Sitting Shiva for Dad

Our family funeral traditions often include an opportunity for family and friends to walk past the casket with the loved one prettied up, looking better than they did in life, or completely differently than they did in life. This might last over two days, with the second day ending with a service saying nice things about the dearly departed. Followed by a caravan to where the person is buried. 

This can vary a little bit. It often takes place about three days after the person dies, something I attribute to Jesus raising Lazarus on the third day (making sure the person is good and dead). 

Dad's service was held nine days later. We had a two-hour open casket viewing, followed by an hour-long service, a quick boxed lunch in the Fellowship Room, a 90-minute drive, a 20-minute burial, then an early dinner at a local restaurant. 

Conversely, my Jewish friends hold the service the very next day and sit Shiva for seven days in their home. Since learning about that tradition, I've told myself I would like to do the same after my parents pass.

However, in the era of political correctness I didn't want to use the term shiva, so I asked what I should use instead. A friend suggested informal gathering to share stories. This got so confusing, at the encouragement of my friends, I started to call it a shiva.

Friends came from different stages in my life. Some also went to the service. Just about everyone brought food. We did, as Lisa called it, prime the pump. We knew food was coming, but you have to feed the first ones. 

It was wonderful seeing people. My friend Sylvia from high school, met my friend Sylvia from an early job. They got along as well as I expected they would. 

Santa came, giving me the chance to
show him the pictures we put out at Christmastime. He was between two Christmas in July events.

After they left, we had tacos for dinner. I chose tacos because we don't have emotional attachment to tacos. Mom remembers Dad having one, and not liking it. It was no tears food.

People had a great time, as evidenced by their lack of ability to leave. Which was fine until they started to open food I had put away for the next day, and it snapped in my head that Don and I were the only ones cleaning up. I was also the only one to prepare the house and make the arrangements. We were the only ones to pay for the food.   

Today everyone decided to leave me alone. I'm due back with the family in an hour. Meanwhile, I am enjoying the peace and quiet.

I went to church this morning and broke down during the last stanza of "Precious Lord, Take me Home." As the bulletin had listed condolences to our family, those around me snapped to putting their arms around me. 

Precious Lord was sung at his funeral a scant two days ago.

...And then one day, I'll cross the river, I'll fight life's final war with pain. And then, as death gives way to victory, I'll see the lights of glory and I'll know he loves.

Oh, Jan, I don't know how you got through that knowing you chose it to honor your Marty who passed away not that long ago.

It felt good to be surrounded by much church family at that moment.

Hiding Kitties .... leave them alone!

Lucy Cat and Kitty Mimi are recovering from the trauma of having a house full of people. 

Mimi is back to hiding inside the piano no one plays. Lucy seems to be holding up better today. She knows we don't usually have company two days in a row. That was until the doorbell rang and she dashed back to her safe place.

Public service announcement to people visiting homes when there are anti-social pets: leave them alone!

My cousin's kids, along with an adult, decided to play "look for the cats." Even after I said, the upstairs is off limits. Even after saying, the cats are hiding. Perhaps I should have been stronger aid thrown the family out the window, or at least ushered them downstairs. Instead, I went to the bathroom.

I did lose my patience level after spending two hours cleaning up when my sister decided to open a closed box for another treat. 

Meanwhile, Lucy feeling unsafe peed in our bathroom rather than risk going downstairs, past more guests, to use the litter box.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest as I enjoy my blessedly quiet house.

Dad's Eulogy

Nearly a decade ago I spoke at Don's mom's funeral, a woman we lovingly called Honey Bunny. This weekend I sent my dad out in a similar fashion.

Here are my words:

Hi, I’m Jacquelyn, Dawn and John’s oldest child. I’m going to share a few words about Dad.

When these first thoughts flew into my head, he was still very much alive. The next day he began a sudden 24-hour decline.

But I didn’t know that on Monday night when I started to write this up as a blogpost.

All I knew was I was in Maine on my first church mission trip. Instead of hearing God’s voice, I kept hearing my dad’s. I want to share a few of those dad-isms with you today.

Dad’s voice was crystal clear as we waited an hour until we were given our orders for the day. In my head he said it's the hurry up and wait game. 

