My article “Duluth Monarch Buddies: Helping Monarchs One Waystation at a Time” appears in the June issue of Northern Wilds. To read my article, click here, and turn to page 22.
I’m particularly proud of this article because it focuses on pollinators, such as monarchs and bees. With the current threat to our national forests and programs designed to protect our environment, there are ways we as individuals can help make Earth a better place. Plant a pollinator garden, ditch the use of pesticides, plant a tree, learn about the natural world around you, and connect with organizations like Duluth Monarch Buddies to learn how you can be a power of one in the protection of our planet.
Northern Wilds also published my short article “Capt’n J’s Mini Golf: A Treasure Chest of Fun on Barker’s Island.” To read my article, click here, and turn to page 7.
Yesterday I made cranberry pistachio shortbread cookies. The kind of cookies my grandma Olive would’ve made to serve at a ladies’ luncheon. (Although, her cookies would’ve have contained dates because dried cranberries weren’t available until the 1980s.) Her luncheon would’ve been written up on the society page of the local paper. The kind of write-up they don’t do anymore, unless it’s about someone famous. It would’ve sounded something like this:
On Wednesday, May 6, Mrs. George Youngquist entertained the Presbyterian Women at a luncheon in her home. [Back in the day, a married woman’s first name was rarely mentioned in an article.] She served a variety of finger sandwiches, potato salad, and coleslaw, along with fruit punch. For dessert she served a variety of cookies, including her well-loved date-pistachio shortbread cookies, accompanied by coffee. In attendance were the group’s president, Mrs. Frank Smith; the secretary, Mrs. Grover Bost; and the treasurer, Mrs. Elmer Connors, along with nine other members. No church business was conducted. Mrs. Youngquist said, “The gathering was held to celebrate spring and to give the ladies a chance to visit with one another.“
As a child and for most of my adult life, had I been at that luncheon, I would’ve passed on the date cookies, no matter how well loved they were. I would’ve looked for a chocolate chip, peanut butter, or sugar cookie. But I’m of a certain age now, and I like to try new things, occasionally. (But in a crazy paradox, I’m not big on change.) So, a couple of months ago when I saw this recipe, along with a picture of the cranberry pistachio shortbread cookies, I decided I needed to bake them. After all, I do like cranberries and pistachios and shortbread.
I bought the dried cranberries and the shelled pistachios shortly after I came across the recipe, which was a couple of months ago. Yesterday I decided I needed to stop procrastinating and bake the cookies. It was a perfect day for baking. I spent most of the day writing, so baking cookies would get me off my backside. And it rained and stormed most of the day, ideal baking weather.
The production line
Why did it take me a couple of months to try the recipe? Fear of messing it up — because I’d never made this kind of cookie before. But once I started mixing, chilling, then later baking, I discovered this simple recipe produces scrumptious cookies that look sophisticated, like the kind served at a luncheon or with high tea.
The two sticks of butter used in the recipe make the cookies melt in my mouth, releasing bursts of cranberry and orange, making my mouth tingle. They pair well with coffee. However, I will have to find someone to share them with because my husband doesn’t like cranberries. He did try one, but he didn’t like it. Ijust couldn’t possibly eat all these cookies by myself.
What did I like about this recipe? It was easy! The cookies turned out so well that I fancied myself as a TV chef. The dough is rolled into a log before chilling, which makes it easy to slice the cookies for baking. Other recipes, like this one, call for the dough to be chilled in a ball then rolled out on a flat surface before using a round cookie cutter. But the log method is easier and less messy. Also, the log method keeps the baker from overhandling the dough. Best of all, I felt like I was in the kitchen baking with my grandma Olive.
What would I change? I’d use chopped walnuts or pecans instead of pistachios, which are harder than pecans and walnuts. Because when I had to slice the cookie dough, the chopped pistachios were difficult to cut through. I could use dried cherries because my husband likes those, but he doesn’t like walnuts or pecans. I could eliminate the nuts, but they add a savory taste.
My one goof? I only had a small orange. Having never zested an orange before, I had no idea how many it would take to make a tablespoon of zest. I ended up with 1/2 tablespoon, and while I can still taste the orange, I can’t help but wonder what the cookies would taste like if I’d used a whole tablespoon.
