper always ran articles about the sometimes extravagant goings on there. I thought it might be fun to work in such a place, so I went to apply, having no idea what I might do at a hotel since I had no hotel experience whatever.
Dressed in my best business suit, I took my place in the hallway on the lower level where men and women in white jackets were queued up for food and beverage positions. A short time later, a woman from HR came over to me, took my resume and asked me to wait. A while after that, the HR Manager asked to meet with me.
“I see that you’re a writer and that you once worked as an executive secretary,” he said. He asked if I would be willing to meet with Monsieur Bouchard (not his real name), the General Manager, and could I come back at 6:30 that evening.
Although I was taken by surprise by the late hour, I agreed. The HR Manager explained that the interview had to be held in the strictest confidence because of certain employee changes that had not yet been announced. At 6:30 that evening I returned to the hotel and the HR Manager escorted me to the mezzanine level where the General Manager’s office was located.
Monsieur Bouchard, a gracious and elegant man who appeared to be in his forties, greeted me with a warm handshake and thanked me for appreciating the sensitivity of the situation. His French accent was thick but I had no trouble understanding him.
As he sat with his hands laced in front of him on the desk, he shared that he had been hoping to make a few changes, one of them his assistant…the reason I could not come earlier. “In my position as General Manager,” he explained, “I find that I require certain other important skills. I believe you have the right combination of skills that I have been seeking.”
I felt flattered. I asked what exactly the job entailed.
“You appear to have excellent language skills, from which my faulty English could benefit.” He waved his hand. “I occasionally struggle writing letters. You could help me with my English. In exchange, I could help you learn French.” He chuckled. “But there is more, of course.” There was a china tea service at one corner of his desk. He offered me a cup and poured one for himself, as well. “Our hotel is quite attractive to celebrities, executives and so on. On any particular day, I might have to entertain the President of IBM and the CEO of General Motors. I cannot do both at once, but I see that I might be very comfortable meeting with one of them and having you meet with the other…at luncheon perhaps right here in our beautiful dining facilities.”
I was floored.
“You could be happy doing this, yes? To be, shall we say, a public face for our hotel?”
“Yes, I…”
“But,” he cut in, “you will first tell me the salary you are seeking.” I gave him the number and he sat back. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that will not be possible.”
I had thought there might be a catch.
“I will have to give you at least $5,000 more. That would be a good start, yes?”
I walked home in a state of shock. Was I dreaming? Had this really happened? My husband certainly couldn’t believe it either. He was very curious about this Mr. Bouchard fellow. I assured him that Mr. Bouchard was very sweet and well-mannered. I was to show up at 8:30 in the morning. The HR Manager would take me to a temporary desk, and I was not to talk to anyone about what was going on…not until he, Mr. Bouchard, had made his moves.
The next day, the HR Manager led me back to the mezzanine level. “This should do nicely for today,” he said, pointing to a great carved antique mahogany desk. I nodded. Aside from an ornate brass lamp and a small porcelain pot of fresh daisies, there was nothing on it. I took a pad and pen from one of the drawers to make it appear that I was working on something, but that didn’t keep others on that floor, managers mostly, from eyeing me curiously.
“You’re new here,” one of them said. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“Yes. I just started.” I hoped he would let it go at that. He didn’t.
“I was not aware that we were filling a position up here.”
I had to think fast. “I’m supposed to work on a special project.”
He nodded thoughtfully then walked away.
It was an absolutely beautiful setting with the mezzanine overlooking the grand gilded lobby. I wondered if I would get to see Richard Harris who was appearing in a local production of Camelot and staying in the Presidential suite. I only knew this because there had been an article in the paper the day before. Apparently, Harris’s room charges were covered by his aide’s credit card, which had already gone well over its limit, and the hotel had called him on it.
At ten that morning, a young man in a burgundy bellman’s uniform trimmed in gold braid with a cap to match brought a large silver tea service to my desk, and asked if there was anything else I would need. “Will these do?” He pointed to a small rose-patterned plate with pastries on it.
“Oh, this is just fine,” I said. “Thank you.” I suddenly felt as though I were in a Disney fairy tale.
I saw Monsieur Bouchard only once, a little after noon when he left for a meeting with four handsomely dressed men in dark suits. I couldn’t wait to get started in my job. I had spent half the day scribbling mindless notes and creating a couple of file folders that held nothing. The young bellman returned with his silver tray at 3:00. This time he brought scones, some of the best I’d ever tasted.
By now, it was getting pretty late in the day and I felt a bit disappointed that nothing had happened. At around 5:00 the HR Manager came to see me. He asked how I was and what kind of a day I’d had as we went down to his office. I took a seat.
“You may be wondering,” he began, “why you have not seen Monsieur Bouchard for the last few hours.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“The Trusthouse Forte people were here today. As you know, they own many hotels including this one.”
Oh, no, I thought, they’re transferring Monsieur Bouchard to another hotel.
“Monsieur Bouchard has been relieved of his duties and is no longer with the hotel.”
I stared at him in stunned silence.
“They were not happy with the way the hotel handled Richard Harris’s billing,” he said. “They felt it embarrassed the hotel. So…”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said. “He seems like such a nice gentleman.”
“Yes, he is,” the HR Manager said. “And because there was no official position yet created for you, I’m sorry to say that your employment here will have to end, as well.”
It took me twice as long to walk home. I was in a fog trying to make sense of everything that had happened. I had never before been offered such a position. I had never before been offered $5,000 more than I had asked or taken my coffee break from a sterling silver tea service. And unlike Richard Harris who enjoyed a long run as King Arthur, I had never held a job for only eight and a half hours. My husband and I eventually laughed about the whole thing. First, of course, I had a pretty good cry.

