Newlin Grist Mill

A teeny tiny update about archaeology at Newlin Grist Mill. After taking a week off due to weather and busy schedules, we met up again this past Wednesday. I was early for once because I first dropped Don off at Philadelphia International Airport for his flight to Omaha, Nebraska. While it is nice to arrive at the start, it turns the 75-minute (which already feels long) drive into a 105-minute one. Traffic is just that much worse driving through Center City on I-95.

I was the first to arrive this week. Mike, who is usually very quiet, immediately teased me for getting there so early then launched into a monologue about how much he wants a car like my convertible, but is disappointed they stopped making them in 2008. 

Me, too, Mike. Me, too. 

We were a small crew this week. Ed was back, as was Mike. Matt, and his 20-something back, is a welcome addition to the team. Keith said a board member recently donated empty bird seed containers. They are square and smaller than the usual round Home Depot contractor buckets. We are optimistic that the new size will be easier to lift out of the test units.

Keith measured test unit 8, and I dutifully drew a site plan and a level plan. Even though he taught us how to do this last year, there is nothing like doing it on the site to have the information sink in. Meanwhile, Ed, Matt, and Mike began digging in test unit 9.

In the upper most level (level 1) we found an assortment of buttons, and an Indian Head penny circa 1883. There were also the usual building materials, and some bones left over from a long-ago dinner, but they don't warrant as many photos these days. 

The drive is long. Gas prices are rising. We often stop working by 1 or 2 so Keith can do other parts of his job, and because he doesn't want to wear any of us out physically. That is a great incentive for arriving closer to 9:30 than to 10. I will try to keep that in mind this Wednesday.

This is one of the few places in my life where I feel I truly belong. When I asked how the public archaeology day went and was told they had nine volunteers, I replied "so you didn't miss me," meaning they had enough coverage. Keith answered without a hint of sarcasm or derision "we were fine, but of course we missed you" in a way that I knew he and the guys enjoy having me around. 

Another Two Show Day

Recently I shared it has been a long time since we've seen two shows in one day, other than seeing both parts of Harry Potter in London that is. Back in January we saw Cable Street: A New Musical about the 1936 uprising against Oswald Mosely and the Fascists. In the programme it said they were heading to New York City, so of course I asked where and when exactly. That's how we learned about 59e59, an Off-Broadway playhouse located on 59th Street. We became members so we could purchase tickets early plus receive some other benefits.

Opening day included both a matinee and evening performance. We chose the Sunday evening performance knowing it would leave the possibility of buying tickets to a matinee in a different theater.

We made brunch reservations at Pastis in New York City's meatpacking district. This is a splurge usually only made for my birthday due to stumbling upon them on my actual birthday in September 2020. Though more than we normally pay for a meal, Don agrees not to cringe when he sees the bill, their quiche is mouthwateringly delicious, and now that COVID is over, we sit indoors and feel as if we are in a Parisian bistro. As we waited for our table, we learn this is the type of place that notes your dining preferences, which might explain how we've been in the same part of the restaurant multiple times. 

We had a couple of ideas for how to spend the next seven hours, but the sudden drop in the temperature was not conducive to taking the ferry back to Roosevelt Island to continue the exploring we did a couple of weeks earlier. We turned to both the Theatr and TodayTix apps to find a reasonably priced show we wanted to see and decided on The Fear of 13 with Adrien Brody and Tessa Thompson at 3 pm. Since the show performs without an intermission, we figured that would leave us just enough time to eat dinner before the 7 pm curtain eleven street and several avenues away.

