And there we were. We continued to swap Judy tales over coffee and tea. She had actually interviewed Liza Minnelli and Lorna Luft, Judy's daughters, for her blog. It was fascinating to hear her stories. I had been busy bragging about a man I'd met who would play music for Judy on The Merv Griffin Show, and here she was telling me about blood relatives.

         After lunch, we walked across Union Square Park, both of us dolled up to the nines. She was pregnant and I had my address book in a little Bottega Veneta hard case, plus the flowers. As we almost skipped in time, I felt inspired to sing a little of Noel Coward's song, "If Love Were All." I'd wondered beforehand if I should do something like that at the lunch table, and I'm sure for a split second she thought that I was more than a little crazy. But we both were. It was a very hot day and I was over-dressed, maybe delirious. We got a cab and headed uptown. I knew I'd have a friendship with Flora for a very long time, possibly forever. If we did remain friends, our mutual love of Judy would be the nexus of our bond.

         It was. We did keep in touch over that year, e-mailing, speaking by phone and sending letters and gifts to one other. We didn't know it at the time, but it may have been in anticipation of a far more intense Judy experience that we would soon embark on together.

         When we'd gotten to know each other even more, we came up with the idea for our next Judy adventure spontaneously, through e-mail. You don't ask a new acquaintance, or even a new friend, if they'd like to go sight-seeing at a tomb. But the idea thrilled us to death, so to speak, and we decided it had to be done. She would come to New York, and we would visit Judy's finial resting place, in Westchester County, New York, at Ferncliff Cemetery.

         Besides her much-read blog, Flora is a successful novelist, and has a growing family (her earlier pregnancy yeilded a gorgeous baby daughter). So, we bid our time and scheduled the pilgrimage for several months away, to coincide it with a time when she, her husband and two children would be swinging through New York, making their way back home to London from a vacation in Jamaica. This was the first time I would meet her family, and we hadn't seen each other in person since the Wainwright concert.

         When they arrived and we met, it was a thrill. The new baby, nicknamed The Chief, and her older sister (the one that gave her little sister, Cecilia, the pet name that will be with her for life) Miss Mary, were delightful little girls. Cecilia was dressed like a child that had popped out of an early 18th century painting, with her little linen dress, square-necked frock with pie crust lace, and the cutest Lilliputian shoes dangling on her tiny feet.

         I actually wondered if Flora's husband had wanted to meet me to make sure she wasn't stepping into a nightmare; his beloved wife and mother of those children going off to a graveyard just 40 minutes outside of the city with a crazy bald man who adored Judy Garland. This suspicion is entirely a guess on my part; her family was absolutely charming, but I always have to put a twist on the situation. What we were doing was eccentric, yes, but to a true Judy fan it was totally normal.

         I'd visited Judy's tomb twice before, the first time before I even lived in New York City, and on that nervous trip I had been alone. The second time was with friends. While we had been planning the event, I told Flora how after each previous visit I had experienced an astounding emotional surge afterwards, a mix of profound, unfamiliar feelings.

         The day of the visit, Flora wore a navy topcoat, which was so chic.  Exposed through the lapel of her coat was a large, lazy, mandarin orange bow, with gold-metallic threads running through its fabric. Once her coat was removed, the silk blouse connected to the bow was unveiled, flowing about her very elegantly. I told her it was a brilliant display, full glamour! It was so perfect for the day, a good luck charm.

         This was Flora's first visit to my apartment, and while looking over my (ever growing) collection of Judy memorabilia, Flora decided to bring several of my latest additions with us on our excursion. She decided on a necklace and a bracelet which had belonged to Judy, with a letter of verification from Mickey Deans, her fifth and final husband. That's actually how he signed the letter, "I was her fifth and final husband," as though to say if she had lived longer, she may have had eight, like her friend Mickey Rooney.

         Flora was also interested in bringing a sweet sterling silver christening cup, which had been a gift from Judy to her niece. It's engraved: "May you be as beautiful a woman as you are a child. Your Aunt Judy." It is embossed with a little elephant whose trunk serves as the handle. I'd purchased it from a collector because I found it so touching, knowing it had been purchased by Judy, expressing joy over a relationship with a new family member, a new little neice. Before the fame, there was the family. They performed as family, they lived as family, they loved as family. When Judy's father died, her mother remarried, which coincided with the complicated beginnings of Judy not knowing where reality began and fantasy ended, and vice-versa. But with her new niece, her god-daughter, she knew she was safe. This little cup was a testament to that. And now it was mine.

