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The Midlife Second Wife ™

~ The Real and True Adventures of Remarriage at Life's Midpoint

The Midlife Second Wife ™

Tag Archives: Broadway

Marlo & Me—Prologue

16 Wednesday Nov 2011

Posted by themidlifesecondwife in Relationships and Family Life, The Cultured Life, The Writing Life, What's the Buzz?

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

blogs, Broadway, Entertainment, Marlo Thomas, Theater, writing

It’s only taken 50 years, but last night I was photographed with another member of the famed Thomas family: Danny’s daughter Marlo. Photo credit: John Rich

The Scene:
Backstage at the Brooks Atkinson Theatre on Broadway.

The Time:
Present day. An evening performance of the Ethan Coen/Elaine May/Woody Allen play Relatively Speaking, and immediately afterward.

The Players:
Marlo Thomas (Award-winning actress, author, producer, and activist); Marci Rich (The Midlife Second Wife); John Rich (The Midlife Second Husband)

Synopsis:
A writer and blogger from Richmond, Virginia, learns that an essay she submitted to a  contest sponsored on Facebook by Marlo Thomas was selected as a winner. Her prize? Two free tickets to see the actress perform on Broadway in a one-act comedy, George is Dead, written by Elaine May—part of a three-act play called Relatively Speaking. The writer and her husband embark on a whirlwind, 24-hour trip by train to New York City to see the play and, hopefully, meet the actress. Waiting backstage after the performance, the writer reflects on significant moments in her life in which either the actress or the actress’ late father, famed entertainer Danny Thomas, played an off-stage role.

Prologue: The Writer Remembers

It must have been 1960 or 1961. I was five or so. I remember because the dress I’m wearing in the photograph was my favorite dress when I was in kindergarten. The famous entertainer Danny Thomas had come to Cleveland, and I had my picture taken with him for a Cleveland-area newspaper. My father is also in the picture; he’s the one holding me, hoping that I’ll stop crying long enough for the man with the camera to get his picture.

I remember the evening well. My father, George Abookire, had been a regional volunteer for ALSAC, the fundraising organization that Danny Thomas had established to help him realize his dream: a hospital dedicated to children who were suffering from cancer. ALSAC had benefited from the work of volunteers such as my father, who helped raise money for what would become St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. A keynote ALSAC event was taking place at a ballroom in a Cleveland hotel, and the guest of honor was Danny Thomas himself.

I knew who Danny Thomas was; he was revered in our house for several reasons. To begin with, he was a first-generation American born to Lebanese parents, just like my father. Danny Thomas was born in Toledo, Ohio; my father was born just 90 miles east, in Elyria, Ohio. Danny Thomas had married a woman of Sicilian descent; so had my father. There is family lore, possibly apocryphal, that it was a first cousin of Danny’s, Ralph Jacobs (also from Toledo), who had married my father’s first cousin, Renée Mady of Windsor, Canada.

Even more important than these connections was the fact that Danny Thomas’ great success in the entertainment industry—in films, nightclubs, and as the star and producer of his own television shows—brought tremendous pride to the Lebanese community. At a time when minority ethnic and racial groups were not represented on television, Danny Thomas, a man of Lebanese heritage, brought a slice of our culture to millions of homes across America. The importance of this cannot be overstated. This meant everything to a little girl growing up in Elyria, Ohio, who looked different from everyone else because of her thick, dark curly hair; a nose that was decidedly not Anglo-Saxon; and an unpronounceable last name. Danny Thomas’ presence on television validated my ancestral identity. My parents and I adored Make Room for Daddy and watched it religiously; the episodes featuring Danny Williams’ Uncle Tonoose, played by Hans Conried, were especially beloved. Uncle Tonoose reminded me of my grandfather.

There was one small problem.

Like most children, I was highly impressionable, especially when it came to visual images. My first infant memory is of a male relative carrying me in my grandmother’s house; I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. So much of what I would later see on television as a child remains as vivid to me now as that first mirror image; they are imprints, effortlessly recalled. A nightmare that I had when I was still a baby forms my second memory. The eye logo employed by CBS turned menacing in my dream. I awoke crying in my crib, frightened and inconsolable.

And so I well remember the little girl who played Linda, Danny Thomas’ daughter in his television show. Like me, she had dark hair. Like me, she had a slightly mischievous spirit. And, like me, she could sometimes exasperate her father to distraction, eliciting a reaction from him that, like the CBS eye, suggested menace: a raised voice, a sprint across a room to chase the little imp.

I had been told that I would be meeting Danny Thomas that evening in Cleveland. And as the evening wore on, I remember growing tired and cranky. It was a school night, and the back of my legs itched from the rough velvet seats on which we’d been sitting for what seemed like hours, waiting for the star to make his entrance. These feelings, then, combined with the growing awareness that this man could very well begin yelling at me as he occasionally yelled at his television daughter, filled me with apprehension.

The room darkened, and a great spotlight appeared. Danny Thomas was entering the ballroom. My father grabbed my hand and ran with me over to the photo op.

