The House in Ridgewood

"And I feel like some bird of paradise/
My bad fortune slipping away/
And I feel the innocence of a child/
Everybody's got something good to say" - PJ Harvey

Spring has sprung and I'm tickled pink about it! I woke up early Saturday morning (still a bit jet-lagged from our trip to Dublin), so I decided to go for a walk in Central Park. It turned out I was far from the only person with that bright idea. It wasn't even 9:00am and already the park was bustling with activity. Park workers were taking down the fences around the lawns. Dogs were running, off their leashes, on every path and wrestling with one another in the grass. I had to dodge hundreds of people running a marathon to cross one of the transverse roads. Normally, I go to the park to get a little space and solitude, but that morning, I didn't mind the crowds. I found myself grinning like an idiot as I walked along.

Spring seems like a time for sharing. Energy levels soar as the gloom of Winter dissapates, and spending any time at home on the couch feels like treason. And, yes, even a bit of innocence and childlike wonder have crept in to my curmudgeonly heart. I find myself marvelling at the simple things: blooming flowers; kids playing baseball; the combination of warm sun and cool breeze on my skin. (Speaking of skin, it always make me laugh to see people shedding their sweaters and winter coats during the first few days of warm weather. So many fragile, pale little chickadees.)

So, for today's entry, I'll share a piece I've been revisiting for the past few months that deals a bit with childhood, though not my childhood. It's about a really cool and unexpected experience Johnny and I had last October during a weekend trip. I hope you enjoy it. Oh, and based on my page view counter, people seem to be visiting this page, so thanks! I'd be much obliged if you'd leave a comment now and again. Feedback makes me feel good!

Elena Wolfskill Thornton - Queen of Los Angeles

“The House in Ridgewood” is the stuff of legend in Johnny's family. It wasn’t long after I started dating him that I began to hear about it. It referred to a house in New Jersey where Johnny's grandfather, William, lived until his death in 2000. As someone who grew up in the single-level haven of the desert Southwest, it sounded like a fairytale castle: three stories plus a basement; carefully curated gardens in the back; and lots of secret rooms and crevices in which children could hide. The story that intrigued me even more, perhaps, was that of Johnny’s grandparents, William and Elena. William was a highly respected Shakespearian actor and studied and trained with some of the finest, including James Earl Jones. His wife, Elena Wolfskill Thornton, was the descendant of a pioneer family who settled in and founded much of California. She was named “Reina (Queen) de Los Angeles” for the city’s 160th birthday in 1941, which sounds impossibly glamorous. Elena was also a Shakespearian actress, which is how she met William. They had two children - my father-in-law, John and his sister, Conchita - and made their home on the East Coast for many years. The couple separated later in life and while Elena returned to California until her death in 2004, William remained in Ridgewood. 

When Johnny and I moved to New York from Arizona two years ago, we knew we wanted to plan a trip to Ridgewood to see the home and visit some of the old haunts. Last October, during a weekend trip to the Hudson Valley with our friends, Drew and Jamie, the opportunity unexpectedly presented itself. That Saturday morning, our group convened in the kitchen of the house we were renting for the weekend. Over coffee and breakfast we made plans for the day. We decided to visit a farmer’s market to get the full Fall experience and procure pumpkins and apple butter (this stuff is very exciting for city kids). We looked on-line and found one nearby. It occurred to me that we’d be no more than a 15 minute drive from Ridgewood, so we all agreed to head there after the market.

William and Elena

After loading up on cider doughnuts and homemade caramels, we let our iPhones direct us to our destination. We turned on to a quaint little village street and pulled up in front of the address. Johnny didn’t even recognize the house at first, but he eventually started to put it together. I noticed his eyes beginning to light up as we got out of the car and walked around a bit. We were careful to stay on the sidewalk so as not to trespass. Johnny said the open backyard was very different (the gardens had been removed in favor of grass and children’s play equipment), but that the house looked great. It was gigantic indeed, but I was surprised by how close it seemed to the surrounding properties. In some ways, I expected it to be high on a hill, accessible only through a huge, rusty  gate. We were content with seeing it from the street and taking a few pictures and were just about to leave when a rather large group of pre-teens walking up the street starting coming towards us. My biggest fear is what I call “Wild Packs of Teenagers,” so my pulse quickened a bit and I tried to pull Johnny towards the car. A pretty blonde girl broke from the pack to approach us and asked, “Are you looking for the person who lives here?”

