cartouche's Open Salon Blog

My Dangerous Childhood

Wed, 9 Nov 2011 11:11:57 -0500

Do you remember how our parents ranted about the distances they walked just to get to school and reminded us how lucky we were to have shoes on our feet? If I had birthed children of my own, I probably would have been caught saying, “In my day, you got a pair each of school shoes, dressy shoes and those you used exclusively for gym. You think life is tough having to put on a seatbelt to ride in that child’s seat until you are seven years old (or 85lbs., whichever comes first)? When I was your age, I was sliding back and forth in the backseat of a Buick as my dad careened down the interstate at 90 mph, driving with his knees as he ate his lunch with both hands, using the service road of the interstate as his own personal lane because he didn’t believe in stopping for food or pee breaks. That man was in a hurry.”

If that didn’t scare them, I would have also thrown in a good dose of, “Rubberized gyms and playgrounds? That’s so fey. We had industrial chain link swing sets with a flap of some mysterious material to sit on and nothing but cracked, hard cement underneath us to catch us when we fell.”

Nothing says childhood survival better than being hit head-on by a high-speed tetherball.

Indoors, things weren't much better. We shimmied up thick rope in an effort to pass a test and earn the President's Fitness award. I have scar tissue memories of the horrific (and unfortunately, horizontally) striped gym uniform (not Missoni, for sure) I wore to accomplish this feat and rope burns on my hands in the name of John F. Kennedy. And somewhere, buried under jacks that I never would have dreamed of swallowing, I still have that certificate to prove it.

There were no germ-ridden MCDonalds playhouses to explore with colorful, rounded corners to keep us out of trouble or harm’s way. A happy meal implied nothing more than showing up at the dinner table with our hands washed and eating whatever was served to us with gratitude. If we were lucky, pleasure too. No TV, chicken nuggets, toys or bottled anything to make it taste better. Our dishwasher was our mother. We recycled brisket until it became something that would still taste better than some of the items that pass as food today.

Daycare consisted of our moms. We had play dates with mud pies and the hose. We did this with other children in backyards or living rooms with ugly furniture that was protected by plastic slipcovers. We amused each other and ourselves without a parent in sight. And we managed to go home, do our homework, brush our teeth, bathe and get to sleep without being bribed by anything other than the promise of no dessert. We were grounded every night and forced to stay at home. We were stay-at-home children, not miniature executives-to-be.

Our roller skates came in a flimsy box that didn’t require a PhD and a chainsaw to open and get to them. They came with a twisted key and no directions. We attached them to gym shoes that had absolutely no support or cushion whatsoever. There wasn’t an ounce of body armor required by law or our parents to put them on and hit the pavement running. Or falling. When we went down, banged our knees or rolled uncontrollably into a stop sign, nobody got sued. We got up and did it again. And again.

We pedaled down steep hills on our banana bikes (with no hands!) wearing clothes that had no padding for our bottoms. Today, you have to wear a condom, helmet, knee and elbow pads just to walk out the door. And that's only after you have passed a DNA test, been accepted to the proper preschool and jumped through hoops to prove how special you are before finding out that you're just plain average or not at all when going through airport security.

Cute? Maybe. Special? Probably not.

Childhood in my day was brutal, I tell ya. From the beginning, we were abused with cloth diapers. Not one of us sprouted water or blood from being accidentally poked by safety pins. There was no disposable anything when we were small other than the occasional goldfish. Halloween meant trick or treating in a several block radius until well after 9 pm and being able to eat all the candy you could collect without risk of being poisoned or meeting a razorblade.

Grocery stores were closed on Sunday, which meant that if you didn’t have parents who realized this, you had nothing to eat again until Monday. I don’t think we ever missed a meal.