Yup, dad, hurry up and wait. We had to rouse at 6:30 am to have breakfast at 7:15 am to meet in the lobby at 8:45 am to be at the church at 9 am. We thought we were driving someplace, only to find out our half of the group was to stay put and pull weeds and scrape paint. The other half drove to a different site to do carpentry and install cabinets.

The next time Dad reached out to me was as I was pulling those weeds -- a task I procrastinate for as long as possible at home. But a task dad used to do regularly. I could hear him say: make sure you get the roots.

On the other side of the property, I was moved to the scraping paint part of the project. I was reminded that each summer, growing up in Paramus, dad scraped the paint on the wood siding to prep it for its annual paint job. One of the 300 pictures in the slide show is of my dad scraping paint or painting the house in Paramus. Trust me, he did it a lot more often than the pictures indicate, but he lived many decades in the pre-digital era when film was precious, or, conversely, we had one or two pictures we had to take before the roll could be developed. I see you nodding, most of you remember those days. I suspect the painting and yard work pictures fell in the category of finishing up the roll.

Anyway, the side of the house that saw the most sun was painted annually. The other three sides were painted on a rotating basis. Or so I remember.

I do not remember him ever inviting us to join him to scrape the house -- a skill at that moment in Maine I wished he had imparted. We live in a house with aluminum siding that never needs to be scraped. 

Before I even left for Maine, he said don't forget your poncho. It was always poncho, never raincoat or umbrella. I commented there was no rain in the forecast. He said it will rain. Wouldn't you know it, it rained and my poncho was back in my room! 

~~~

As I sit in my office with the window open on what my dad would call a top ten day, planning to have some sippy and cookies in a few minutes, more dad-isms bounce around my head:

On a long highway drive, get behind a truck and let him lead the pace. Advice I disagree with ever since I saw a tire break on an 18-wheeler I was behind just moments earlier. I was grateful I had changed lanes, but I still heard the advice as I drove home early to be with family.

Always bring a book, because you don't know how long mom will be (or how long you'll have to wait). Advice I remembered yesterday when waiting at DMV.

The GPS also channeled my dad on the long drive home. As I paid the first toll on the Garden State Parkway it asked, “do you want a faster route with tolls?” For whatever reason I agreed, even though I doubted it would be easier or even faster.

The GPS directed me to Exit 163, the Route 17 to Route 4 exit through backroads in Paramus to Route 80 to the New Jersey Turnpike.

In other words: through the neighborhood where our parents raised us, past the airport where he worked for four decades, past the neighborhood where Dad grew up, past the neighborhood where he lived as a newlywed, to the commute he had the last couple of years he worked at Teterboro Airport. I had already passed a train in New York (albeit a commuter train and not a freight train) and was now driving under the jets at Newark Airport on the way to the home my parents have shared for the past two decades.

It was the This is Your Life, John Koetting drive.

Tomorrow you are all invited to our house, and to their house on Sunday, to share more dad-isms and more stories. Thank you for being here today, either in person or online.

~~~

Aunt Barbara, dad's baby sister, and Ashley, Dad's eldest granddaughter, also spoke. Barbara was tasked with talking about her brother growing up, and Ashley was to speak about Dad as a grandfather, as Papa John, or simply Papa. I was to cover him as a dad.

Barbara mentioned Dad was a dreamer throughout school, and she has his report card filled with C's and D's to prove it. This prompted me to add one last Dad-ism. I looked at Ashley and said, you know this one: Study hard and get good grades. 

The service is visible on the Allentown Presbyterian Church YouTube page.

The slide show of images can be found here.

Morning Archaeology Mourning Find

I am convinced, God has a sense of humor.

Dad passed away on July 15th. A week later I was at Newlin Grist Mill digging when a black, glass bead was found. We have found a lot of buttons lately, more than typical, as if a child found mom's button collection and played with them, perhaps even buried them or hid them in the add-on room before it was collapsed. One week we found six buttons -- all different. Keith, our site archaeologist, said about 20 of these black glass buttons have been found here.

Rather than saying, what a nice button, please put it in a medicine bottle, he said, let's talk about the button.