“You’re going to have your picture taken with Danny Thomas,” he said, smiling. My reaction surprised him. I started to cry.

My poor father. Poor Danny Thomas. My father tried to comfort me, and Danny Thomas—no doubt disappointed by my tears—nevertheless rose to the occasion and posed, smiling, behind us.

Years later, reading the newspaper clipping, I learned something new. After the picture was taken, I apparently stopped crying, clambered into Danny Thomas’ arms, and gave him a kiss.

Strange phenomena, memories. I don’t remember doing that at all. But it was in the paper, so it must have happened.

To be continued …

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Broadway Bound

15 Tuesday Nov 2011

Posted by themidlifesecondwife in The Cultured Life, The Writing Life, What's the Buzz?

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

AmTrak, blogs, Broadway, Brooks Atkinson Theatre, John Turturro, MarloThomas, New York City, Theater, writing

Paraphrasing Oscar Wilde: I never travel without my blog. One should always have something sensational to write in the train.

Four a.m. is not the hour I’d pick to start my day. Let’s just say that I’m less a morning person than, oh, a mid-to-late-morning-after-coffee-and-breakfast-and-newspaper person. But how could I possibly complain? Three hours ago, John and I boarded the 7 a.m. train to New York City, solely because something that has only ever occurred in my dreams is really and truly happening. I wrote an essay and submitted it to a Facebook contest sponsored by the actress Marlo Thomas. And I won. Tonight we will pick up my prize: two free tickets at the box office of the Brooks Atkinson Theatre to see Ms. Thomas perform in Elaine May’s play, George is Dead, one-third of Relatively Speaking, a triad of one-act comedies directed by John Turturro.

I planned for our departure with such scrupulous attention to detail as to make a Broadway producer proud. Pet care? Check. Our good friends and neighbors, Jerry and Amy, would watch our dog, Sandy. (Zorro, their Shih-Tzu, is Sandy’s love interest.)

Sandy, on the right, with her love interest Zorro. Sandy is nearly five; Zorro is one. Sandy is a cougar.

Amy will also feed our cat, Nellie. Clean clothes? Check. I picked up John’s shirts from the laundry and did one last load of laundry. Vehicle transport? Check. I put gas in the car so we could make it to the train station without incident, and printed out our AmTrak confirmation vouchers. Lodging? Check. I printed out the confirmed reservation for our hotel. Nourishment? Check and check. I picked up pastries at Can Can (a cranberry scone for John, a cherry and mascarpone cheese croissant for me) for our train breakfast. At Jean-Jacques Bakery I ordered two roast beef and Havarti cheese sandwiches (sides of fruit and green bean salad) to secure our train-picnic lunch. Coffee? Ah…This required a trip to Target to purchase a thermos. I set up the coffee maker last night. Apparel and necessities? Check. Telecommunications devices and photographic equipment? Check, check, and check. Laptop and iPhone fully-charged (but power cords packed) and ready to go; ditto camera and batteries.

Did I say scrupulous attention to detail? I forgot to pack an extra pair of socks.

We are now stopped for about an hour or so at Union Station in Washington, D.C., and I want to post this while I still have battery power (the electricity apparently gets shut down during layovers).

So here’s to John, who tucked a sweet card into the pile of clothes to be packed and arranged for time off work to accompany me; here’s to Marlo Thomas for her generosity, and her support for writers; here’s to Amy and Jerry (and Sandy and Zorro! and Nellie!); and here’s to old Broadway!

—My thanks to AmTrak for having free wi-fi, and to Can Can for their incredible pastries.

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Wherein I Win an Essay Contest and Populate One Blog Post With Several Diverse Celebrities

08 Tuesday Nov 2011

Posted by themidlifesecondwife in Humor Me, The Cultured Life, What's the Buzz?

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

Broadway, Coen brothers, Elaine May, Humor, John Turturro, Lloyd Bridges, MarloThomas, Relatively Speaking, Woody Allen

Screenshot of Gina Lollobrigida as Sheba from ...

Image via Wikipedia

First things first. The woman in this picture is not me. I’m talking especially to those of you who know me. Now, for those among you who do not know me and have never seen a picture of me, I will permit you, just this once, to visualize the Midlife Second Wife as resembling, somewhat, this paragon of pulchritude. Except imagine her wearing glasses.

And to those among you who do not know the identity of the woman in the picture, patience. All will be revealed in due time.

Last month I entered an essay contest sponsored by the actress Marlo Thomas on her Facebook page. (Perhaps you’ve heard of her?) Incidentally, the woman in the above picture is not Marlo Thomas. This is Marlo Thomas:

Ms. Thomas is starring in the Broadway hit Relatively Speaking, which is a collection of three one-act comedies, all directed by actor John Turturro (Barton Fink, Quiz Show, The Cradle Will Rock). The plays are Talking Cure, written by filmmaker Ethan Coen (Fargo, The Big Lebowski, No Country for Old Men); George is Dead, written by actress, screenwriter, and director Elaine May (The Heartbreak Kid, Heaven Can Wait, The Birdcage), and Honeymoon Hotel, written by Woody Allen (Midnight in Paris, Annie Hall, Manhattan). Ms. Thomas stars in George is Dead as Doreen, a woman whose husband has just died. Yes, I said this is a comedy.