“No, my grandpa just used to live here a long time ago and we were just trying to check out the house,” Johnny said.

“Oh, because I live here! I was afraid my parents sold the house to you or something,” she said. We laughed and assured her we were not trying to buy it. We chatted for a minute and then parted ways. Just as we were about to get back in the car, the girl, who had walked back up to the house, came out and gestured to us.

“My mom said you can have a tour if you want.”

“Really? That’s so nice! Can our friends come?”

“Sure!”

We gathered Drew and Jamie from the car and made our way up the stairs to the covered porch. We were greeted by a lively and welcoming woman named Liz.

“Come on in! This is so great that you guys are here! Was your grandpa William Thornton?” she asked.

Johnny said that he was and, though she had never met him, Liz said the neighbors still talked about him fondly. Johnny’s smile stretched from ear-to-ear as she began guiding us through her home. Coming from New York and being suspicious of basically everyone all the time, I couldn’t help think how amazingly unguarded and friendly she was. It was a refreshing change of pace and she reminded me more than a little of Johnny’s mom.

Ridgewood isn’t a cheap place to live and she explained that they put everything they had into paying for this house twelve years ago. But she said it was worth it and they’ve been very happy raising their four kids there. The home is gorgeous and feels loved. The family has left so many great touches intact including wall sconces, glass doors, and chandeliers that they bought with the home. Because William was in his 80's when he died and living alone, the house needed a good amount of work when they moved in, but she said they had tackled the repairs slowly over the years. There are bedrooms on the second and third floors and though two of the kids are off in college, their rooms remain just the way they left them.

Then we went to the basement.

Basements still fascinate me because not many homes in Tucson have them. This one was semi-finished and meant to be a space for the kids and thier friends to hang out. It seems like the perfect spot for that with its big old couch, TV, and pool table.

“I have some things you may be interested in,” Liz said as she went back around a corner. She then pulled out three massive framed posters. There stood three versions of William Thornton staring back at us. They are old promotional posters for Shakespeare plays that he starred in: King Lear, Richard III, and The Merchant of Venice. In each, William is in costume and definitely in character. As King Lear, he is wearing robes and has a long white beard. He looks regal and sullen. As Shylock, his is clutching a walking stick in one hand, and the other arm is drawn back behind him. His eyes are wide, as if he is ready to unleash his fury on the viewer. But the best has to be his Richard III. It is a close-up and he is wearing a pageboy wig and sporting a trim mustache. The bangs perfectly frame a face sneering with utter contempt.

Johnny was in disbelief. She explained that these had somehow been left behind in the sale of the house and she had kept them all these years in the hopes that she could pass them on to his family someday. As sometimes happens, when William passed away, some got a lot while others were left with relatively little. To have come into this late and unexpected inheritance overwhelmed Johnny. She also had a number of William’s old books and we found a handwritten note in one. It was addressed to William from someone at the University of Utah. It spoke of an acting workshop he presented there on elocution. I finally began to grasp what a force in acting he had been.  

We exchanged info so that we could make arrangements to pick-up the posters at a later date. We thanked Liz profusely, and she acted like it was no big deal, but really she had given us something so special. To watch my husband connecting with his past in such a profound way was magical, and that wouldn’t have been possible without this thoughtful and good woman. As we got to the car and Drew and Jamie climbed in, Johnny stood back for a second and tears began rolling down his face.

“You know, when we visited as kids, we would always go on ‘treasure hunts’ in Grandpa’s house. The third floor was filled with props and costumes from the plays he was in and we’d sometimes get to keep small things. This feels like the last treasure hunt at Grandpa’s house.”