Maryflynnwrites.com

I thought you might enjoy re-visiting a post first published a year ago.

A century after Hallmark captured the imagination with its endearing (and some might say sappy) greeting card sentiments, they have done it again by way of an endearing (and some might say sappy) phenomenon known as the Hallmark Channel. The appeal to women is stunning, especially at Christmastime.

Even as we poke fun at ourselves falling for the mush, we fall every time. And I’m right there with the rest, getting into my jammies, cocoa in hand, to watch the cynical corporate woman who once hated Christmas pack it all in for the guy who owns the pumpkin farm or the over-worked wife and mother who questions her life choices, then wakes up in another life, eventually realizing what she’d had all along.

Sometimes, it’s the struggling seamstress or the hotel maid who, through one fortuitous circumstance or another, ends up in a far-away castle where the handsome prince will choose her over the haughty duchess. On and on and on, and we just can’t get enough of it even though it is endlessly predictable and there is no doubt how it’s going to end–there we are entranced, wistful, perhaps with even a bit of longing.

“Corporate” isn’t held in very high regard in the Hallmark Channel world, where enlightened marketing execs eventually trade in their suits and ties for a tool belt and a pick-up truck. It’s about the drifter who turns out to be an accomplished chef or the architect who finds fulfillment at last as the town handy-man. There might even be a secretly wealthy former hedge fund manager from the big city who now owns the small country diner and spends his time volunteering at the dog kennel.

It’s obvious that the word has gone out to the leading men: “Look, you’re allowed to do woodworking, repair musical instruments, teach art or be a successful author or firefighter, stuff like that, but under no circumstance can you hold a job in one of those big crowded cities where nothing good comes of anything.” And there’s not a single female who can resist such a man—eventually she will come to her senses and cave.

Time after time, we blissfully accept the premise that the beloved old library is about to be torn down for a dastardly shopping mall, and that the days are always numbered for the family tree farm, the family pumpkin farm, the family tulip farm, and the little family book store. Something’s got to be done to save the children’s hospital, the historical landmark or Aunt Victoria’s bed and breakfast. And there is simply never going to be enough money in the budget for the school’s music program.

If they can only sell enough sugar cookies, they might be able to make the two million dollars they need by Thursday. But wait. Aha! One of those big awful corporate CEOs in one of those big awful cities will miraculously have a change of heart and come to the rescue by…well, you get it…because all is never lost at the Hallmark Channel.