The Fear of 13 is based on a true story about Nick who was arrested for a crime he did commit but was then convicted for a crime he did not do. He served 22 years on death row in Pennsylvania. Today he is a free man who has seen the show. I first heard about it from a Facebook story of a man who was invited by the real Nick to watch the show with him from the balcony of the James Earl Jones theater. That must have been quite the experience! Nick was the first prisoner in Pennsylvania to be exonerated once DNA evidence was allowed. The play is as powerful and gripping as you would expect. It earned the standing ovation at the end. All audience members had to put a sticker over their cell phone cameras before being allowed in the theater -- a step down from when we saw Liberation in the same theater and we had to put our cell phones in pouches, like we did when we saw Take Me Out in a different theater 2023, but in this case he only strips down to his boxer shorts. Afterwards they paused for the annual Broadway Cares pass the red bucket for a good cause, in this case for AIDS. When we saw the same buckets passed after seeing Hamilton, the call was for the current home of the Orphan's Asylum Society (now called the Graham Windham) that Eliza Hamilton founded. With that in mind, I was hoping the cause would be the Innocence Project since the organization that helped Nick earn his freedom. Perhaps Broadway Cares raises money for the same organization at each performance, and it was just lucky that that night it had a tie to Hamilton. I wish Nick all the best as he reclaims his life.

Emotionally spent from his journey, we still needed dinner. Out of desperation I googled "food near me." The top result was Black Iron Burger, a place we had eaten at before. Knowing the timing was tight, I made a reservation for 15 minutes in the future and hightailed it. While we still miss The Counter, Black Iron Burgers are really good, but not nearly as filling. The timing worked out. I had a truffle burger, and we had plenty of time, arriving before the doors opened. 

I brought my London Cable Street programme with me. As I compared the current cast with the one I saw in London, I was pleased to see they all came -- even the woman who had expressed (rightful) concerns about being able to enter the United States safely. I was glad I brought both the book and a Sharpie with me when after the show I had an opportunity to ask for autographs. Every so often I'm organized! 

I overheard the couple behind me saying in their British accents that they saw Cable Street in London. They actually saw an iteration before the Off-West End production at the Marlybone Theatre because their daughter, Lu, is the costumer. I've since started following her on Instagram and am blown away by the attention to detail she incorporated into each costume. Ever since becoming a Perry reviewer, I've learned to pay attention to the technical details.

I don't tend to see a show more than once, but I am really moved by this script and the chance to see it closer to home was too good to pass up. Talking to Lu's parents I learned it had a few tweaks since London, though I'm not 100% sure where the tweaks took place. The biggest difference was the size of the stage. Eyeballing it, the stage in NYC is half the width of the one on London. This impacted set design and choreography. It felt too crowded. Too squished. The three families represented in the Cable Street apartment building no longer have the ability to have their own space. Story wise, this works as their lives and stories intertwine, but from the audience it felt chaotic. When the entire cast was on stage I wanted to tell some to leave. The stage was further crowded by having the band at the top. My pictures don't quite do it justice. 

London curtain call

New York curtain call

We acted as "seeing eye Americans" to help our new British friends find their way back to their hotel. We remember how disorienting it is to make sure the streets are clear before crossing when they drive on the opposite side as home. It is hard to remember we still have a two-hour journey home when walking the less crowded streets on a nice Spring Day. I don't know how people commute from our neighborhood to the Big Apple. It is different now with more working from home options, but still not easy. The next day I am always grateful we are not returning and can rest.

Volunteering

A quick search shows I write about volunteering every couple of years. I took a trip down memory lane and read about my past self. Volunteering has been an important part of my life. I feel it is important to share your skills with others. 

In high school I latched onto the phrase Renaissance (Wo)Man. I took it to mean someone who learns a little bit about a lot of things. I'm curious, and want to learn more, but I don't want to become an expert in anything.

My main requirement for being involved is to stay away from meetings. Current volunteer activities include:

Archaeology: digging mostly at Newlin Grist Mill and Fort Mifflin, but also at other places when I learn about them

Theater: building sets, ushering, and reviewing plays are all forms of volunteering. I also see plays and musicals, especially when friends and family are involved with them.

Dress for Success: my commitment to this wonderful organization ebbs and flows. I believe in their mission, but since they hired someone who does the data entry, I have not found my niche. I recently went for a group suiting, and a purse making project. Neither felt like the right fit.

People and Stories: varied ways of helping from events to fundraising calls to brainstorming and cheerleading. 

Bridge Academy: I can't seem to escape this former job, though like with a bad ex, I should. In the past month I helped run the gala and notarize a document. My hope is to not be involved at all with them next year.