         Flora made a point to bring a bowler hat in my collection. It had belonged to Wallace Beery, and Judy used it in her tramp number, "We're a Couple of Swells," and when she sang "Over The Rainbow" while seated on the edge of the stage.

         While getting all giddy for our trip to a graveyard, I showed Flora an unusual photograph from my collection. It was of Judy holding her daughter, Liza, as a baby. It's a fascinating photo. Judy is only 24 or 25 in this picture, yet she looks as if she's in her 40's. She's gaunt and thin, and seems to be holding onto her precious child for dear life. It's like the baby is an anchor her mother is grasping. Judy was only 4'11, and in this photo her hands look like a giant's, wrapped around this tiny doll child. Liza's newborn face has an unsettling expression for a baby; one of concern. This infant should have been thinking about nothing more than her next bottle, or a plush carpet she may be resting on in the afternoon. But in the photograph, Liza's pensive face looks as though she understood the complexity of what she was being brought into; a baby with the face of a very mature person. She couldn't have been more than four or five months old in the photograph. Flora was moved by the odd photo, and asked if we could bring it to the grave. Of course we could.

         Lastly, we took a pair of exact replicas of the famous ruby slippers. And I do mean exact. They had been fabricated recently, and done not with plastic sequins but metal ones, like the originals, which were intricately sewn and laid over the shoes with care. The shoes even had a false label inside that read "The Innes Shoe Company," again, just as the originals do.

         The detailed history of the ruby slippers created for the film isn't known by most—there was actually more than one pair. The man who designed these little pieces of magic was Adrian Greenberg (husband of actress Janet Gaynor), a master fashion/costume designer at MGM who designed the costumes for The Wizard of Oz, and many others. For Dorothy's slippers, he purchased five pairs of white kid leather shoes, from size 5 to size 6. The different sizes were needed because he knew they would need different but identical-looking ones for different stages of such a large film production. One pair would be just for posing, one pair would be the dancing shoes—the ones that truly fit—and another would be the walking shoes. The ones that were slightly larger for the long days on set. A pair was also needed for Judy Garland's stand-in and stunt double, Bobbie Koshay. Each pair was covered with beautiful ruby sequins and a bow, which was silver, and set with large bugle beads. In the original L. Frank Baum book the film was based on, the shoes were silver. But "silver slippers" would never sell on the silver screen.

         Originally a stroke of design inspiration, the shoes are now the most recognizable icons of tinsel town, the movie business, and much more. The existing original shoes that have lasted are currently priced at the upper hundreds of thousands per pair. Recently, one pair on loan to the Judy Garland Birthplace Museum was stolen. It caused an international furor, and made the news. I'll never forget when the news broke, during his opening monologue on The Late Show With David Letterman, Mr. Letterman claimed that “The thief was known to be armed and fabulous." This pair was valued at over half a million, possibly the highest-priced artifact from film history. Authorities have yet to crack the case and recover them. Although, according to the rumor mill, investigators have a good idea who took them, just no real proof. At one point, detectives and museum people actually called me at home and asked if I had them! I found it amusing, but no, I don't have them. It started to make me paranoid that perhaps people think I did take them. I suppose the finger-pointing is a testement to my proud obsession with Judy. But what does the person who stole them do with them exactly? I have a replica pair that I use for photo shoots, appearances and parties. But to own the original pair, one would have to bind their feet ancient Chinese-style, just to be able to put them on and stomp around the house, God forbid. It is kind of creepy to think about those bewitching slippers in the hands of some fiend. A sensational mystery, but quite a disappointment, not only to Judy fans, but also to fans of The Wizard of Oz.

         The power that objects once belonging to Judy can have over people is amazing. I remarked to Flora that I wished I had purchased a pair of handles from the casket Judy's body was transported from London to New York in, right before her services at Campbell's funeral home, and eventual burial at the place we were about to visit.

         "Why?" asked Flora.

         She had already heard me tell the story about the man who, when he was younger, had acquired the handles while working as an assistant to the manager of Campbell's, and years later called me and tried to sell them to me over a lovely lunch at Blair Perrone's Steak House. I told Flora that recently I'd been thinking about them, as I'd been reading up on saints and sainthood throughout history. I've always believed in the value of legacies that can be attached to a person's leftovers. I've even saved my wisdom teeth and old gold fillings, which I keep in a small reliquarie box made of rock crystal and gold.