Back in the old days, almost everything was closed on Sunday. As a matter of fact, I'd tell kids today that Sundays didn't even exist until they were born and that the malls, video games, cell phones and Wi-Fi came right after. I may not be wrong for once. Breaking news was delivered every morning via newspaper, for a short time in an afternoon edition and then at 6:30 pm when we gathered around the television to learn what was going on in places like Vietnam and heard my parents muttering about sending my brother to Canada if his number was drawn. News was delivered by men with wrinkles, character and journalistic integrity and nobody gave a damn what diet Walter Cronkite or David Brinkley were on or whose label they were wearing.

We waited until dark to play 50 scatter (hide and go seek to the uninitiated). The only people who ever came searching for us were our friends. My father’s blazing eyes and leather belt were the equivalent of an Amber Alert if I stayed out too late. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo were diversions, but they were no Jack Kennedy.

There were plenty of times during our dangerous childhood years where we complained, “there’s nothing to do”. But the fact of the matter is that it was true. Unless we entertained ourselves, sometimes we did little more than enjoy a less invasive, more carefree excursion into adulthood and we lived to tell about it.

The last time I had nothing to do was probably 1972.

I miss those days.

My Brilliant Second Career, x2 Squared

Mon, 31 Oct 2011 14:10:18 -0400

I’m not one to look back at, wax nostalgic over or live in the past. If I’ve done it once and didn’t particularly enjoy it (or him) there’s a very good chance I’m not doing it (or him) again. There are always far more interesting prospects for the future to think about or plan for to keep me occupied.

Yet 12 months ago, I wasn’t so sure. I was in a dry spell, trying hard to create sparks of any kind by lighting wet matches to my stagnant life. It was completely surrounded by water. Like many people in Florida, I had purchased my home during the real estate boom and put more than half down. Seven years and 84 mortgage payments later, the value of my house had plummeted to less than half its original value. You do the math. It's the stupid economy, not the economy, stupid. I could have opened my front door and walked in any direction and purchased another house in my neighborhood for less than my down payment seven years earlier. But I still would have been living in Florida, which I was desperately trying to leave. I just couldn’t figure out how without walking away and starting over.

365 days ago, I decided to tackle the invisible monster of my life and seriously work on my memoir. I had an agent in wait and an editor at the ready. Considering my first draft (all 176 pages of it) had been lost in the great MacBook crash of May 2010, I took it as a sign that I should start from scratch. Instead of attempting to rewrite what had devastatingly disappeared (Steve Jobs, if you happen to find it, please consider magically making it reappear), I approached my memoir with a renewed vision and angle: I was going to write my way out of Florida and incorporate it into the story.

This premise may seem implausible, but I’ve had some experience with this concept. In my 20’s, I wrote my way into Athens, Greece (via Cairo, because that’s the more exciting route to take) and ended up becoming a lyricist for EMI Records as result. I wrote my way into a storybook life in the south of France without ever publishing a single word and wrote myself out of it nearly a decade later to move to Paris, hoping for a different outcome. Apparently, someone or something else was writing my immediate future and the edited version of me had to make some choices.

When I relocated back to the states a few months shy of 9/11 and settled in Florida, I would drive by the offices of the local newspaper and think to myself that before long, I would be writing for them. A few months later, I was given my own column and became a restaurant critic. I had an editor who took great pleasure in trying hard to define my writing as it was not rather than seeing (or reading) me for who I was. Never trust an editor who uses the word, “gendre”. Just saying.

In 2005, two hurricanes in less than three weeks devastated our region, yet I still lived to write about it and them. An unfortunate restaurant review cured me of wanting to express an opinion in writing ever again. So I did what the average person in the worst economy would never think of doing to make a living. I took up painting instead. I never said it was a sane idea, but I knew that nobody could take a big red pen to my creativity. Just a year and half and 150 paintings later, I had my first solo exhibition in Chicago. If I couldn’t write my way out of Florida, I could surely paint my way to somewhere else.