Alliance Française: writing the monthly newsletter and sending out other emails

Church: occasional ushering or helping with clean up. I wish I did more.  

There are activities I have dabbled in, but never to the extent of being an expert or even being particularly good at it or successful. Alphabetical order:

Genealogy

Photography

Recommending books (I love to read, but I can never think of good books to recommend)

Roller skating (I can't go backwards or do turns)

Running (I've been stuck at the same level for a decade)

Speaking French (I can't get beyond the basics)

Traveling (I can't seem to book the next trip)

Writing (While I blog, I haven't figured out how to write a book)

I wish I had something I felt like dedicating my all to. I envy those who have that passion. That sense of purpose. I've spent too long wandering aimlessly looking for it. There are so many days I feel like not enough. The rain does not help.

There is always someone better than me out there.

Of course I should also remind myself there are always people out there who can't do what I do, and can benefit from my help.

Dreams for Our Nation's Future

The tide is turning. After a decade of chaos there are signs that POTUS is losing his grip on the Republican Party. As Heather Cox Richardson says, it will get worse before it gets better, but there are signs it will get better.

This week Jenna Bush Hager (granddaughter of President George H.W. Bush, daughter of President George W. Bush, and journalist) sat with each of the four living former presidents for an interview on the Today Show. I've been looking at clips of those interviews. Presidents Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, and Joe Biden each spoke with optimism for our nation's future. Bush said he has read enough history to know our country has been through rough times, but have come through stronger. With such strong leaders saying we are still a great nation it is easy to feel hope for the future.

HCR, as her followers refer to her, has been asking us to think about what we want for our nation. 

Here are some of my wishes (in no particular order):

1) Equality for ALL

I admit, that's a tall order. I don't want anyone to be treated as a second class citizen due to race, religion, socio-economic status, who they love, gender, or any other box.

2) Raise taxes on the billionaires and corporations

3) Legal and safe abortion rights no questions asked

4) Healthcare no longer tied to employment

5) Paths to citizenship for all

6) Return of soft power programs (including USAID)

If this is all that was accomplished in the first few months, we'd be up to a great start.

What are your wishes for the next administration?

Ten years of Non-Stop Chaos

It is a rainy Wednesday in Lawrenceville, NJ. A good time for me to sit with my laptop and do some write some reflections. As the world becomes increasingly chaotic and divided, I find writing to be my happy place. It is a safe place for me to process my thoughts on the world without having to hold back for fear of hurting someone's feelings (I might still hurt the feelings of someone reading this, but the space gives us both time to diffuse before we meet again).

It has been a rough decade since a certain person announced he would run for POTUS. So many of us dismissed him as a joke until he was elected in 2016. Then we breathed a sign of relief when Biden was elected. We even took off our masks in public (we were outdoors) so we could see each the smiles lighting up our faces. We thought we were past the worst of it. Oh how wrong we were.

Then came the election of 2024. Knowing it would be close, Don and I chose to wait it out in Australia (after voting before we left). In Australia, I felt safe crying in public. The world knew we were in trouble before many Americans realized it.

It has been a decade of chaos. A decade of not being able to tune out because I can't turn away from the dumpster fire. What will happen next? If I stop paying attention, how will I ever keep up? I don't want to be caught off guard again like the time someone said to me that the reason his son does not feel safe in New York City is because of what happened at Columbia University earlier that weekend. I wish I was able to talk to the person now and ask how does his son feel about living in NYC after the mayoral election.

Many mornings I listen to Joanne Freeman's ramblings while making breakfast. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday I am glued to Heather Cox Richardson's video messages. In between I listen to Jimmy Kimmel's monologues. 

I need to feel less alone with my thoughts about the state of our nation. 

Joanne often talks about community. The community she built through her YouTube Channel. While I admire her, I don't see myself talking to a bunch of random people. 

I long for an in-person community. People I can reach out to and say "let's get some tea or ice cream, or poison of your choice" and have them say "meet you at the usual place in ten minutes."

My community is spread out around the globe. I pick up friends and acquaintances as others pick up seashells or shoes or souvenirs. They become part of a greater collection. I don't know if that makes any sense. I smile whenever we have a conversation -- no matter how long it has been. I rarely hold a grudge no matter how long it has been.