         "Those casket handles, they're like relics," I told Flora, like relics left by saints after their death. Objects that had belonged to them wholly or partially, but that nevertheless held great significance to those who worshiped what the saint—in this case the sainthood of Judy Garland—stood for. Since they had been objects close to her at the time of her sudden demise (an intense, drama-filled event), they probably held special powers. Perhaps they could even be loaned to places that needed assistance in ways that Judy's spirit could help. Like the production of a failing Broadway show, a poor box office run, or even a fading star whose popularity was waning. They could all rub the handles for good luck.

         "If they had that kind of power, people would be clamoring to possess them!" Flora said, laughing.

         "Someone was clamoring for those shoes!" I said.

         "True." Flora said, raising an eyebrow.

         "At the very least," I concluded, "I think there should be a chapel of movie stardom”

         Flora pondered the idea.

         But even if I did have the casket handles, I would never have brought them to Judy's final resting place. Some spiritual wires might have gotten crossed.

         With all our talismans finally selected and gathered, we headed off by car. We stopped at a liquor store, the U.N. Wine Shop across the street from the United Nations, and I bought one of the small glass bottles of Absolute vodka, a single serving size, and a grapefruit. I told Flora that the last time I'd visited, when I still smoked,  I left a pack of Benson & Hedges menthol cigarettes there because I'd read in one of the her biographies that's what she liked to smoke. Before we went too far from the city we also purchased yellow and pink roses, favorites of Judy's. I find that roses sold in New York City's corner delis lack an aroma. Those purchased outside the city limits have the intoxicating scent of a garden.

         I mentioned to Flora that we were bringing all of these things as though were bringing gifts to the dead, the way they do in India, Egypt and China—leaving trinkets and thoughts in celebration and remembrance of a loved one's life, and what that life stood for. But she was still chuckling over the thought of a fading, modern day tabloid harlot chanting and rubbing Judy Garland's casket handles, to try and win herself an Oscar.

         "Do you think Nicole Kidman bought them?" Flora asked with a straight face, to which I burst out laughing.

         It was a beautiful, crisp day—wonderful for driving. As we got farther from the city, I didn't let Flora onto the fact that I was actually a bit frightened. I didn't really know exactly where I was going. When I had been before, it had been on a train the first time, and in the car of a friend the second time. Now, I'd had my assistant print the directions out from the internet, and then I'd called to confirm them with the cemetery. Perhaps interstellar forces would intervene.

         They must have, as we arrived with precision right at the front gate, only becoming confused while trying to figure out which entrance to use. The grounds at Ferncliff are immense. Unfortunately, I was noticing this fact when I removed the bags from the car, and the bottle of vodka fell to the ground and broke. It left a little stain on the pavement and the paper bag that it was in was soaked.

         I looked at Flora and said "It's a sign."

         "It is." she said. We weren't joking.

         We walked quietly through the serene landscape, through trees swaying in the breeze, sheilding our eyes when the sun reflected off the white marble too strongly. We eventually approached the mausoleum Judy's body is kept in. It was almost regal. After a pause, we breathlessly walked in. It was cooler inside, in temperature and tone. There were large marble crypts of family and wealthy individuals, all interred in the walls; truly a grand palace of the dead. I knew the way, so I broke the mood slightly as I clomped up the echo-y stairs, naming the landmarks as I climbed. I remembered the alabaster lamp. I remembered the English Regency table. I remembered how they had oriental rugs laid on the floor. I remember being amused when Flora later confessed that she hoped I wasn't offended when she'd said "Americans do this well." As if she thought that perhaps they wouldn't.

         We wandered, reading all the names, and looking at the little pots which held ashes and remains. We saw the graves of Ed Sullivan, and Roger Eden (Judy's friend, mentor and arranger, the man who had really given her style at MGM). Joan Crawford is interred there too, as are a host of other people—Jerome Kerr, Malcolm X and his wife—all resting.

         We entered into one of the brighter corridors, and there it was. Judy Garland's tomb. Well, at least her slip in the mausoleum wall, down near the bottom. It reads, "Judy Garland 1922-1969."

         What more needs to be said?

         Until shortly before she died, her name was actually Frances Ethel Gumm Rose Minnelli Luft Herron. Those were her three birth names,  Frances Ethel Gumm. Then, more names accumulated with her husbands; her first David Rose, her second Vincent Minnelli, her third Sid Luft, and her fourth Mark Herron. She decided after that to have her name changed legally to Judy Garland. So here rests Judy Garland.