"American Dream"

24 x 36 Acrylic on Plexiglass

Patricia A. Smith 2010

But a funny thing happened on my way to my brillant new career. Galleries across the country began closing and those that remained in business minimized their risk and expenses by showing artists whose work didn’t require expensive shipping. Florida was not exactly my art market and paid freelance writing opportunities were becoming fewer. The economy may have temporarily painted my life into a corner but my creativity would not allow it to stay there. It's a formidable opponent.

As I started to write my memoir for the second time, I was approached with a freelance project. What started as recipe editing quickly evolved into my becoming the co-author with Two Star Michelin Chef Josiah Citrin of Melisse Restaurant and relocating to Los Angeles to complete his first cookbook. I look back at my double writing life at that time and see the beginning of that book with emails from last year when recipes were sent in small batches. I read chunks of abandoned ideas and text from my memoir, hundreds of versions of single sentences and the thousands of recipe revisions that followed. In less than six months, there was a cross-country move and learning that you can put just about anything in storage except your creativity.

As far as the memoir is concerned, I guess it’s not quite ready for primetime. When I do eventually get around to writing it, there’s a good chance I’ll call it “Necessity Breeds Reinvention” because my life has proven this to me more than once (and I’ve already bought the domain name). For the time being, I’ve written my way into something that I’m not quite ready to write my way out of. And people are suddenly interested in my artwork once again. Go figure.

“In Pursuit of Excellence” was released this week and is available on Amazon.

What a difference a year makes.

http://www.amazon.com/Pursuit-Excellence-Josiah-Melisse-Restaurant/dp/0981980279/ref=pd_sxp_f_pt

In Pursuit of Excellence: Josiah Citrin, Melisse Restaurant

www.amazon.comAmazon.com: In Pursuit of Excellence: Josiah Citrin, Melisse Restaurant (9780981980270): Josiah Citrin, Patricia Aranka Smith, Matt Kiefer: Books

What the World Mourns Now is Jobs, Steve Jobs

Thu, 6 Oct 2011 01:10:24 -0400

What the world mourns now is Jobs, Steve Jobs,

He’s the kind of man that I wish, my father was.

What the world needs now is jobs, sweet jobs,

They’re the only things that there are too little of.

What the world mourns now is Jobs, Steve Jobs,

He’s the kind of man that I wish God made more of.

What the world needs now is jobs, sweet jobs,

No not just for some, but for everyone.

Lord, we don’t need another downturn,

There’s recession and heartache enough to climb,

There are oceans and red tape enough to cross

Enough to last, till the end of time.

What the world needs now is jobs, sweet jobs,

No not just for some, but for everyone.

What the world lost now is Jobs, Steve Jobs

He’s the kind of man that I wish, God made more of.

And this man, named Jobs, whose life brought jobs

Wasn’t lost to some. He’s a loss for every, every

everyone.

*****

Apparently, the ability to embed video doesn't exist any longer, so here's the link to a longer version of the original song sung by Dionne Warwick....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bH9sBgekdZo

*****

RIP Steve Jobs

Six Months to Life

Mon, 11 Jul 2011 17:07:55 -0400

Once every decade, my life undergoes some sort of major metamorphosis. This time around, things happened about a year later than usual. Boy did I make up for that delay. For the past six months, I’ve been doing a lot of this:

Which has left me little time at all to do this:

As matter of fact, the very last piece I painted was this:

"Chef's Shoes" 36 x 24 Mixed Media

It’s a pair of two-star Michelin chef Josiah Citrin’s chef shoes. The irony is not lost on me that while painting this piece, I ended up spending a lot of time here in his kitchen:

As a matter of fact, I spent about 33 days straight in the kitchen of Melisse Restaurant, observing, absorbing and soaking up the following:

I barely saw daylight. Believe it or not, this left very little time to enjoy something like this:

In the midst of all this, I was presented with a life-changing opportunity that gave me two minutes to make a decision. In less than four days I went from this:

To this:

It required some quick thinking and action. This decision brought me to the other side of the country. This sunny little apartment just blocks from the beach had my name written all over it:

It took me a few weeks to realize I was missing a lot of these:

As for O’Really? She came along, but was put on a temporary leave of absence. For those who suspect otherwise, here is proof of her existence:

She did manage to ~~escape~~ get out one night and do something she hadn’t done in years:

Her opponent was a very ~~gracious~~ sore loser:

Back to the movies. Life was getting extremely stressful as deadlines loomed for:

17-hour days became the norm.