When you have cared enough to send the very best for a hundred years, then what else can we expect except the most perfect of outcomes. Everything is saved, everyone is redeemed, everyone loves Christmas once again, and, finally…finally, the moment we’ve been waiting for–the big kiss. And not just any big kiss. This is Hallmark, for heaven’s sake. It’s got to be the kind of big kiss that we who are sitting there in our jammies sipping our cocoa will swoon over.

So, for starters, there’s got to be a crowd around. Hallmark’s big kiss requires a big crowd of onlookers. That’s why it will take place at the Christmas parade, the town festival, the holiday concert, the cookie judging event, the big dance, sometimes even at the boarding gate at the bustling airport—so that everyone around will see the big kiss and applaud and cheer. I can’t imagine why someone would actually applaud two people blocking the gate. Every now and then, just as a reality check, I’d like to see someone in the line yell out, “Hey, this flight we’re all trying to take to get home for Christmas is not about you.” But they never do. They applaud and cheer with the rest. And I have to muse, wistfully, that if there is ever again a big kiss in my future, I’d like to have a lot of cheering and applause. Change is good.

But even that’s not all. Remember, it’s winter. It’s Christmas. It’s Hallmark. So, we’ll have the big kiss and we’ll have the rousing applause. And then, having saved the best for last, we shall have snow. At the very moment their lips meet, the snowflakes will fall, and they appear to get larger with every passing season. Soon, I imagine they will be the size of hubcaps (the snowflakes, not the lips). By now, and probably long before now, if there’s a man in the house, he’s already gotten out of there—he’s even opted to do the dishes or take out the garbage without being asked. Not us. We smile. We cry. We’ve recorded it. We will watch it again…and maybe again. Eventually, it will become a movie to fall asleep by because it beats Jimmy Fallon and The Walking Dead. It beats network news and anything with forensics in it or yellow crime scene tape. It almost beats the shopping channel. And in the end, it is the only thing captivating enough to push The Golden Girls reruns off the air. We care that much.

maryflynnwrites.com

 

I first saw her one day as I was leaving my parents’ apartment in Great Neck on Long Island. She was trudging merrily down the hall in my direction, a little, happy-looking gray-haired woman in a dark gray skirt and durable looking oxford style shoes with white socks.

“Good morning,” she said as we entered the elevator. I knew immediately who she was. She was Mrs. Mirrim. My parents had told me about her, and she fit their description perfectly: petite, friendly, spry, thick Jewish accent. “Always on the move,” my father had said. “Always getting something done.” Oh, yes, one more thing—the ladder.

Mrs. Mirrim, all of five feet tall was carrying a six-foot aluminum ladder. She was in the habit of taking it down to the lower-level parking garage to wash her Lincoln.

“May I help you with that?” I asked. I already knew the answer. My mother had told me they’d offered many times, but Mrs. Mirrim was insistent.

“Oh, it’s no trouble.” She laughed. She wasn’t the least bit out of breath. “It keeps me young. My husband did it for years. Now it’s up to me.” Her right arm was looped through the middle rung. Her left hand held a bucket and sponge.

We both got out at the garage level—that’s where I’d parked my car. I walked along with her until we reached her parking spot. And there it was, a twenty-year-old beast of an outdated luxury automobile. It looked like a tank. But it was pristine.

Mrs. Mirrim, dwarfed by the vehicle, came up alongside the car and set the ladder in place. “It’s the only way I can reach the roof,” she said before heading over to the water spigot on the side wall of the garage to fill her bucket. “On Tuesdays I wash the car, but not just because it would have made my Sid happy—that was his day to wash the car. But I have to drive over to the nursing home to help the old people. I don’t want to go with a dirty car. It’s important to show respect.” Mrs. Mirrim, I learned, was six months shy of 80.

“What do you do at the nursing home?” I asked.

‘Oh, not so much anymore. I just help prepare and serve the meals. I like to make sure the soup is good. They never put enough salt unless I’m there to watch. Then I visit the rooms to see who can go into the garden in their wheelchair. I take one at a time. Getting the sun is so important and they might have no one who visits. But that doesn’t have to be a terrible thing.” It seemed that she might have been speaking from personal experience–my parents had said they didn’t think she had any family.