         I decided it would be best if I went to look for two vases in the flower room for the roses we had brought. But before that, I took the vodka-saturated paper bag, and swabbed it across the letters carved in the marble that bore her name. It was like an ancient libation tribute from me to her. In Africa, people will would pour libations on the ground in honor of the dead. This was a new study of such an act. I honestly think she would have liked the act, and found it amusing. Even if she hadn't, I was left with a thought that I was doing something other people more than likely had not.

         I left Flora on the bench to contemplate, and went off to look for the vase. While searching, I began to ponder myself; where I was, what I was doing, what it meant, and my own past.

         So often in the South, where I am from, cemeteries mean so very much to people that they will spend an enormous amount of time keeping tombs white washed, cleaned and flowered. But here in New York, it's not as important. People just make sure that the building where their family is kept is taken care of by others. What we were doing made me realize I had a closer relationship with houses of the dead. I had been an altar boy as a youth and served at many funerals. My first was for a very old woman. I was in the 4th grade. I carried the crucifix on the pole, and when I saw the dead woman, I fainted and the crucifix banged and bounced across the coffin to the floor. I had been to the funerals of many people that I'd known, and hadn't known. And I'd been to this place, now my third visit.

         I returned with the vases of water, and we placed the yellow and pink roses in them. We removed and placed to the side a plant that had been left for a Mrs. Milny (two slips above Judy), so that Judy's roses would look really special. We got the other objects out and spread them out on the bench in front of the tomb. I asked Flora if she'd like to put the hat on. After a thought, she said no, that she now felt it would be corny. But I lifted the christening cup and held it up, saying, "This means a lot." This wasn't jewelry she wore, or shoes modeled after a stage theater prop. This was something precious that was truly important to her—something she considered important enough to spend time purchasing to make sure it was just right enough to give to her godchild, her niece.

         We both looked at it as we held it, then looked over where she lay. In anticipation for what I was about to initiate, I said to Flora, "You know, Judy was always very religious. But only when she flew." Flora gave me a funny look. It is a fact though. Judy kept a rosary, and would say the appropriate prayers once she was on a plane in the air, and then completely forgot about it once she had landed. I gently took Flora's hand and I said, "We should say a prayer." And we did.

         Hail Mary, full of grace,

         The Lord is with you.

         Blessed are you among women and

         Blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.

         Holy Mary, Mother of God,

         Pray for us now

         And at the hour of our death

         Amen

         We then looked over at each other. We thanked God for the gift of Judy to so many, and especially to us. It was a warm, glowing moment. We both felt at ease, and we sat and visited a little longer. If any of the employees had passed through, I'm sure they would have thought, "more crazies." How many sequin-shoed weirdoes come here for flowers of rememberance, a tip of a bowler hat or a quiet visit on the bench in front of Judy's tomb? Thank God I decided against the portable karoke set.

         I took a picture of the tomb. Flora then sat next to it and I took a picture of her, and then we switched. We didn't smile in the photos. Soon we browsed around the mausoleum a little more, and Flora took notes for a project that she is working on. I became intrigued by a pair of Wedgwood urns holding the ashes of a Mr. and Mrs. Somebody, along with several other urns made of bronze, in the shapes of pots and lamps and a book—all behind glass, very nicely displayed. It looked almost like those old automat restaurants, where you'd put a dollar in and pull out a piece of pie.

         "I don't want to be interred when I die." I suddenly said to Flora from across the room.

         She told me she did. I told her I dreaded small, dark places, and she told me she found them comfortable. I can't fathom it. Just the thought of being locked up like that forever is more than I can bear.       One time I caused a scene at a trendy, uptown spa when all 1,000 pounds of me came barelling, wet and almost nude, out of one of those cramped sensory deprivation tanks, practically screaming in terror. I'd been in for only a few minutes but it felt like a week. I don't even enjoy movies where the camera is cropped too close to the actors' faces. I guess I'm claustrophobic, even in foresight. I know there's eternal peace in death, but if I think I'll end up sealed in a dark box under slabs of heavy earth when I leave this mortal coil, I'll never have inner peace in life. And don't get me started on being buried alive—we all know, soul or no soul; it happens.