As great teachers often do to engage their students, he starts with a question: why do you think we have found so many black buttons?

I knew the answer, but also knew I didn't have it in me to talk about Victorian mourning rituals only a week after dad's passing, two days before his funeral, so I kept quiet.

Back in the late 19th century people did not have many clothes. They may have only had one outfit to work in, and a Sunday best outfit. Wealthier people had more, obviously. Poorer people aspired to emulate the wealthy classes. The wealthier classes went into full mourning when their loved ones died. They wore black from head to toe. The poorer classes did what they did, including changing buttons on their shoes from white to black. These are shoes that required button hooks to attach.

The trend ended around WWI when so many people were dying the pendulum swung to partying in the Roaring Twenties.

But that day, a button was found, and a discussion about Victorian mourning practices ensued. As I commented on my pink skin guard shirt, Keith saw beyond that to the black tank top I wore underneath, pointing out I was wearing black.  

Happies and Crappies

Each night we gathered as a small group to talk about our day. It was a chance to process, which is what I do later when I blog. The immediacy was nice. It was also great hearing about each others' days. We don't take enough time as a culture to do that.

Part of the time we went around an shared "happies and crappies." I just love that way of succinctly thinking about the day. Any day.

Rather than risking breaking any confidences, I'll share my "happy and crappy" from yesterday. 

I'll start with crappy: nearly running out of gas and being struck with indecision on how to fix it.

Happy: there were several, but one tied to the crappy. I made it to my usual gas station where I had a conversation with the gas station attendant. He saw my Got French bumper magnet and asked if I spoke French. I said un petit peu, the last time I admitted to speaking French to an ebony-skinned man he spoke to me in Haitian,  which is akin to speaking American English and listening to someone from Scotland. This man is from Ghana. I had a lovely conversation with him about how, after 34 years in the United States, he is soon returning to Ghana. 

People in the other 49 states where they have to pump their own gas can't appreciate the magic that comes from connecting with someone in that simple moment. 

We are the last state where it is illegal to pump your own gas. 

I hope that never changes.  

What Do I Need?

What do you need? Is both the most loving and overwhelming comment to make to someone as they are mourning. 

I get that now in ways that I did not understand before Dad passed away.

The friends reaching out the most are the ones who have gone through it. They understand. They feel helpless. It brings back memories for them of how awful, how numbing the first few days are. Helping me is their way of giving back for all those who helped them through those days. I probably helped some of them. Or at least I hope I was helpful.

On the calendar it has already been five days. In my reality it is a giant blur.

What do I need?

If you look at my practical to do list, I need to clean three bathrooms, vacuum, change sheets, clean spaces so family can sleep over,  wash more sheets, empty the trash, pull weeds so I feel the house looks nicer, vacuum, RSVP to the jury duty notice I received, pay my VISA bill, gather paperwork for my REAL ID appointment, fill out forms for new doctor, talk to the caterer, reach out to my uncle to explain how to get from the airplane to the train (or offer to pick him up), etc.

If you look at my fun to do list, I want to blog, make pesto, dig on Wednesday, make a photo album about the first half of the year, read a book, research what to do when we go to Lisbon next week, start packing for vacation, etc.

Digging deeper, I need someone to make small decisions for me so I can make bigger ones. 

Last night I was driving around trying to figure out where to get gas because my tank was on empty. Do you see the irony in that statement? Do I pull into the small station that is full with a half dozen motorcycles and no space for me to pull in that's on the left side of the road? Do I get gas in Pennsylvania where I have to pump or do I have enough gas to return to New Jersey? In the end I drove back to New Jersey, went to my usual station, and had a lovely conversation with an ebony-colored man from Ghana who has lived in the United States for 34 years, has ten grandchildren in the States, and is returning home to Ghana to live out the rest of his life. 

It was nice talking to someone who does not know about dad. That's something I could use, conversation about anything else. 

I want someone to take my phone away (ideally while walking away so it thinks I got a lot of steps in) and not let me get distracted by it for an hour, or half an hour, or ten minutes, or five, or even one. 

I want someone to put food in front of me and tell me to eat it. Not ask what I want to eat, just take care of it and wash up afterwards.