My menagerie includes people I met in middle and high schools, college, graduate school, Rotary Club, jobs, mommy and me activities, volunteering, churches, ancestery.com, community theater, neighbors, archaeology, friends of friends, online groups, travels, etc. I stay in touch with a wide assortment of people, but never as part of a clique. Even in college, I spent time with a variety of people. 

I keep in touch with select people from each stage of my life. For years after I left my first job, I organized dinners every few months. With my co-ed fraternity I organized backyard BBQs every couple of years, not just for the ones I went to school with but for all Kappas and their families. 

I send out over a hundred Christmas cards each year, and receive about half as many back. Some are family, but many are friends I collected over the decades. All are meaningful to me and I want to stay in touch with them.

The past ten years have strengthened some of these relationships, and drained others. People I thought I shared values with I realized I didn't when they voted for the person who is the biggest threat to our democracy. It warms my heart to talk to people on a deeper level once we realize we have a shared sense of the path we want our nation to be on, and are willing to stand up with me to make that possible.

I look forward to the decade after this regime is over. I long for a time I can step away from the constant barrage of news and trust those in charge have my best interests at heart.

"It's Never Too Late"

Lou, my parents' 95-year old former neighbor, debuted his play, aptly titled: It's Never Too Late. 

During the pandemic, Lou set his mind to writing this musical. His son, Joe, is a famous Broadway playwright. Lou had a story in his mind loosely based on his past, embellished with a story he felt he wanted to share. 

Taken after the February 2025
staged reading

Lou passed away after seeing the dress rehearsal, and writing the cast a lovely email, but before opening night. He saw the fulfillment of a dream and died happy. His life is an inspiration, and reminder for the rest of us to keep chasing our dreams. After all, "it's never too late."

PS: I was recently reminded that Jonathan Larson, creator of Tick Tick Boom and Rent also died just before the opening of play. Sadly Jonathan was only 35 years old.

What is Up with People?

In an effort to not park my car directly behind a driveway, or block a mailbox (even though it is a Sunday), I inadvertently blocked part of a driveway. Mind you, it was a double wide driveway in the suburbs, and my car overlapped with it by only a few feet. There was plenty of room for the cars in the driveway to get out.

What would you do if you had noticed my car?

A) Knock on your neighbor's door to ask them to move the car

B) Call the police

C) Maneuver around it

My first instinct would be to carefully drive around the car and assume it wouldn't be there forever. I'd probably park on the street (I was not blocking any cars in the driveway, I hadn't realized it was as wide as it was). If my car was blocked, I'd knock on my neighbor's door. After all, this would be faster than calling the police and I would get on my way faster.

Of course, said person called the police who came knocking on my friend's door. My first instinct when he asked about the owner of a light blue Corolla (it is not a Corolla, but after what happened to my car last summer, I thought someone hit my car. Again.). I was glad I only needed to move my car up four feet.

I vented my frustration to the homeowner's husband. His reaction: of course the police should be called. People need to learn how to drive. He recalled a situation a couple of decades ago when high school students moved their trash cans and blocked their mailbox. 

He called the police on them. And is still carrying a grudge, even though in the meantime they have designated his street as requiring a permit during school hours. 

I asked him if it was a repeat offender. He said it was often the same car. I asked if he ever left a note explaining the situation. He said it was not his place to teach the person how to drive. The student got a ticket. Fortunately, I only got a lecture from him. The police we pleased I moved my car quickly. I think even they could see I wasn't blocking much of the driveway. 

As he shared his oft-told story (the wife had also shared the story with us) I just stared at him like he had three heads. I knew he'd never see my side. Perhalps he never makes any mistakes.

What happened to kindness? To not bothering the police for petty things? What happened to empathy? They know their neighbors. Sounds like they have at least a pleasant relationship with them.

The situation brought back to mind the time our neighbor called animal control because our cat sat on her front porch and used an empty patch of dirt as a litter box. After complaining to us about our orange cat doing this, we kept him inside. He soon died. Then she called animal control over the white and grey cat. Guess she felt she needed to elevate the situation because we didn't take her concerns seriously enough? The relationship has not been the same. I say hello when we pass. Don ignores them.