I have lived, breathed, eaten and slept this project since January. After six grueling months, it finally went from this:

To this:

Which means that next week when we sign off with the publisher, I can finally do this:

To think this journey all began with one chance meeting in the Louvre Museum in Paris back in 1987.

“In Pursuit of Excellence” will be released in October 2011.

If somebody would have told me my first book would be a cookbook, I probably wouldn’t have believed it. This has been the toughest, most challenging, exciting, demanding, exhausting and rewarding six months of my life.

There were plenty of times I thought I was going to lose my mind or my cool (or both). The moral of the story:

Remembering More than a Teacher

Mon, 28 Mar 2011 01:03:32 -0400

My sophomore year in high school, I became part of an organization called Girls Glee Club and Men’s Chorus. By the time I graduated in 1978, its name had been changed to Heights Singers. Political correctness had just cracked open the door.

For those three years, I had the privilege of learning from a master music educator named Bill Thomas. My senior year, I had the honor of serving as president of the glee club side of that 120 member equation. Dan Stashower was the president of the chorus side and together with Mr. Thomas, the three of us enjoyed a wonderful teacher-student partnership.

Over the years, Mr. Thomas was a powerful force and mentor to his students. Our winter and spring concerts ran for two nights each and were always performed to sold-out audiences. We took an annual spring tour to a different city every year, complete with a dozen adult chaperones that herded and controlled us like nobody’s business. In my own middle age, I marvel at what those parents did for us back then and what they put up with. Under the ever-watchful eye and precise instructions of our fearless leader, we piled in and out of five buses (a nod to Bus #1: “Heeeeeere’s Earl!”), numerous hotel rooms and various stages like well-trained soldiers.

Somewhere between the 6 a.m. wake-up calls, "mee ah mee ah mee” vocal warm-ups, the grueling twice-daily performance schedule (often in inner city schools) and rolls of ducts tape, we managed to sightsee, eat three square and visit numerous landmarks before room to room visits were made to assure lights out at 11. Our education never stopped.

Performing in Washington, DC by invitation to the nation’s capitol as we celebrated the bicentennial remains one of my most cherished memories. The echo of our collective voices singing in that rotunda of the senate brought chills to our spines. We were “Up with People” in a younger version.

Mr. Thomas was simultaneously a music director, therapist, educator, father figure and friend to countless students over the course of his 30-year career. He also was a perfectionist and disciplinarian who possessed as strong a sense of compassion as he did humor. The impact he made on so many cannot be overstated. He always had a moment (or an hour) to listen to a student who needed an ear. His was not only for music. His huge heart and enormous belly laugh could swallow a room whole. He was like the McDonalds of music: thousands and thousands served.

In the summers, he served as the director of Cain Park, a beautiful gem that is home to one of Cleveland’s most prestigious art festivals. Numerous plays and productions are performed in the lovely amphitheatre in the summer. I worked for him for two seasons as his administrative assistant and learned how to drive stick shift in a Cushman. I drove that little garbage truck out of that gorgeous park and home for lunch one day. Sure I could do so without getting caught, I only got busted because I stalled so many times on inclines at red lights that I was late back to work. Mr. Thomas was not a man to make mad. He could throw you over his shoulder and carry you across the stage while swigging a Diet Coke if you got him angry (for say, not running to answer the incessantly ringing phone quickly enough in his office). In spite of that, he was loved by us all. My senior year at Christmas, we gifted him with hundreds of bottles and cans of Diet Coke to feed his legendary and much-teased addiction.