I want someone to rotate laundry because they see it needs doing. Not ask first. Just fold, and rotate. 

I want someone who can anticipate my needs before I do. Not someone who makes me choose a time to get together, or a place, or a what to do, just show up here and I'll take care of it. Or notice the weeds are growing and take care of them without asking for tools. That's probably what I could use the most.

I want someone to plan out the Lisbon leg of the trip and hand it to me in a way I can just jump in and follow the itinerary. I already have a hotel, transportation, and a show planned. I just need the what to see in three days version of it all.

The right friend would come over an pull weeds with or for me. Who is that?

The right friend would just show up with a hug and some ice cream. Or not because then I'd have to decide to open the door.

While writing might feel like procrastination, I've learned it is the way I process. It helps me to move to the next item on the to do list.

It Was Time

About 15 months ago Don decided to grow a beard. I subconsciously told myself I wasn't going to cut my hair until he got rid of his beard. I also decided I was tired of paying a lot of money every six weeks to maintain the color and shape. As I'm not working, I have no one to impress.

It ended up getting out of control. He shaved his beard in March and I forgot to cut my hair in celebration.

I liked the length, but it was getting knotty (and a little bit naughty), and the ends were splitting. It was time.

Rather than going to Christine my long time hairdresser whom I ghosted in March 2025, I headed to the Great Clips where Don goes. Seeing absolutely no line I walked in and asked for a haircut. Luce had me in a chair with a drape around my neck before I had a chance to second-guess the decision. Fortunately I love it.

I'm getting a new drivers license photo taken in a week and wanted to look a little better.

Color and Light Festival in Asbury Park, Year 2

Sixteen months ago Asbury Park hosted the Color and Light Festival. It was March. We lucked out with the weather, but it was still an odd time of year for a beach town to host this type of festival. We loved it so much we went to Binghamton, NY that September for their annual festival.

When I learned the festival was returning this July I was interested. I was also busy with the church mission trip, and Don had plans to go to a music festival in Pittsburgh. To squeeze in a quick trip to Asbury Park that weekend seemed unlikely.

Then dad passed away. I came home early. Don cancelled his getaway. Ashley wanted to bond with us. 

We loved the 20-minute show. Like last year, it is a compilation of several artists who created images that perfectly fit the side of Asbury Park's convention center.

The big change this year is that due to construction, the west wall is under scaffolding. They moved it to the north wall, which meant we were spilling over from the boardwalk onto the beach. We were crammed into a much smaller space, watching on a much small screen.  

I wonder at what point the artist learned the space was different from last year?

There seemed to be many more volunteers this year who guided us to the viewing area. The crowd seemed more prepared. Some had folding chairs with them. Lots of people stretched their arms up high to use their cell phones to film the show. I'm guilty of doing the same to take pictures.

After each iteration, the crowd thinned and we moved closer to the front. By our third viewing (second all the way through), we were sitting in the front.

We got lucky with the weather. Friday night was a perfect night at the Jersey Shore. Saturday, though, was anticipating some violent weather. I wonder how they made out.

Afterwards we figured Day's Ice Cream
was already closed. We got lucky and saw that Coney's Waffles and Ice Cream on the boardwalk in Asbury Park stayed open late. We all opted for Jersey Devil ice cream, which made me wonder how much a fun name impacts sales? I'm sure someone has studied that.

The show is inspiring me to think about returning to Binghamton for this year's festival. After all, it is only a three hour drive away.

From inside the Convention Center

Channeling Dad During the Mission Project

I didn't really know what to expect, but I felt a voice whispering in my ear that I should go on a mission trip. The voice has gotten louder over the years until it became too loud to ignore this year.

Here I am, Lord.

Is it I, Lord?

I have heard you calling in the night.

I will go, Lord.

If you lead me.

I will hold your people in my heart.

And so goes the hymn. 

Thirty-three of us traveled from New Jersey and Pennsylvania to Farmington, Maine to work with MATE (Mission At The Eastward) as an intergenerational mission team.

Another voice I heard in my head was my dad's. Before anyone worries, he is still alive. His voice was crystal clear as we waited an hour until we were given our orders for the day. In my head he said it's the hurry up and wait game. 