She was standing on the third rung of the ladder, waving goodbye to me with one hand and swishing her soapy sponge along the roof of the car with the other. I saw her a number of times after that day. She wasn’t always carrying the ladder. Sometimes, it was a hamper of food she was taking to the local shelter. Sometimes it was dry-cleaning or a few bags of groceries, not always her own, but those she would pick up for the “old people” who lived in the building.

“I have to hurry and make latkes for the men at the fire house,” she said to me one day. “I shouldn’t be late. They need bulk.”

My parents moved away and I don’t know what became of Mrs. Mirrim, but I have never forgotten her inspiring view of life: it isn’t just about aging well by taking care of ourselves, but how we take care of others, too. Mrs. Mirrim knew something about active, satisfying and productive living at any age. I’d be willing to bet that if it were possible for Mrs. Mirrim to be around somewhere, she’d still be buying green bananas.

maryflynnwrites.com

 

 

Well, August is here. I always have high hopes with the start of a new month. Let’s see what this one brings by way of celebrations aimed at informing us or enriching our lives. Here’s one, National Admit You’re Happy Month. Hmm, I’d like to be around a crowd gathering for this particular celebration. I have a vision of people jumping up on chairs, tearing off their shrouds and letting out a maniacal scream, “I can’t take it anymore. I’m happy, happy, do you hear? I’m happy. God help me.”

I believe the national month thing originated with the best intentions—National Cancer Awareness Month, National Children in Crisis Month, and so on. But as is often said of horrific outcomes, something went terribly wrong. And I would caution that it could definitely give people the impression that our society has nothing better to do.

I have no idea who gets to decide which celebrations make the list (I wouldn’t mind having a go at it), but we do have to wonder when we see National Romance Awareness Month. I envision a week-long workshop at a secluded mountain retreat: “Today we are going to discuss the concept of giving a box of chocolates to someone you care about. No, seriously, an actual box of chocolates. Tomorrow, we’ll consider…I kid you not…the implications of sending a dozen roses. That’s right, twelve of them. Twelve roses. We don’t joke about things like this. Then, we’ll get into the possibility of selecting a Valentine card that says something other than ‘To Someone Special.’ Yes, it is true that a wife can certainly be someone special but… well…we’ll have to talk about all that. And just to let you know, we won’t be covering weekend getaways; that’s our advanced program to be held in Hawaii in the fall.”

I also question National Family Fun Month. Really? It’s August. The kids got out of school two or three months ago. Haven’t we had all the fun a family can possibly endure? But I suppose that with prayer and supplication we can survive one more blistering theme park visit, one more over-crowded day on the mega water slides, one more S’mores-melt around the campfire or one more trampoline pool party that ends up with only a mild ankle injury. Ahh, to bond with those we love is pure bliss, especially with a Groupon bogo offer.

August contains two of the most interesting weeks of the year: National Be Kind to Humankind Week and International Clown Week. I suspect that someone was already clowning around when they made up the list. If they really intend to be kind to humankind, why not include National Nothing at All Month. Just sayin’.

maryflynnwrites.com

 

 

May is National Museum Month, which brings to mind that one very special museum that holds a place deep in my heart. In 1942, right after the United States entered the war, the company where my father worked went bankrupt. In those days, people who were out of work could go to their local unemployment office to get a job lead. So, my father went and took his place in line with dozens of other people. While standing there, a man slipped in line just ahead of him. Normally, he might have protested, but he had a feeling that the man must be desperate.

When the man reached the counter, the unemployment associate handed him a lead for the hold of a ship, a job that my father realized would yield at least six months steady work. He could see the relief on the man’s face and was glad he hadn’t said anything about him jumping the line. The very next lead, the lead my father was handed, was for the position of guard at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

That day would mark the beginning of a life-long connection between my family and the people, the art and the oddities that make up the most fabulous museum in the world. Over the years, after talk about school and other happenings of the day, the conversation at our dinner table inevitably turned to the Metropolitan, as my father always called it. There was no end of fascinating things that went on there.

In the very early days before my father was promoted to an office job, one of his patrols was in the subterranean depths of the museum. Most patrons never knew that the Metropolitan’s enormous underground area was actually water. The boulders on which the foundation of the museum rested were part of what was likely an underground cistern. It was eventually filled in with concrete, but before that my father patrolled with rowboat and flashlight.