I went to see a live opera because it was on my list of things to do. (In case you’re wondering, I signed up for Medicare a few months before going to my first opera.) I had such a good time that I want to share some thoughts about my experience, but first I should point out my shortcomings as an opera critic.
I have no training in opera.
I don’t understand opera’s conventions. (Other than there is a lot of singing, which crescendos into an epic climax of either joyful or tragic proportions at the end of the opera.)
The Jenny Lind biography I read as a fourth or fifth grader.
My exposure to opera as a child consisted of two events. One, in fourth grade I read a biography about Jenny Lind, an opera singer known as the Swedish Nightingale. This didn’t encourage me to learn more about opera. Instead, I just fancied myself to be the next Jenny Lind. I would sit by my second-story bedroom window and sing out into the neighborhood (with what I considered to be a lovely operatic voice) because that is what Lind did as a child. People passing by Lind’s window listened to her beautiful singing, and one passerby discovered her talent and helped her down the path to stardom. Only Mr. Geise’s cows across the road heard me sing, and none of them mooed about my talent.
Two, when I was about twelve, I saw Beverly Sills, a talented soprano, perform on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show. I loved her voice and her flowing red hair. When Carson interviewed her, I fell for her wit and laughter. Over a handful of years, I saw Sills make appearances on various talk shows during the 1970s, but I never saw her in an opera. She was a gifted and well-respected opera singer, but it was the talk-show circuit that made her a household name and gave her celebrity status. Even people who knew nothing about opera, like me, usually knew who Sills was.
So, anything I say about my La Bohème experience isn’t intended to resemble a critique or a review. Also, I truly loved my debut at the opera, so my comments come from a place of affection, even if they sound cheeky.
I chose La Bohème to be my first opera because that’s what the Lyric Opera of the North performed this year. It’s a famous opera, so I’d heard of it. It’s the opera that Ronnie Cammareri (Nicholas Cage) takes Loretta Castorini (Cher) to see in Moonstruck. Ronnie knew what he was doing — Loretta loved the opera. And, this is where Loretta falls in love with Ronnie.
Because La Bohème is written in Italian, I read a synopsis of the libretto before attending the opera. While reading about La Bohème, I came across some unflattering critiques of Puccini’s opera — calling his musical composition simplistic, lacking in complexity, yada, yada, yada. For a moment, I wondered if I should wait to see a different opera. Then I remembered all the beautiful singing and music in Moonstruck’s La Bohème scene. I also learned that La Bohème has been performed over 1,000 times at the Met. So, not the first time critics have panned something that people love anyway. Besides, what would I know about the musical composition of an opera.
So, here’s what I loved about my first opera:
I loved that the set design evoked a shabby-chic slice of Paris with a romanticized version of poverty, you know, without the half-starved rats, the rubbish in the streets, and the ever-present layer of grime. The rich jewel-toned costumes complimented the pastel-colored sets, like a well-chosen pair of earrings and necklace elevates an evening gown. After all, gritty reality is overrated. When we know that in the end a lovely young woman will die a tragic death while in the arms of her lover, we want some beauty along the way.
I loved that on a long, narrow screen above the stage, an English translation of the Italian libretto scrolled by as the singers trilled, vibratoed, bel cantoed, and otherwise sang their way through scenes of comedy, anger, and tragedy. The subtitles provided a line-by-line translation. Without it, I would’ve missed out on so much of the story. I thought this was unique to the venue I attended, but a friend of mine said when she saw an opera in Michigan there were subtitles.
I loved that the melodramatic, over-the-top, corny libretto sounded brilliant when sung in Italian. More than once, as I read the English translation, I thought, “As a writer, I could never get away with such sappy, syrupy, trite dialogue.” (Perhaps my characters should speak Italian.)
I loved that although the pageantry on the stage was gorgeous, it was upstaged by operatic voices so strong, crisp, and clear, producing sounds so bewitching that I couldn’t believe they flowed from human voice boxes.
I loved the magnificent, glorious, wrenching tragedy of it all. How can anyone hear Mimi ask, “Will my hands never be warm again?” and not shed a tear? (Charles Dickens would’ve loved to have written that line.)
I loved that at the end of the opera, as Mimi reclines upon her couch in her freezing apartment, dying of tuberculosis, she sings her heart out with Rodolfo, the love of her life, reminiscing about their time together. Having read a book about dreaded plagues, which included a chapter about tuberculosis, the incongruity of performing an operatic finale when one would be coughing up blood and gasping for air, stuck me as darkly humorous. But I kicked the cold, hard reality from my mind, and I let Mimi and Rodolfo’s final moment together carry me away.