Yup, dad, hurry up and wait. We had to rouse at 6:30 am to have breakfast at 7:15 am to meet in the lobby at 8:45 am to be at the church at 9 am. We thought we were driving someplace, only to find out our half of the group was to stay put and pull weeds and scrape paint. The other half drove to a different site to do carpentry and install cabinets. I.e., non-skilled vs. skilled labor groups.

The next time he reached out to me was as I was on the scraping paint part of the project. I was reminded that each summer, growing up in Paramus dad scraped the paint on the wood siding. The house that saw the most sun was painted annually. The other three sides were painted on a rotating basis. Or so I remember.

I don't remember him ever inviting us to join him to scrape the house -- a skill at that moment I wished he had imparted. We live in a house with aluminum siding that has never needed to be scraped. 

On the other side of the property we also pulled weeds -- a task I procrastinate for as long as possible at home. Another task dad used to do. I could hear him say: make sure you get the roots.

Thought of him as we scraped paint off the 1920's house. Tomorrow some of us will paint the house. Not sure what my group will do, but we know it will be useful.

Before I even left he said don't forget your poncho. I commented there was no rain in the forecast. He said it will rain. Wouldn't you know it, it rained and the poncho was back in the room! 

I wonder what advice he'll stick into my head next.

~~~

I wrote this on Monday night. Tuesday he was rushed in for emergency surgery. He was stable on Tuesday night. He was stable when my mom checked in at 6 am on Wednesday. A half an hour later he coded, was revived. I was told at 6:53 am to drive home. As I was driving home Don called to tell me dad passed away surrounded by family.

More dad-isms bounced around my head:

On a long highway drive, get behind a truck and let him lead the pace.

Always bring a book, because you don't know how long mom will be (or how long you'll have to wait).

The funeral will be Friday, July 24 at Allentown Presbyterian Church followed by internment in Paramus. We will be hosting two informal gatherings to honor dad that weekend. The first will be at our house on Saturday from 3 to 6, the second on Sunday at my mom's house also from 3 to 6. The obituary. Reach out if you want our addresses.

Driving Home from Maine

The past couple of days have been a whirlwind and I want to type out some thoughts on the internet before they fully float into the ethernet.

Last Friday I stopped by the rehab center to visit Dad before I left for a mission trip to Maine. There was no real reason to stop by. He and mom had spent the day traveling from Hamilton, NJ to the UPenn hospital for a meeting with his surgeon. He was given a clean bill of health. Told to keep working on his rehab to gain strength to be able to go home soon.

Still, this little voice told me to stop by before embarking on the 10 hour drive. Forgetting about his appointment in Philadelphia, I stopped by in the morning. I told mom I had popped in, and to let me know when they come back. I knew he'd be tired, but that itty bitty voice said go anyway.

He was tired, which was to be expected. I stayed about an hour, but still had to pack and get my head in the mode of driving the next day. The checklist was long ... pick up rental car, pack clothes for painting, pack clean clothes, pack tools, pack bedding for the dorm, finish a couple of things around the house so I could leave with a clear head, etc. etc. I started to leave, but turned back to give him a hug. I'd like to think I said "I love you," but maybe I only thought it. He knew.

When I heard on Wednesday morning the end was imminent I reminded my mom I made my peace a few days earlier. I left knowing it could be the last time and left anyway.

Before I left Maine, the church group wanted to "pray me out." Honestly, I was so torn. On the one hand my head was racing. Pack up room, shove stuff in car, make a sandwich for the road, grab the sandwich I packed the night before for the work site, fill a thermos with hot tea, put ice cubes in tea so I don't burn my tongue, don't lock myself out of my room (again), hand in the key, go to the bathroom one last time before heading to the car, etc. etc.

On the other hand, I knew it was right to pause. The group needed to feel like they were doing something. I needed their prayers for a safe drive home. We all needed the peace.

I let some students load the car, and allowed an adult to make me a sandwich and fill my thermos. Tasks I could have done, but part of the process is letting others do for you. After all, it was a mission trip. I didn't fully appreciate the car loading until I came home and had to unpack it myself. The sandwich I appreciated as I ate it while I drove. I thought of the love both tasks were put into those simple tasks.