A second frustrating situation happened last night. We gathered for a friend's milestone birthday. As there were nearly 20 of us, we were seated at two large tables. The menu was pricier than Don and I normally eat, but we were told the portions were enormous. We were encouraged to order family style. Most entrees were around $35. The birthday boy's was $140. His best friend (who we all met for the first time that night) ordered the $205 surf-n-turf. Three of us ordered $35 entrees and shared. One person did not order a meal. The bill came. The extra large dessert split between the two tables was on our tables' bill, as was the birthday dinner. 

The friend paid for his $205 meal separately, then divided the rest of the bill -- including all drinks, the birthday dinner, and the large dessert among the other seven at our table. Rather than thinking we'd spend about $100 to go out (still more than we ever spend when the two of us go out), we were each told to cough up $68 ($136 per couple). I will be steaming about this a long time. The friend should have paid separately for his $205 dinner, then divided the rest by eight, which would have worked out to $53 each. I'll never see this person again, and will likely assert myself strong the next time we meet with our friend. Set clearer ground rules. At least the others didn't order alcohol and appetizers. When you are being treated, don't order an entry five times more expensive than everyone else at the table. We went into it knowing we were splitting the bill, but still did not budget that much for the night out.

I know, in the grand scheme of life, $36 is not that much money. It is more the feeling of being taken advantage of.

I feel better just writing all this down. I hope the people referenced realize I tried to keep identifying factors off. Writing helps me heal.

The Return of the Cherry Blossoms

Last year Don and stopped by Branch Brook Park in Newark, NJ to see their massive collection of cherry blossoms. It was a busy day. We had less than an hour after we parked because we were heading into New York City. Cars were ALL OVER THE PLACE! The weather was stunning. It was Spring Break for local stores. Though we went on a Thursday, cars were all over the place. We told ourselves we should return next year, but with the tandem bike.

The weather was hotter this year, but there were less people around. Easter was earlier. Schools were in session.

What a difference a year makes. Temperatures were a sunny 90 degrees. There were some people posing for pictures, but even more people running and cycling. Many people, myself included, wore pink in honor of the blossoms. We were easily able to park in the official cherry blossom visitor center parking lot. 

We explored the trails from the top to bottom. As the park hosts a 10k race, we suspect there are at least 6.2 miles of paths  (or else they would do a shorter race). Other than getting stuck in the mud, which at least provided a soft landing, we had a good time. I have a few bruises on my legs, but now that the temperatures are in the 40s, no one is seeing my legs. May they heal before I start wearing shorts again.

The tandem was definitely the better way to explore the park.

Newlin Grist Mill Spring Finds

The weather has been all over the place this Spring. We have 80 degree days, with the wind forcing 30 degree days. For the first time in at least a decade, the snow lasted the entire winter. As someone said to me, "it was a real winter." I'm happy with less real ones.

Around the equinox we were able to start the digging season at Newlin Grist Mill. As I turn down Cheney Road in Glen Mills, Pennsylvania the anxiety of driving on I-95 fades away. I park on the hill next to the Trimble House and walk to greet the trench team. When I finally make it I am greeted as warmly as Norm was when he stepped into Cheers. This week I was greeted with "I'm so glad you are here, you can help Keith with the measurements." 

Our core group bonded through our crash archaeology class last winter, about six months after I started digging there, and is slowly starting to grow. We've added Courtney, Brian, and Logan as regulars. Tom and Bob are planning to return soon. Ed, Martha, and Mike are there nearly every week. Dan comes when his job allows. We seem to have lost Paul over the winter. Most live within the greater West Chester area. I am travel the furthest. Courtney travels 45 minutes to an hour in the opposite direction. She is our youngest team member. Martha and I are thrilled to have another woman on our team.

Keith is our leader. Keith is the site manager at NGM, and a professional archaeologist. He is looking for clues that fill in the unwritten, undocumented stories at the mill. He rejoiced the loudest when a basement wall and floor were discovered. He long suspected the Trimble House had a side basement, but there was no real proof. It turned out the wall was TWO INCHES away from where we had been digging our five foot by five foot unit. It is a beautiful wall made up of large stones that ends at a solid stone floor. 