After the performers took their final bows, I left the theater knowing I would definitely see another opera. A few months later, I went to see La Serva Padrona, a light-hearted intermezzo by Giovanni Battista Pergolesi, which was translated into a modern English version by Steve Solkela. I loved everything about it.
In the movie Pretty Woman, Edward Lewis (Richard Gere) takes Vivian Ward (Julia Roberts) to see her first opera, La traviata by Giuseppe Verdi. Before the performance begins, it’s apparent that Edward hopes Vivian will love opera as much as he does. As the final song ends and Violetta dies in the arms of her lover (of course), Edward looks at Vivian and sees her eyes have pooled with tears and her face is filled with rapture. At this moment, Edward realizes Vivan has a depth beyond his stereotype of hookers. He has fallen in love with Vivan, he just doesn’t know it yet.
When another woman asks Vivan if she enjoyed the opera, Vivian answers, “Oh, it was so good I almost peed my pants.” Vivan, like me, doesn’t know how to talk about the conventions of opera, but she knows what she likes.
My short essay “Christmas Break Snowstorms Were the Best” appears in the March issue of Northern Wilds, where I’m a contributing writer. I love writing for the magazine and reading it.
Or you can view it in the magazine format here: https://northernwilds.com/current-issue/ There is an option to view it in full screen. My essay appears on page 18.
This is where I spent most of my childhood. Our old white farmhouse sat close to a narrow road. The barn on the left belonged to our family. The structures in the background, a barn and a home, belonged to two different neighbors. Our snowbanks ran from the back of the farmhouse toward the neighbor’s barn.
One of the very pretty mittens my mother bought me. The other one is irrevocably lost.
I lost a mitten on February 10. And it made me very sad. I hadn’t lost a mitten since 2017, when I actually lost a pair of them.
This Christmas my mother bought me a pair of very pretty mittens. The colors are cheery and subdued, all at the same time. The red flower on the top of each mitten, along with the red buds along the cuffs have just the right touch of whimsy for me. She also bought the knit beanie hat that matched the mittens. When I opened her gift, I wasn’t sure about the beanie. I’m kind of fussy about hats. But later when I tried it on, I found it fit well and looked nice on my head. My mother has a knack for buying me things I wouldn’t buy for myself, yet I end up loving them. She seems to know if something will suit me. Maybe that’s because she sees me differently than I see myself.
After I unwrapped the mittens, oohed and aahed over them, and slipped them on my hands, my mother said, “I bought those at Ciao Bella’s. They were expensive.”
And my mother has a knack for that too — pointing out that something was expensive or sharing exactly how much she paid for it. I think this has to do with how poor she was as a child. I had no doubt they were expensive. They were fancy, they were lined, and they felt like small warm hugs on my hands. I loved them. I thought, “I’ll have to take extra care not to lose them.” And that made me afraid to wear them.
Until my daughter-in-law took me to dinner and a play to celebrate my book of short stories being accepted by a publisher. It was a special night, and I wanted to wear my pretty hat and mittens. Dinner was wonderful, and the play, What the Constitution Means to Me, was funny and thought-provoking, and I didn’t lose my hat or mittens.
Emboldened, I started to wear my Christmas mittens to other places, including a coffee shop on February 10. I met a friend for lunch, and we visited for two hours. When I got up to leave and put on my mittens, I discovered I had only one mitten in my purse. I was certain that I’d had both of them when I’d gotten out of my car. My heart sank. In the morning when I’d put on the mittens, I remembered thinking, “I love these, and I sure hope I don’t ever lose them.” I felt like I’d cursed my mittens.
My friend and I looked everywhere for the mitten: all over the coffee shop, in the parking lot, in my car. Then we looked in all of those places again and again. (It’s nice to have a friend who will stay and help you look for a lost mitten.) We even went next door to the bookstore just in case someone found the mitten and turned it in there. No one had seen my mitten, and no one had turned it in at either shop. In the bitter cold, I drove home with only one hand snuggled in warmth. Mother Goose’s nursery rhyme about naughty kittens losing their mittens played in my head.