I felt the peace they prayed into me as I drove. 

I drove through rural Maine, through towns that reminded me of dad talking about spending summers at the farm in rural New Jersey.

I drove past flags at half mast. How did they know? Of course, it was for the passing of a US Senator and not dad, but it felt appropriate. 

I didn't have a single hurdle until I hit New Jersey at rush hour. After stopping at the first bathroom break on the Garden State Parkway the GPS asked if I wanted to take a faster route with tolls. Umm, I was already on the Parkway which has tolls, but sure.  

It asked a second time, right after I paid a toll.

Curious, I said, sure.

Rather than letting me stay on the Parkway to the New Jersey Turnpike (or to I-95), it routed me to Route 17 in Paramus, down some back roads, to Route 4, to Route 80, to the Turnpike.

It was the John Koetting This is Your Life Tour.

As I drove to the last house he lived in (Robbinsville), the path took me near the home where he raised us (Paramus), past Teterboro Airport where he worked for four decades, and near Hasbrouck Heights where he grew up, and near Little Ferry where he and mom lived when they were first married. On the drive I saw a train (albeit Amtrack and not a freight train) and had airplanes fly overhead as I passed Newark Airport. 

What a tribute!

How did the GPS know I needed the (slightly slower) route past these sights?

I cried most of the drive home. I heard bits and pieces about his last day. He didn't wake up on Tuesday. Sent to the hospital Tuesday night for emergency surgery. If he survived, he would be on a ventilator while he healed. I didn't like the word if, but I was told to wait until the morning to hear the update. No one wanted me driving 10 hours in the dark. After surgery he was stable. At 6 am on Wednesday he was stable. At 6:30 he was not. 

Mom, Don, Ashley, Melissa, Chris, Hayden, and Aimee gathered around his bed to say good-bye. Rebecca and Danny arrived a few moments later and said their good-byes. I continued to drive. And cry.

People at home were worried about my driving so long. Honestly, I didn't have any issues. Those prayers really worked.    

Not sure how to weave this in, but I stopped at the halfway point to visit with NCB (New Cousin Barbara). Her grandmother was raised by my great-grandparents (or maybe even great-great grandparents) on my dad's side. I refer to her as my ancestry.com relative. She enveloped me in a hug and gave me the break I needed, as well as some ice cubes because I didn't put enough in my thermos after all.

Small Town Americana

Spending a few days in rural Maine for the church mission trip was like spending time in another country. I live in a bubble in the Northeast Corridor of the United States. The stretch of land from Boston to Washington, DC is not just densely populated, it is also has the densest population of ivy league school, it is ethnically diverse, religiously diverse, and even has some political density. 

In other words, it is densely filled with people. 

All sorts of people.

I didn't really think of this as I drove to Farmington, Maine. I noted that the 7.5 hour estimated drive would likely take me closer to ten hours due to traffic and bathroom breaks. When you live someplace as dense as I do, you anticipate extra traffic. Always.

Through New Jersey and New York I had slowdowns due to construction, downpour, and even a funeral procession, but once I crossed into New Hampshire the traffic magically disappeared. The ETA went down instead of up.

I met up with my cousin Rebecca in Yarmouth. Rebecca grew up in rural New Jersey, and worked at our alma mater. We actually met in college, lost touch, and reconnected through Facebook. 

She loves Yarmouth, and wanted me to fall in love with it, too. 

After dinner at one of the few places open past 6 pm on a Saturday night in the summer, we walked around downtown.

Yarmouth was setting up for the annual Clamfest, an event my cousin works hard on each year. I'm so pleased she could spare a few hours for a visit during a week she was busy baking pies to sell at the clambake. 

Rebecca pointed out their Carnegie Library (it was too late to go inside), her church, the eight banks for a population of 8,000 people, and noted they have two police officers. I wonder how many Lawrenceville has for our 32,000? I feel like it is more than eight.

What stood out were the chairs set up along the parade route. She said they started to set them up two weeks earlier, or about three weeks before the actual parade -- including a fabric, stuffed, recliner that was not at all weather-proof. The chairs sit there, claiming prime parade spots. Most are taken home afterwards, but not all. I asked my cousin to scout out the street for that recliner. Did it get picked up by the owner? Did it end up in a trash heap? I suspect I'll never know.