I get excited by the artifacts we find. I also enjoy
making site plans and filling out reports. I do enjoy washing the artifacts because it feels like magic when they come to life. Digging is probably my least favorite part of archaeology, which is probably good because I compliment those who only like to dig. It is at the point where Keith has to prod me to go into the hole. It is backbreaking work. Lifting weights at Planet Fitness this winter has helped me gain the muscles needed to be an asset on the team.

Before the season gets too far ahead, I wanted to share pictures of some of my favorite 2026 finds:

Look at those layers!

Finds from Fort Mifflin--Spring 2026 Dig

Last fall I learned about a dig taking place at Fort Mifflin, in the shadows of the airplanes landing at Philadelphia International Airport. Each Friday in October was nicer than the one before. I felt as if I was among my people. Max led by example, and encouraged us on our journey.

For reasons outside of my control, the dig continued in March instead of waiting for full Spring. The old saying is "March comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb" is meant to give us encouragement on those early days. Truthfully we had some beautiful days in March. Days when I drove with the top down on my convertible. Warm enough for daffodils, tulips, and buds on trees. Unfortunately with the exception of one Friday, those warm days did not take place when I was digging. 

When I showed up, Mark pointed to me and invited me to his team. As someone who was almost always chosen last in gym class, it felt good to be claimed by the first trench captain. We were out in the wind. 

I learned how to dress for forecast, instead of dressing for the calendar or activity. The first week I thought my toes were going to fall off in my wellies. Martha offered glover liners to everyone, and like a fool I did not accept her offer. The few who turned out told me about the two pairs of socks they were wearing, along with fleece-lined pants. That day turned out to be the only day I did not enjoy archaeology.

As we dug, the 103rd Pennsylvania Regiment was preparing for their decommissioning ceremony, which took place in the early afternoon. The guard was founded by Benjamin Franklin. It was about to be merged with another, or so that was the impression I was given. I tried to give them their privacy as we did our work. Afterwards a couple of soldiers came over to see what we were doing. Their timing was perfect as Max had just told us to move a huge pile of dirt to a better location. The men were happy to help. As the rest of us are old enough to be their parents, we were happy to let them.

That day's sole photographed find was a button.

From the first week

I returned the following week wearing alpaca socks, flannel-lined jeans, and more layers. I accepted the offer of disposable black plastic glove liners. Despite the weather being warm enough to dig in shorts at Newlin Grist Mill on Wednesday, two days later the weather turned sharply. It was cold enough that most of the other volunteers suddenly found other things to do, but the core group are my people. We enjoyed working together. Mark took on digging the mud out of our trench. Martha, James, and I combed through the mud (I'd say sifted, but that word feels wrong even though we used screens) and found a few treasures. Meanwhile, Dan was behind the building, below the herringbone brick patio discovering what was there before the patio was laid. I ended up not taking any pictures that day because my fingers were too cold without the gloves. We ate inside huddled around the space heater that was inadequate for a space with doors that were constantly opening. Still, it was better than nothing since the historic building does not have central heat.

On the third week the weather was stunning. We had four trenches open and fully staffed. I was tasked with helping the Monmouth University group as it was their Spring Break and only two students turned out instead of their usual half a dozen or so. It was also moved from Saturday to Friday. The sun was shining. The wind was mild. I smiled as I met new people.

I found lots of pieces of metal -- including a J-hook (as in J for Jacquie), the top of a hand-blown green bottle, and my first piece of pipe stem. The next day (in a different trench) they found an almost intact pipe bowl. It was feeling like archaeology season hit its stride!

The following week, the cold weather returned. In the meantime I had stopped by another Eddie Bauer store as it was closing and scooped up waterproof fleece-lined pants and non-plastic glove liners. As I was sifting in the back on the patio, I could wear sneakers instead of wellies. The sneakers offer more support, crucial when standing for so long. I was hitting my wardrobe groove. Unfortunately, I did not find any treasures that week.