I’d decided to try and replace the mittens. After I arrived home, I called the store where my mother had bought them and left a message. But I was too impatient to wait for someone to call me back. While I was waiting, someone, somewhere, might buy the last pair of mittens like mine.
I found a tag inside my remaining mitten. They were made by a company called Lost Horizons. Now that’s irony. I looked up the company online. They still had my mittens for sale. The name of the pattern was Chloe. I decided not to wait to hear back from the store where I’d left a message. (They have never returned my call.) I ordered a pair of Chloe mittens. My mother was right — they are expensive. And I had to pay shipping. But it was worth it to me because the mittens had been a gift from her. The older my mother gets, the more sentimental I get about her.
In the meantime, I took a photo of my remaining mitten and made a poster, writing on it: “Have you seen this mitten? They were a Christmas gift from my mother. If found please return to the coffee shop or the bookstore.” I asked the managers of each establishment if they could put up my poster. I needed to do everything I could to find my lost mitten. After all, when I lost the pair of mittens in 2017, I searched for them like a treasure hunter on the trail of a buried treasure. I never did find those mittens, and they weren’t replaceable.
Four or five days later my new mittens arrived. They were exactly the same! They looked just like the mitten I hadn’t lost. I put the right one on first because that was the one I’d lost. Same great hugging-the-hand feeling. Then I slipped on the left mitten. Not good. It felt like an overly-firm handshake. The lining of the mitten had been twisted during assembly and sewn in the wrong place.
On one hand, I still had the original left mitten that fit well, so that would leave me with a good pair of mittens that fit. On the other hand, I’d paid for two mittens that were supposed to fit properly. I wanted what I’d paid for, so I emailed the company, and explained the problem. It was Saturday and their offices were closed until Monday.
But in the tale of my lost mitten — a story with its ups and downs — another upswing came my way. I heard back from Lost Horizons. Their representative emailed me that while their offices were closed on the weekend, they wanted me to know that they’d received my email, they were sorry I’d had a problem with the mittens, and they’d be contacting me on Monday to help me with either a new pair of mittens or a refund.
On Monday I opted for new mittens. I received another email with a return label and an assurance that they’d reserve a pair of the Chloe mittens for me. (I liked how they made sure they didn’t sell the last pair of Chloe mittens while waiting for my returned mittens. A company that thinks like me!)
So, the pair of mittens with a defective left are on their way to the East Coast. And I’m waiting in the Midwest. It was bad luck to lose one of my mittens, especially during a subzero cold snap. It was good luck to find I could buy another pair. It was bad luck to get a defective mitten. It was good luck to have done business with a company that values customer service.
I’m hoping the good luck holds and my mittens arrive soon. I hope they fit well. I’m not superstitious, but maybe I’ll only wear them to the theater and not to coffee shops.
Nellie “Bly” ponders an important question regarding investigative journalism: “Isn’t it time for lunch?”
On October 10, my grand-dog Nellie, whom I like to refer to as Nellie “Bly,” went on assignment with me. I was working on an article for Northern Wilds magazine. Our mission was to interview one bookstore owner in Two Harbors, Minnesota, and one bookstore manager in Grand Marais, Minnesota, and to take photos. Nellie Bly was game. (Although, if she had been given a choice, she would have rather chased small game instead of facts.)
Going on a reporting job with a dog is fun, but it requires more time. We were gone for over six hours. In addition to doing interviews and snapping photos, our assignment included four walks, a lunch break, and a supper break.
Nellie waited in the van while I did the hard-boiled investigative work inside the bookstores, asking the managers about the history of each bookstore and which books they anticipated would be hot for the holidays. Good investigative journalism means I had to ask the tough questions too, such as “What is your favorite holiday book? and “Do you have any holiday traditions involving books?” Of course, in the name of gathering evidence, I bought some books at each store.
Nellie got paid in food and treats. However, when I ate my Happy Meal for lunch, she made it clear that she wanted to exchange her bowl of dried kibble for my cheeseburger. And when I had my six-inch sub for supper, she again made it clear she wanted to swap her bowl of kibble for my sandwich. There were no trades. I told her life in the field as a reporter is filled with sacrifices.