Yarmouth is suffering a crisis of affordable housing. Like many places, the cheaper places are no longer so cheap. They have been bought up by the local school to offer housing, and by entrepreneurs renting them on VRBO and AirBNB sites. Lack of affordable housing trickles down to lack of people able to afford to work minimum wage in places like restaurants and shops, which means the places either close down or have very limited hours.

I spent the next day in downtown Farmington, where we were staying in a dorm room. While the group went tubing, I explored the not-so-bustling not-so-metropolis.

I popped into a coffee shop in the hopes of getting an omelet for breakfast. Evan, the guy behind the counter, was apologetic. He suggested the diner (or "din" if the sign had not yet been fixed) about two miles away because the coffee shop only had liquid eggs. I thanked him and continued my stroll. He then flagged me down and suggested the pizza place, somewhere else he works. I hesitantly walked into the pizza parlor and explained "Evan said..." before their faces lit up. They were excited to make something other than a pizza. What did I want on it? What kind of cheese? What other ingredients? They made it for me, and charged very little. We were all happy.

Continuing my stroll I met Ashley Webb, a local who is running for the newly opened Maine US Senate seat. Her sign was all taped up, covering a name, so I asked about it. Until recently Ashley identified as James and ran for a different office then. I think she needs new signs. She has to collect 500 signatures from eight out of the 16 counties. It is not a shoe-in that she'll be running. I wish I had taken a picture of the sign.

I loved the history markers throughout town. I was pleased when later that week I had a chance to stop into the 1901 stone library. I wanted to see what was inside the rounded part -- it was a three store room, the top floor has a glass floor. I felt as if I was in a time machine as I drooled over the tall wooden shelves accessible by a ladder that I could picture Belle swinging from. It was silent inside as people were engrossed in their work, adding to the feel of stepping back in time. As I left I asked if it was a Carnegie Library (it had that feel), but was told no, but yes it was from that era.

Thunderstorms started before I had a chance to see the Cannery, but I did walk to the North Church, the old train depot, the WWI War Memorial, and Memorial Park.

The downtown is much more vibrant than the one in my town. It also has a better variety of businesses, including a three-story general store and a gemology shop. Of course it has a couple of banks.

 

Three Show Day

I remember nearly a decade ago when I went to my first Broadway double header. I felt that was the ultimate in decadence. Since then we've come to appreciate there is a cost to going into New York City from Central Jersey, so we might as well make the most of the day. In other words, we actively seek out two shows in a day.

After seeing Suffs a couple of years ago I met a woman from out of town in the Stage Door crowd who said she once saw FOUR shows in one day. To be fair, one was a late night jazz cabaret, but still a performance. So when the opportunity to see THREE shows in one day, I decided to jump on it.

The primary purpose for going into New York City was to see the award winning revival of Ragtime. Even from the last row, it was obvious Joshua Henry really earned his Tony award.

After we bought our tickets we learned that 59e59 was hosting their annual East
to Edinburg festival where playwrights have the opportunity to try out their shows before they go to the Edinburg Fringe Festival in August. 

After seeing Ragtime, we dashed to the Whole Foods on the Columbus Circle for a sandwich before racing past Central Park to arrive at the theater. It was quite impressive how the pieces fell into place.

Our first fringe show was A Play on Words. During the pre-show announcement the audience was told the actors may call for "line" because the show was being rewritten that afternoon. The show is about two middle aged men who are great friends with each other. They have a one hour debate about the most minute semantics in such a fast-paced dialogue I have no idea how they could learn the lines, especially ones rewritten hours earlier.

Our second fringe show was The
Misfortune of a Spy and Her Mystic starring three women: a spy, a mystic, and the spy's supervisor. The show ended a bit ambiguously, which led Don and I to talking to the playwright afterwards. Unlike the first show, which I felt at an hour felt too long, I can see this show being fleshed out and performed on bigger stages.

In any case, if either of these shows make their way to Broadway (or any larger stage), we'll be able to say we saw it at 59e59 first.