         No, I want to be cremated and then have my ashes beaten into a batter of corn bread, and then fed to pigeons. I've read that pigeon droppings that land on stone buildings can last up to 300 years. So, if I did that I'd be hanging around longer than I ever would have imagined. I know I won't be put into the ground, or into the old family tomb in New Orleans, for that matter. I'll be cremated, I've made sure of it. I believe it's important to have a living will, stating what your final wishes are. It frightens me to think of all of the different people in the world who are resting in places or in situations where they never would have wanted to be.

         I wondered if Judy had ever thought about her final resting place. After her death, her last husband planned an elaborate memorial, an enormous grave on the lawn of the cemetery. I read once that Liza found out that her mother was actually being kept in a storage facility after the services while her fifth husband Mickey Deans searched for funds—never found—to have her earthly remains interred in a grand tomb fit for a showbiz queen. Liza eventually took matters into her own hands and purchased this modest but lovely wall crypt in the mausoleum.

         I told Flora that Judy had often been quoted saying; "What if I hadn't had this voice? What if I had a normal life?" This is what it would have been, how it would have ended; in a wall with a bunch of other people, at rest. Born in a little house in Grand Rapids, Minnesota, lived a short but incredibly full life of highs and lows, love and hate, joy and despair happiness and rage—and the pinnacle of it all, having three children. Now she was at rest in a wall with other people.

         Next to Judy's space in the wall is a crypt which has no engravings on it. I'll never forget how I reacted when I first saw that unmarked space. I let out a yelp and ran full speed all the way to the cemetary office.

         "Is the spot next to Judy Garland for sale?" I half-screamed, throwing myself into the office in a gasp, "I want to buy it!"

         "No," the woman at the desk said, rolling her eyes, "The space is owned by others."

         "Are you sure?" I pleaded, as if she might not be, "The entire wall is filled with engraved names, but not the space to the left of Judy's!"

         She looked at me and smiled, saying calmly, "I'm sure."

         The thought of lying next to my beloved Judy Garland forever was more than I could resist. I couldn't help fantasizing about it. Honestly, I'd be happy to make a compromise on both counts (wanting to be cremated, and hating small spaces) if it meant lying as a corpse in a box next to her. But thinking of my remains slowly falling apart, as they should, really peeves me. After all the time and money I've spent on the temple that is my body, I don't want to end up looking like that host from Tales From the Crypt. Who knows what's left of little sparrow-like Judy at this point? Who knows how long it would take before I'd slim down to that size, or wouldn't resemble anything even close to "me"?

         Flora chuckled as I shared this, and we decided to join the living. Despite everything we were doing, being with Flora during that moment made me realize how blessed I am to know who I am, what I am, and what I have. As we drove back and discussed it, she agreed that she felt the same about herself. With that declaration, I gave her the bracelet of Judy’s that I had purchased at auction. I wanted her to have it. She was thrilled, and it fit her well. We arrived back in the city for our post-Judy adventure lunch, which was becoming a ritual. I wanted to take Flora to a nice resturaunt, so I'd made a reservation at Sparks, at table 100. It's the best table, and is also private, but a bit spooky, as it's the table where Paul Castellano would dine. He and his driver were rubbed out on their way to dinner and died in a slew of bullet fire. It fit the mood of the day though, and the meal was heavenly enough to have been our last. With too much to talk about, we finally had to shut ourselves up so she could dash off to join her family. I returned to my office. That's the best thing about being your own boss: you can pop out for a cemetery visit any time you like.

         I found the whole day very moving. I was a zombie at my office the rest of the afternoon, and I barely remember getting home. When I did, I removed my suit and passed out on my bed for four hours. The post-state of doing something like that is intense, rich and filled with complex thoughts and emotions. I couldn't express them clearly until I closed my eyes and dreamed. While the dusk light filled my bedroom, Judy's voice singing "I'm Always Chasing Rainbows" echoed in my head as I drifted away.

         Flora telephoned me the next day and thanked me for the experience, and I returned the gratitude. It had been an event, and a lovely day. We felt richer in spirit for having done something you might only be able to do once (or three times) in your life, if you're lucky. But to be with someone who understands you perfectly and doesn't expect anything, that's the richness. There's no obligation, no need for explanation. Even while grave hunting, you can simply love.

         Flora and I were becoming great 'Judy friends.' With her back at home, we continued to happily correspond over the next few months. We would meet again though, but who'd have guessed it would occur in Minnesota?

Part three (of four parts) to Munchkin Luncheon…next Monday