Perhaps, if this article goes over well, it will lead to a TV series, where I travel the country, reporting on independent bookstores, asking probing questions about each bookstore’s origins and what’s selling well, all while spending my writing paycheck on books. Maybe Nellie Bly would like to be my assistant. We could travel in a RV with a driver so I could read and she could look out the window. I can hear Nellie now — trying to negotiate a better meal deal and asking for top billing in the credits. With her good looks, she would be the star of the show in no time anyway.
[To read my article click here: Northern Wilds, pages 14-15.]
Look carefully. Grandchild #3 is nestled between the fish.
My grandkids didn’t have school today, and they don’t have school tomorrow, so they came to my house. I was hoping for nice weather because I planned to take them on a hike to Lost Falls in Cornucopia, Wisconsin, today, and to Cascade Falls near Grand Marais, Minnesota, tomorrow. But rain, cold, and winds up to 30 mph said differently.
Instead we went to the mall. Our first stop was the bookstore, where I bought each grandkid two books for Halloween. Then we hiked to the indoor playground. While they played, I took out my book — A Samuel Pepys Mystery: The Brampton Witch Murders by Ellis Blackwood — and I began to read.
About fifteen minutes later, my first grandchild came for her book — Dipper’s & Mabel’s Guide to Mystery and Nonstop Fun! — and she began to read.
A few minutes after that, my third grandchild came for his book — The Wild Robot by Peter Brown — and he began to read.
Not to be left out, my second grandchild came for his book — Demon Slayer Kimetsu No Yaiba #1 by Koyoharu Gotouge — and he began to read.
My fourth grandchild ignored the trend and kept playing on an interactive screen. He enjoys its puzzles, games, and coloring app. He read his book — Creepy Carrots! by Aaron Reynolds — on the way home.
I didn’t give my grandkids candy for Halloween. They’ll get a stash of it tonight when they trick or treat in the rain and cold and wind. I gave them candy for the imagination.
Apostle Island Booksellers: A Store with a beautiful cover, and a stunning interior
The view after walking in the front door
Bayfield, Wisconsin, has two wonderful bookstores: Apostle Island Booksellers and Honest Dog Books. Every time I visit Bayfield, I visit both places. I will talk about Apostle Island Booksellers in this blog, and Honest Dog Books in an upcoming blog.
Apostle Island Booksellers is small but gorgeous, and stocked with a wonderful selection of books. Walking through the front door, transports me back in time, into a warm and cozy and other-worldly space. A creamy-white tin ceiling with old-fashioned lights — the kind that bring old schoolhouses and libraries to mind — hangs over the natural-colored wood floors. Windows trimmed in decorative molding, wooden shelves, brick accents, and an old area rug catch my eye. But it’s the colorful covers of books that win over, and I look for something to take home with me.
A romantic corner, the perfect place to fall in love with a book.
I walk around the front part of the bookstore, then head for the small back room tucked away like a treasure. As I go, my eyes scan titles and cover art. Along the hallway and in the back room, more books are displayed, making use of every available place to shelve a book. I’m happy to see the room around the corner is unchanged. It has what every bookstore should have: a place for a reader to sit and read a few pages of a book, to see if it’s a good fit.
I think I’ve made up my mind about which book I will buy, but I finish looking around the store before I pluck Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut from its spot on the shelf. My nephew suggested I read it, and I’ve also read that it’s one of Vonnegut’s best.
I discover another book, The Shipping News by Annie Proulx, and snap a picture of its cover. The synopsis intrigues me, but I will think about this book. I might borrow it from the library, or buy it at another bookstore, or buy it from Apostle Island Booksellers the next time I’m in town. Like other book lovers, I wish I could buy all the books that catch my fancy, but I’m limited by the coins in my purse and the space in my home. And my mind becomes uneasy if my To-Be-Read piles mushroom too quickly on the flat surfaces in my home.
While I pay for my book, the clerk and I strike up a conversation about British literature. We are both huge fans and discover that in our early years, we read almost nothing else but British literature. Her love of British authors started with Shakespeare when she was in ninth grade. My love started with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories when I was in seventh grade.
I slip my new book into my large purse, and head to Honest Bog Books. I have one more book to buy.
Maria Lockwood greets customers with a big smile and the enthusiasm of one book lover to another.
MY TOWN HAS A NEW BOOKSTORE! And I’m shouting with joy. Maria Lockwood opened Foxes and Fireflies Booksellers on August 31. For the time being, her bookstore will be open on Saturdays and Sundays from 10:00 to 5:00, and some occasional evenings. During the week Maria works as a journalist for the Superior Telegram. That’s a lot of dedication to the printed word.