Ms. Thomas invited friends of her Facebook page to submit their very best essays about a family member. The essays, she advised, could be funny or poignant, but they had to represent one’s best work. Five winners would be selected, and they each would receive a pair of tickets to see Relatively Speaking.

Yesterday I received an e-mail from Ms. Thomas’ assistant telling me that I was one of the winners.

Have you ever been in a situation where you’ve received incredibly amazing news and, due to the circumstances, were unable to adequately express your true feelings? I think I pulled a muscle trying to curb my enthusiasm. I was in a meeting with our financial planner at the time, happened to glance at my iPhone while she was looking something up, and saw the e-mail.

I need a new word for thrilled. Also for gobsmacked, jazzed, stoked, excited, happy, and on-cloud-nine.

Here’s the announcement from Ms. Thomas’ Facebook Page. If you click on the link you’ll probably have to scroll down a bit, so to save you the trouble I’ve inserted it here:

Marlo Thomas
I’m so excited to announce the winners of my Relatively Speaking essay contest! Thanks to all who entered. The winners are…. Siobahn Weiss, Anthony Martin, Nina Meditz, Kathleen Marshall, and Marci Rich. We will email you the play vouchers shortly!

John and I are now scrambling to make plans to get to New York. The tickets are valid from today through December 1. Yes. That’s right. Just one more thing to add to my to-do list during National Blog Posting Month.

Marlo (may I call you Marlo?), thank you for choosing my essay. John and I can’t wait to see the play. I hope I’ll have the chance to thank you in person after the performance.

And now, about that woman at the top of the page. She’s a central figure in my essay, so if you can just hold on a moment longer, you will soon know all.

“That Not Lollobrigida!”

Sunday nights meant only one thing when I was a child: a drive to Lorain, Ohio, with my mother and father, to visit my Sicilian grandmother.

Grandma Monia, my mother’s mother, was a widow who lived in the family home with the youngest of her four children, my unmarried Aunt Helen. Grandma spoke very little English; she had arrived at Ellis Island, as did so many immigrants, early in the 20th-century.

An only child, I was the youngest of my cousins. By the time I came along, my grandmother was so hobbled by arthritis and osteoporosis that she was confined to the house, and walked, doubled over, with the help of a cane on wheels. Because of this, her world was small. It contained a window, though: the flickering light of the black and white console television that my aunt had bought with her secretarial salary.

Grandma’s two favorite television programs were broadcast on Sunday evening—the Lawrence Welk and Ed Sullivan shows. She rarely commented during these broadcasts (and, truth be told, she could not understand much of the dialog), but we knew which guests and segments held her interest. She would smile in approval at the harmonizing Lennon Sisters, for example. She would clap with delight at Topo Gigio’s antics; she certainly knew that he was an Italian mouse, and if she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying to Ed Sullivan, she was nevertheless charmed by his sweetness, especially when Mr. Sullivan “keesed” him goodnight.

Acts that were, in her view, less wholesome (dancers gyrating to the Twist, say, or a tad too much cleavage in a female performer’s costume) would elicit a frown or a shake of her head. She might be at a loss for English, but she was still a critic.

One such evening in her living room, with my parents engaged in conversation with my aunt and me preoccupied with my Barbie doll, we were startled by a most unexpected reaction from her. Ed Sullivan was announcing his guests for the evening, and one name filled her with excitement.

“Lollobrigida! Lollobrigida gonna be on!” she exclaimed.

Now you have to understand something about my grandmother. Italy, and all things Italian, reigned supreme in her estimation, and were surpassed only by the Pope, who was, in those days, Italian, too. All of the food that she prepared was Italian, including the bread that she baked twice each week, despite her arthritis; she regularly mailed dollar bills to an Italian orphanage; she loved Perry Como. She was so biased in favor of her language that she stubbornly refused to learn English, even when her children would beg her: “Ma, please. In English! Say it in English!”

The thought, then, of my grandmother welcoming into her living room the great Gina Lollobrigida, an actress who had brought pride and acclaim to Italy (despite her frequent décolletage, which, for some reason, my grandmother conveniently overlooked), was beyond thrilling. If there had been time, she would have asked Aunt Helen to place an overseas call to the relatives in Palermo, so that she could inform them of the great thing about to happen in America.

So focused were we on Grandma and her reaction that we hardly paid attention to what the estimable host was saying about his guest. We were now, with her, poised for the advent of the glamorous Lollobrigida.

The moment my grandmother had been waiting for had arrived. Ed Sullivan stepped to the microphone and announced:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome my next guest with a warm round of applause—the exciting star of Sea Hunt, Lloyd Bridges.”

And out walked a man in a scuba suit, legs splayed, flippers flapping across the stage.

My grandmother, crestfallen and confused, could only exclaim:

“That not Lollobrigida!”

—THE END—

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