Aside from teaching and serving as director of the Grace Lutheran Church choir, Bill was a devoted husband and an extremely kind, loving family man. In spite of his enormous responsibilities and demanding schedule, he was generous with his time and heart and a tireless champion for people and causes he believed in. I was one of many of them.

I learned of his battle with Parkinson’s disease a few years ago and friended his wife on Facebook. Jane was open with updates about Bill’s declining health and difficult battle with a disease that eventually robbed him of his ability to speak. He could barely move. While in Cleveland last summer, I saw him for the first time in decades. He was sitting front and center at Cain Park watching a group of middle-aged guys known as “The Doo Wops” performing songs from the 50’s on that balmy summer night. Those men were once his students. They were immensely popular and performed together for years at various venues. They reunited a few years ago and dedicate their concerts today to the man who helped them form their group and develop their talent.

During intermission, my sister Fran (also a former glee club member and officer) and I walked over to Bill and Jane to greet them. It was an emotional reunion. I will never forget the steely gaze of his piercing blue eyes. Words no longer existed for a man who once could talk you in or out of anything. His body was stiff, but Jane managed to stand and hold him up. His rigid arms extended out to me. I leaned into him and held him close.

At the end of my presidency in 1978, he had taken me aside and told me that I should be proud of what I had accomplished during my tenure. I had waited all year to hear him say those words – that he was proud. Now, more than three decades later, it was my turn. I told Bill that he had been a critically important person in my life; a man who believed in me, listened when no one else would and had made me a better, kinder, stronger human being. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I walked away. I knew I probably would never see him again but was so grateful for the opportunity to have had the ability to finally tell him what an impact he had made on my life.

Bill suffered his last of many strokes last Thursday night and never recovered. His son David announced his death on Facebook on Friday night March 25th. I wish I could go to Cleveland for his memorial service next Saturday, where I am sure thousands of former students and parents will turn out to honor this powerful force of a man and pay their respects to a teacher who touched so many people. Iris Rubinfield, an iconic GGC-MC parent legend herself (she directed the musicals), will be in attendance. I spoke with her earlier today and we reminisced about the old days and shared our memories. When I told her what was planned for the service she replied, “I won’t be able to stand it.” She and my sister will both have to do it for me, since I won’t be able to attend.

Our signature song, “Let it be Me” was almost always the last of every concert and became the encore (if we had performed well). It will be a heartfelt tribute when all those voices from 30 years join together in harmony to sing in honor of Bill Thomas one last time. I can’t think of a more fitting conclusion to an emotional service for a dearly loved man (who we often referred to as "King Bill") whose life has come to an end. They better not sing off-key. Bill will (still and) finally be conducting down to the last note, free of any restraint. I can only imagine the “alamem” chant that will break out afterword. It will be a beautiful sendoff (in any combination of red, white and blue).

Rest in peace, Bill. I hope and pray there’s a Diet Coke building in heaven. Your photo would certainly feature prominently in its hall of fame and a room in it would be reserved especially for you with the unmistakable placard on the door that reads, “William D. Thomas, Musical Director”.

Regardless, your fine legacy will surely take up more than the entire 4^th floor of a place filled with much love. Thank you for inspiring, changing and touching so many lives.

In loving memory of William D. Thomas, August 24, 1942 – March 25, 2011.

Images by/from: Sal Irigoyen, Nina Cohen, Jane Thomas, Al Glickson

* * * * *

With apologies for many of the inside references, this post was written as a tribute and retrospective from an era for people who were part of the GGC-MC/Heights Singers. To my friends at OS: I have been insanely busy with a project that has taken up my time over the past two months and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. I apologize for posting and running, but it's what I need to do and only wrote this because of the important role this man played in many lives, including mine. Hope to see you all sometime in May!