A lot went on in the sub-basement of the Metropolitan. There was, and perhaps to this day there still is, more art, and in some cases more valuable art, than appears on the walls of the museum itself. Typically, this is not because of lack of space, but rather lack of funding. When an individual or an estate donates a masterpiece, however valuable, there must be money to support it—money literally to pay for its spot in the gallery. One might think that the museum would be thrilled to receive the gift of a precious master, and it is, but without funding you won’t find it anytime too soon on the gallery wall.

Priceless art was not the only thing you could find in the basement of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In the early 1950s, in a spell of virtuous over-reach, the Ladies of the Legion of Decency, or some such, got it into their heads that the sight of all that male anatomy so boldly visible on those Greek and Roman statues was an offense to one’s moral sensibilities. Amazingly, the Museum went along with it, surgically removing the offending parts and storing them, meticulously catalogued of course, in what amounted to shoe boxes lined up shelf upon shelf and well out of sight. Several years later, in a reversal, curators had the interesting task of seeing to it that the missing parts were all glued back on.

Some things about the Museum were quite funny, some were not. One year, an ornate altar grill from a centuries-old Spanish church arrived at the Museum along with what some people claimed was a curse. Few believed it until a number of people, including a curator, an historian and a few technical assistants mysteriously died.

Some of the not-so-funny things had to do with mere labor demands. One morning as my father strolled the galleries, he came upon a room in which an enormous banquet table from a European castle was being set in place by about half a dozen moving men. Later that afternoon, as he happened to pass through the same gallery, he noticed that although the table was in place, the two dozen chairs were still scattered about the room, with the moving men just milling around. My father asked what was going on, and to his dismay and frustration, the men explained that they were union men. Their job was to move only the table. They had to wait, even if it took all day, for the men whose job it was to move only the chairs.

The Metropolitan’s galleries hold their share of odd history. For many years, late into the evening, after the museum was well closed for the day, the empty, darkened galleries came quietly alive with easels and paint. It was the reason that many of the men went to work there as guards–they were serious, aspiring artists, and what better training than to sit in the silence and copy the masters, after they’d done their rounds, of course.

My father was no artist, but working among the great masters day in and day out, he became a great fan of many, especially the Rembrandts. I remember his dinnertime updates on the day-to-day buzz when in 1961 the museum was in negotiations to purchase Aristotle Contemplating the Bust of Homer for what was then the highest price ever paid in a public sale for a painting, 2.1 million dollars.

The galleries were rich not only in art, but in the peculiar behavior of some very famous people. Being in the presence of the masters often brought out the oddness one might otherwise conceal. This was especially true of certain movie stars who would roam among the paintings, muttering to themselves or as one famous star was observed, strolling the floors with the legs of his suit trousers rolled up to his knees. My father, a sharpshooter with a .38, was acutely aware of the potential for strange behavior, and every one of the four hundred guards dispatched by him daily was inconspicuously alert to the possibility that an axe, hammer, knife, gun, of even a bottle of acid could be drawn from an overcoat at any time. In the office, in a locked metal cabinet, was an arsenal of weapons, which in the thirty years my father worked there had never needed to be drawn.

In the winter of 1962, the Mona Lisa came to the United States for the very first time, amid the greatest of fanfare. It arrived by way of the liner France, and entered New York Harbor under the watchful eye of the U.S. Coast Guard. The White House had assured the art world as well as the general public that the level of security the famous lady was to receive would rival that of the president himself. Interestingly, when it arrived at the Museum and they opened the doors of the transport, they saw just the painting and my father with his .38 discreetly concealed inside the jacket of his navy blue suit. My father, a distinguished and humble man, made little of it and, in fact, never spoke of it again. Neither did he make very much of that night in 1965 when he accompanied Charlton Heston to the New York world premiere of the Michelangelo movie The Agony and the Ecstasy.

One day, when I was in my junior year of high school, my father came home with the news that he had been offered the directorship of a museum in Los Angeles. I know my mother would have been happy with whatever my father decided. I suppose I would have been too, although I couldn’t imagine what it would be like living all the way on the other side of the country, so far away from Brooklyn. I didn’t have to ponder it very long because after an exhilarating couple of days my father made the decision to stay right where he was.