We took off for Good Friday and returned this week to wrap up. It was back to the core Trench Team. Max gave us commemorative t-shirts for us to wear as we do archaeology in other places. I found my first piece of possible pre-contact material (a flint). Some animal bones were also found.

 

I love the image of the modern airplane
captured in an old windowpane

Trying to identify where
to dig next

Unlike Newlin Grist Mill, Fort Mifflin has a hard cut off due to permits and other factors. Our trench team parted. I look forward to seeing many of them at Fort Mercer in Red Bank National Park in June when we'll be complaining about the heat.

Two Show Day

It has been awhile since Don and I have seen two shows in one day, or what I call a double header. About six months ago we purchased tickets to attend the first preview performance of "Schmigadoon." Meanwhile we started seeing shows at 59e59 and their musical "How My Grandparents Fell in Love" caught my eye. Unfortunately their matinee performance was sold out. As this is a really small Off-Broadway site with at least four different theaters. We were in the middle-sized one. I was not very optimistic, still I called. The box office was very encouraging. They said often people cannot make performances and they resell the tickets at the last minute. 

I kept checking. On Friday afternoon I snagged one seat. As I was more interested in the show than Don was, he convinced me to take it. About 90 minutes before showtime another ticket opened up. He called and purchased it. 

Our seats were not next to each other, but once we arrived at the theater my seat mate graciously agreed to swap his aisle seat for Don's so we could hold hands during the show. As you can imagine from the title, it was on the mushy side.

The show was charming. It takes place in Poland during 1933. Charlie, who has been living in the United States repairing shoes since 1923 returns to Poland to find a bride. He meets Chava, a stunningly beautiful salesclerk at a hat shop. They are smitten. Spoiler alert: the return to the United States, start a family which includes the playwright. Yes, the show is a romanticized version of a true story.

The show is charming. They sing about Hoboken in a way that the local crowd really enjoyed. Much of the audience was Jewish, or so I suppose since they laughed at the lines said in Yiddish. As someone who grew up in New Jersey, I know a smattering of Yiddish, but not that much. It was nice hearing laughter.

The best part was learning the the playwright's family was in the audience. Not the grandmother who has since passed away, but his mother (or was it mother-in-law?) and her friends. She knew  the original Chava and Charlie. She remembers their home smelling not of Lipton Tea (which is a reference to the song "Hoboken"), but of Maxwell Coffee which was brewed in their neighborhood. 

She added, the actor playing Charlie looks and stands so much like the real one. Cary Gitter captured the essence of his grandparent's love story. Almost to be expected, no one else in her family survived the Holocaust. This is also a love letter to honor their memories.

After spending the afternoon at Roosevelt Island, we saw "Schmigadoon." The campy musical is based on the Apple TV show of the same name. Basically they took the highlights from the six one-hour episodes, took out some extra stuff, and turned it into a two and a half hour musical. 

The house was packed! As we walked past the long line of people entering the theater we noticed women wearing calico dresses, and others cosplaying. The thing about seeing opening night (we also saw "Smash" on opening preview night), the audience is ELECTRIC! Much applause for each person as they entered the stage for the first time. Much laughter. There was so much laughter from the woman next to me that the man in front of her glared at her during intermission and said he was leaving because she was laughing too much. Too loudly. I assured her she was not. Who does that man think he is to squelch her spark?

When we saw "Smash" we were given posters on opening night that are collecting dust because they are not that meaningful to us, nor do we know anyone who would really enjoy one. For "Schmigadoon" they quietly slipped postcards in each Playbill. The postcards are written by different characters. As we collect extra Playbills to share with Ashley and Hayden, we ended up with four different postcards: Carson (the boy who announces everything), Melissa Gimble (the doctor with musical theater dreams), Josh Skinner (the doctor with a chronic case of hating musicals), and Emma Tate (the tap-dancing schoolmarm). They are true to the character, down to the handwriting. Very clever. Here is a link to 11 postcards being sold on eBay.

It was a fun day of theater.

I am looking forward to True Spring arriving when one outfit suffices for the day, and it does not involve a lot of layers.