I held him and cried right along with him as I thought of William and Elena, of my own grandparents, and of the memory of those who have passed and those whom I will never meet.

Deconstructing the Playlist - Cat Power and the Lost Art of Music Videos

It seems like every web site I frequent has been posting links to Cat Power's newest music video, "Manhattan." It really is too good not to share. Have you seen it?

I've been a fan of Cat Power for some time. Her music especially reminds me of this pseudo-date Johnny and I went on more than 7 years ago. You know that awkward stage of dating where you haven't made it official, but you've admitted your feelings for one another? Every interaction is heavy with sub-text and you lie awake in bed at night wondering what the other person is doing, what they are thinking. Exhausting, but exhilarating.

Anyway, Johnny and I were in this phase when we decided to go see Cat Power in concert at the Rialto Theater with some friends. I got there a little late and there were no more seats available with our friends, so Johnny and I made our way up to the balcony. The seats there are narrow and I had to jam myself into one, my knees crunched up into the seat in front of me. It was hot inside and I was sweaty and I was being very careful not to touch Johnny, lest he'd changed his mind about me and forgotten to mention it. I'm certain he had the same thoughts because we both sat there, rigid and untouching, for the entire show.

Luckily, it was easy to get lost in the music. We'd heard rumors that Chan Marshall (a.k.a. Cat Power) had been going through a tough time on this tour and had ended shows early, nearly had breakdowns on stage, etc. But that night, she was perfection. She alternated between personas, sometimes the bluesy-rock chick belting out songs with the rasp that only she can conjure, and other times the fragile ingenue playing bare-bones melodies on the piano with a single spotlight illuminating her. A horn section joined her for the last half of the show, and she pranced around like a little girl. Johnny has made me many mix CDs during our relationship. Cat Power always features prominently. Her songs never fail to remind me of that night, or of our many shared experiences that seem framed, somehow, by her lyrics.

In the "Manhattan" video, Chan tours New York City in a grand way. Sometimes, she's soaring high above the streets, familiarizing herself with the Brooklyn Bridge and literally touching street lights. Then she's venturing underground, performing with subway musicians and waiting for a train to arrive. I love her solo walk through Chinatown and her spontaneous, silly dancing. It's a nice way to reintroduce her to her fans, because she looks different with her cropped, bleached hair, but more importantly, she seems different. Definitely more smiling than the Cat Power we're used to.

Watching "Manhattan," I am reminded how much I LOVE AND MISS MUSIC VIDEOS. I know many artists still make videos, but I rarely seek them out and watch them. Videos used to be easy to access and were such a big part of my childhood. Between MTV, VH1, and even video-on-demand channels like The Box, my siblings, cousins and I were always glued to the TV, waiting to see our favorite artists perform. Some of my favorite memories involve the New Year's Eve countdown of the 100 best videos of the year. I know a lot of people, aren't into videos because they provide a ready-made narrative for the song. Once they see a video, it's argued, they can't disassociate it from the song and they'd rather let their own imagination come up with the images. For me, a video is just a natural extension of music, a "bonus feature" if you will. It's one more opportunity for the artist to convey the meaning behind the song - or, in some cases, a chance to create a visual that has nothing at all to do with the song in question.

I think back to the MTV of old and appreciate that videos provided a lot of fantasy and escapism in their way. As an adolescent, I watched New Kids on the Block and fantasized about marrying Jordan Knight. My sister, cousin and I watched Paula Abdul videos on repeat and tried to match her dance moves for an entire summer. As a teenager, shows like Alternative Nation and 120 Minutes were a way to find out about new bands, or to see some of my lesser known faves featured. Total Request Live was nothing short of an institution in the 2000's and provided a stage for pop stars to act like damn fools, much to our entertainment (the original Twitter, perhaps?).

At their best, videos are art in their own right, time capsules that perfectly capture an era. "(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party)" by Beastie Boys, with its low-brow comedy and 80's hair, is hilarious and dynamic. "Undone (The Sweater Song)" by Weezer still feels like something fresh and interesting almost 20 years (!!!) after its release. And "Street Spirit (Fade Out)" by Radiohead will always be one of the most gorgeous things I've ever seen. (Apparently, my favorite songs all involve parentheticals.)