Years later, my father retired from the Metropolitan with a gold watch, a bit of fanfare and three decades of amazing memories and friendships. I can’t imagine he would have chosen any other place to spend those last thirty years of his life. I’m glad he stayed.

Maryflynnwrites.com

 

 

Some years ago when I was living in a certain Central Florida town, I happened to meet an old-timer (as he liked to call himself)…I’ll call him Horace…a fourth-generation Floridian, with a fascinating story that I’d like to share. Horace was well into his seventies when I sat down to interview him. This was at a time when I had just become aware of Florida’s place in the cattle industry. Cows were the last thing that most New Yorkers would think of in connection with the Sunshine State, so I was surprised to learn that Florida was the second largest calf-producing state in the country, Texas being the first.

Horace grew up on a vast 20,000-acre spread—what they called a township. Through one way and another, his widowed mother had put together much of the land and continued to raise cows on it, as had been her family’s practice. They even had a lake named after her, which in the interest of privacy I will not divulge. Like many wealthy Florida ranchers, they were not showy people. Horace himself lived in a double wide, surrounded by bull grass, wild turkeys, and tractor parts.

Horace’s mother was a tight-fisted, uncomplicated woman who, from all accounts, seemed to get whatever she set her mind to, a reputation borne out when the multi-billion dollar Grace company came knocking and paid her $15,000,000 (yes, that’s million) for a land deal concerning mineral rights. She was pretty satisfied with that until Uncle Sam showed up and claimed half of it. That’s when, at a fever pitch, she swore to make that money back in less than ten years. And she surely would have, except that it took her only seven.

Horace’s grandmother (his mother’s mother) was a slightly different case. One Sunday afternoon, long after she had passed on, Horace and his family were having one of their after-dinner sit-abouts, when Horace’s young granddaughter went to browse the bookshelves. As  she fingered through the age-old volumes, a brown-crackled paper fell to the floor. They unfolded the paper, and soon realized that what they had come upon was quite astonishing.

It seems that in the year 1900, Horace’s grandmother…I’ll call her Eunice…a retiring woman with a quietly bold spirit, had done what in her day was unthinkable for a woman. She had purchased stock. She had been daring enough, and some would have said foolhardy enough, to pay about $200 for something that back then was likely considered a highly risky endeavor. She had purchased two thousand shares of stock in the Coca Cola Company.

Needless to say, this was an amazing discovery and the family’s accounting firm was called upon for counsel. They had the stock appraised and recommended that the family sell. But the family did not see any reason to do so. At the time of my interview with Horace, a safe deposit box somewhere in a Central Florida bank had become the repository for a certificate of two thousand original shares of Coca Cola stock valued at $46,000,000.

Then, finally, there was Hazel Lake. Hazel had been approached by a developer, Charles Hamper, (neither of their names are real) who offered to buy one thousand acres of her Kissimmee ranch land for $100 an acre–$100,000, pretty good money for the mid 1960s. Charles left Hazel’s ranch with the contract she’d had drawn up, and returned the very next day with the money and the signed contract.

The date happened to be February 3, 1967, the day that the Orlando Sentinel’s front page bore the announcement that Walt Disney had bought a lot of land in the area to build on. Hazel had the newspaper on the table when Charles arrived, and when he handed her the contract to sign for the purchase of her land, she looked up at him with a sly grin and said simply, “I’d better wait.”

maryflynnwrites.com

 

 

 

 

A Valentine Sonnet, Seriously??

Let me be the knight your heart has craved–
I do not have a fine white horse on which to ride,
I have no list of damsels I have saved,
I have no sword and scabbard at my side,

But I can slay the dragon of your fears,
And I can keep the darkest clouds at bay.
I’ll kiss away your every frown, your tears,
I’ll bring the joy, the sunlight to your day.

I’ll find the strength I need within your eyes,
My fortitude will come from your sweet touch,
Your kiss will always make me realize
No other love could mean so very much.

So, promise me the charms my heart adores,
And once you sign the pre-nup, I am yours.

maryflynnwrites.com