Since visiting the store this morning, I’ve been walking around in a state of happiness. The last bookstore in Superior closed down seventeen years ago. It was a well-loved, successful bookstore, but the owners wanted to retire. And when they locked their doors for the last time, they left behind many bereft bibliophiles.
Flooded with light and surrounded by marble, large windows, and wood trim, Foxes and Fireflies invites readers to come in and browse.
But now we have a new bookstore. Foxes and Fireflies is currently located in the old post office building in Superior. It’s in a business incubator space — a place where Lockwood’s bookstore can grow and gain a clientele before she relocates to another, larger space.
On the other side of this cozy space, kids and young adults will find a selection of YA and children’s books.
Lockwood’s bookstore has several places to sit, where a reader can peruse the first pages of a book, trying on a story to see if it will be a good fit. There are kid-friendly spaces with puzzles, some games, and children’s books. I have two grandchildren with birthdays in September and October. They love books, and I plan to take them to the bookstore. They will find the store as magical as I do.
Lockwood has created a warm, inviting space that makes me feel at home while I hang out with books waiting to become my new friends. While most of the books are new, customers can also find some gently loved used books for sale. Besides books, she stocks some beautiful journals, coffee cups, and dish towels, among some other fun objects like stickers.
Today I bought two journals, one decorated with sea creatures and the other with owls; a dish towel scrawled with Shakespearean insults; and the novel North Woods by Daniel Mason.
I’m thankful to have a bookstore in my town. In a couple of years, one of the two bridges connecting Superior and Duluth will close down while the bridge is being rebuilt. It’s hard to know how that will impact travel to Duluth, but I’m guessing it will be a challenge. There are three independent bookstores and one big-box bookstore in Duluth, but when that bridge closes down, driving to them won’t be convenient.
I would rather buy books than clothes or jewelry or dinners out. I would rather read than watch TV. At the end of every day, I ask myself, “Shall I watch something on Netflix or BritBox or shall I read?” Ninety-six percent of the time I choose to read and let the stories play in my head.
When I travel, I love to visit small independent bookstores. Perhaps I’ve been to a bookstore in your town or will visit one in the future. If you come through my town on a weekend, visit Foxes and Fireflies at 1401 Tower Avenue, Superior, Wisconsin. There is plenty of parking on the side street or behind the building.
Get thee to an indie bookstore, or as Shakespeare said, “Fie on thee, jolt-head.” (I’m going to have fun with my new dish towel.)
After fifty-three years, I believe I’m finally ready to get up on a stage and play the Wizard in The Wizard of Oz. When I performed the role in seventh grade, I developed severe stage fright. My voice, which was supposed to roar from behind a curtained booth, stuttered and whimpered instead, barely audible.
Saturday night I went to see Liberace & Liza, A Tribute at the Depot Theater in Duluth. David Saffert and Jillian Snow, two excellent entertainers, became Liberace and Liza for the evening. The show was a wonderful ninety-minute escape into a bygone era from my youth. My sisters and I grew up watching TV variety shows starring Liberace, Dean Martin, Carol Burnett, Sonny & Cher, and Flip Wilson.
Near the end of their act, Liberace and Liza performed a skit called “Liberace OR Liza.” They explained they would read scenarios, and two volunteers from the audience would take turns guessing if the statement was about Liberace or Liza. However, when they asked for two volunteers to come up on stage, the audience went silent. Finally, Liberace and Liza encouraged a young man from the second row to join them. The man, named Kevin, wore a black T-shirt and a pair of gold sequined pants. I had seen him forty minutes before the show started. I had admired his outfit, figuring it was a nod to Liberace and Liza, who both loved sequins. But I had also wondered if he would be part of the show.
No one else raised a hand.
I waited. I mulled it over: a chance to perform with Liberace and Liza, who kept pleading for a second volunteer. All I would have to do was smile big and answer questions in a cheerful, audible voice. I thought some more. I had a chance to be part of a variety show, even if it wasn’t televised. I could smile big and have some fun. After all, I reasoned, the real Liberace was a hometown boy from Milwaukee, so I should help him and Liza. I, too, was born in Milwaukee, and lived there until I was five, when we moved to Franklin, which is still in Milwaukee County.