So much of the programming on "music" channels now is based in reality: Teen Mom, 16 & Pregnant, Real World 751. It's just not fun anymore, nor can it be called "art" in any literal sense of the word. I know I am hardly breaking new ground by suggesting that MTV begin fostering an environment where music videos are played again, but I think an entire generation of 30-somethings wishes they'd give it a try.

Three Bucks, Two Bags, One Me

It really is a coincidence that I'm launching my new blog, Bootstrapping It, on the same day that Season 6 of Mad Men premieres. But I guess in some ways, it's serendipitous. Mad Men, afterall, is about an industry that thrives on blind ambition, and the word "bootstrapping" implies ambition in a way. To pull one's self up by the straps of their boots... now that's something I relate to.  

A few years ago, I moved to New York City with my husband, Johnny. He had been accepted to grad school and we were ready for a change of scenery. It was a nerve-wracking time. When people say that this city will chew you up and spit you out if you're not ready for it, they aren't lying. But we put on brave faces and did our best to blend in. We've gotten by pretty well so far, and in the meantime, something unexpected happened. My passion for the written word was reignited, a fire I thought was extinguished long ago. 

I come from a long line of book junkies and reading has always been a necessity to me. Writing is something I've done since I was an angsty pre-teen, scrawling away about unrequited love in my journals. Becoming a professional writer was always the dream, but like many, I resisted the pursuit of my creative endeavors in favor of a more realistic career path. Since my early 20s, I've worked various office jobs and enjoyed the freedom that a steady paycheck brings. But this nagging little desire never really went away, I just became an expert at ignoring it.

For so long, I've witnessed my counterparts express themselves creatively. I've watched them perform in bands, checked out their art shows, or sat in the front row on opening night of their new play. As much as I've draw inspiration from these experiences, there has been a slight tinge of jealousy all along. I wanted to be the one creating, not just appreciating. I held myself back because I lacked the confidence that I had anything to say, or that anyone would want to listen. 

I hate to sound too cheesy, but New York changed all that. It's pretty difficult to be around so many people doggedly pursuing their goals and not be a bit caught up in the excitement.  Determined not to see my “dream deferred… dry up like a raisin in the sun,” I finally began taking some concrete steps. I wrote a cooking blog. I studied at the Gothamist Writers' Workshop and then enrolled at Hunter College where I now take classes after work four days a week. I’m writing and re-writing personal essays and developing my craft. I’m reading just about everything I can get my hands on and reveling in my adoration of good writing. We even have a new ritual around our household each night in which I read out-loud to Johnny the best thing I read or wrote that day.

In doing these things, I’ve come to feel very differently about my life choices until now. I’m loosening my grip on regrets and understanding that not everyone has the same path. I look back at the time that I wasn’t in school or pursuing writing and now know that I was gaining the experiences that inform much of my art today. I found true love. I made and lost many friends. I drank whiskey in dive bars and rubbed elbows with casts of colorful characters. I witnessed countless heartbreakingly beautiful desert sunsets. I watched the seasons change in Central Park and became acquainted with two soggy sisters named Irene and Sandy. Had I pursued my writing at an earlier age, I’m not sure I would have had much to say, but I’m confident that I now have a tiny modicum of maturity and wisdom behind my words.

Now I’m Bootstrapping It, pulling myself up and trying to get things going as best I can. I guess this will be a space for me to document the process and share pieces I’ve been fine-tuning (and hopefully I’ll get some feedback from all of you). But honestly? I don’t want to set limits or have any rules for what may pop-up on this site. I just want to share my “human noise,” as Raymond Chandler would say. I'm ready to add my voice to the cacophony, whatever the result.

Oh, and to find out where I got the name of this blog post, check out the intro to this 30 Rock episode which depicts my experience of New York better than I ever could. Thanks for reading!