I stuck my hand high in the air and volunteered.
I was sitting near the back of the theater, so I had a long walk to the stage. Pushing aside the memory of my seventh-grade acting failure, I strode forward, feeling confident and fearless — I became Quiz-Show Contestant on her way to win jubilantly or lose gracefully.
When my sisters and I watched the real Liberace on TV, he performed in flashy colorful sequined outfits. His fingers, festooned with diamond-and-gold jewelry, flew up and down the keys on a golden piano that sparkled with mirrors and rhinestones. The combination of his fast-paced piano playing and his never-ending glitz mesmerized us. If he had played a plain piano while wearing a black tuxedo and using bare fingers, my sisters and I would never have noticed him, even if he had kept the same frenetic playing style. Liberace was an excellent showman who understood how to sell an image.
Before I went to the tribute show, I looked up Liberace and learned that from the 1950s to the 1970s, he was the highest paid performer in the world. I also learned that serious music critics panned his piano-playing skills, to which he responded, “I’m crying — all the way to the bank.”
Once on the stage, Liberace and Liza explained the rules of the quiz to Kevin and me. I smiled. I had no sense of dread or wishing they would get on with it, so I could go back to my seat. I was having fun. Liberace wore a sequined red-white-and-blue, stars-and-stripes themed jacket with long red fringe dangling from its sleeves; a pair of matching sequined hot pants; red-white-and-blue knee highs; and sparkling shoes. Liza wore a red-sequined top and pants, loosely covered by a flowing, floor-length black gauzy garment. Under the stage lights, the gold sequins on Kevin’s pants lit up like fireflies. I wore mostly black, sans sequins. My only bling was a pair of subdued silver earrings and two small rings.
My consolation prize, which I will treasure
Kevin’s personality matched the sparkle of his pants, and he embraced his role. I didn’t try to upstage him. I became the calm, composed character next to Kevin’s funny-guy schtick. I smiled, made a few restrained theatrical gestures, and answered three questions, earning one point. Using grand theatrical gestures and hammy facial expressions, Kevin answered all three of his questions correctly, so he won the big prize. I received a consolation prize, a very cool Liberace & Liza tribute sticker. Liberace and Liza shook hands with me and thanked me. I shook Kevin’s hand and congratulated him. I had become Quiz-Show Contestant Losing Gracefully. But I smiled because I was triumphant in defeat — not once did I experience stage fright, and I had a great time. I even wished there had been someone to take a picture of me up on the stage.
Liberace took my hand and escorted me off the stage. For a moment, as I made my way back to my seat, I wished that I could have felt fearless and confident in seventh grade while playing the Wizard. But my self-assured debut with Liberace and Liza made up for my seventh-grade acting debacle.
Kevin’s big prize was to be serenaded by Liza while he sat on a stool upon the stage. He embraced this with delightfully comic acting, even singing along with Liza near the end of the song. And, although he sang off key and seemed unsure of the words to the song, something about Kevin and Liza’s bit made me think he may have been a plant in the audience. I had even thought about this when he was encouraged to volunteer. On the one hand, Liberace’s and Liza’s interactions with Kevin seemed so spontaneous, but on the other hand, could they really leave finding the perfect contestant to chance? One who would be able to ham it up with Liza as she sang to him? Even Kevin’s outfit made two arguments. Had he dressed to be part of the act or had he just been an enthusiastic audience member? Either way, his glittering gold pants sure looked good on stage, making him the perfect accessory to Liberace and Liza.
The intrigue around Kevin’s role made it even more fun for me. I know someone I could ask, who would probably tell me if Kevin was a plant or not, but I don’t want to spoil the magic and mystery of the moment. Besides, Kevin was perfect up there. I would not have been as entertaining if Liza had had to sing her heart out to me.
Liberace, Liza, and Kevin didn’t realize it, but I did win the bigger prize. I had zero stage fright, and I didn’t worry if I was going to look silly. Something else that Liberace and Liza didn’t know, but the warmth and good humor they had exuded throughout their show, let me know I would be in kind hands if I went up on the stage
Wisdom doesn’t belong to seventh graders playing the Wizard. But thankfully, I have gained some as I have aged: Smile big, have some fun, and don’t be afraid to be silly. That’s what I did. And that’s what Liberace, Liza, and Kevin did.
Writing Near the Lake 