A Word From the Weiss

        Forget “To be or not to be.” The words my father spoke were “Is she coming out?” Then my fiancé asked it, too. The date was July 15, 1984, and that was the question.
        Standing in my tiny dressing room, swathed in white from tulle veil to pointy toe, I’d suddenly had a panic attack. Or maybe my mother had hocked me one too many times. All I know is that there were over 150 guests waiting to see me in my strapless gown. They would have to wait a little longer. Was I coming out? To tie the knot? I thought not.
        But then someone must have talked some sense into me because apparently I did. I walked down the aisle. The groom stepped on the glass. Everyone drank Champagne.
        So one wedding, two kids, and three decades later, that fiancé (now husband) and I set out last weekend to celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary. But now the question was neither “To be or not to be?” nor “Is she coming out?” We were down to one word.
        How?
        We had agreed to postpone any major travel until we go visit our daughter in Hong Kong this fall. (It seemed silly to go now, at the height of the tourist and typhoon seasons.) But after surviving 30 years together, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, we had to do something special.
        It seemed that what we were supposed to do was something outside our normal routine. Like go to a romantic inn in the country and gaze into each other’s eyes. But pleeeeze. After 30 years, we had seen each other’s eyes plenty. Also, after 30 years, figuring out what my husband and I will enjoy didn’t require a whole lot of guesswork. I knew that sitting in the country, we probably would be bored out of our minds.
        Our normal routine when we’re looking for fun and excitement is to go into NYC. And although we already do that plenty, why mess with success? There was, however, one break from the usual that seemed imperative for the occasion. For our anniversary, there would be no economizing by settling for a cheap chain hotel in Long Island City.
        Fuhgeddaboutit, I told my husband. On the night of our wedding, being ever-frugal, he had booked our usual home away from home – a very Spartan, dorm-like room at the Princeton Club – motivating several of his friends to chip in and get us a room at the United Nations Plaza instead. This time I was taking matters into my own hands.
        After all, if there were ever a time in our lives to kick it up a notch or two, this was it.
        Knowing how much Nice Jewish Dad enjoys perusing the trendy shops and art galleries in Soho, I chose what looked to be extremely hip and posh accommodations down there: the Mondrian Soho, run by the Morgans Hotel Group, which also owns what may be the true height of hipness, the fabulously stylish Delano in Miami Beach.
        After checking the prices on various web sites, from Hotwire to Hotels.com, I called the hotel itself and learned that they had a very decent special “Seasonal Offer.” This entitled us to free Wifi, a complimentary continental breakfast buffet, and a room upgrade if one were available. There was, however, one small but very significant catch.
        The woman in reservations said that all of their rooms (except for their penthouse suite, which went for a whopping $1,200 a night) had either a king- or queen-sized bed, and there was no way to guarantee one or the other until we checked in.
        Now, it may sound prissy, but the fact is that my husband and I have been sleeping in a king-sized bed at home for three decades now, and when we go on vacation, about the last thing that we’re inclined to do is downsize. We wanted a king, and only a king.
        Exacerbating the issue was that we had been invited over to my brother’s house for a barbecue the evening that we were due to check in, so we might not get to our hotel until late that night. And after my husband nagged me one too many times about calling the hotel again to try to guarantee that we got that king bed, I didn’t have a panic attack. I simply decided to phone the hotel, cancel the reservation, and stay elsewhere.
        Not so fast, declared a woman named Jocelyn at the Mondrian Soho’s front desk. Before I could cancel, she proposed a solution. She would not only guarantee us a king bed, but also lock us into a room upgrade. No, make that a double upgrade, changing us from a standard room to a deluxe corner room on a high floor far from the elevators.
        It wasn’t just an offer I couldn’t refuse. It was exactly what I’d wanted all along.
        It was also only the first of many windfalls that would fall our way over that weekend.
        We spent a wonderful day at my brother’s on Long Island visiting not only with him and my sister-in-law Karen, but also our son Aidan, his girlfriend Kaitlin and our nephew Charlie, who was in for a rare trip from Berkeley, CA, where he is attending law school.
        I must say that I was happy to have locked into that deluxe room, though, because by the time we had driven to the city through heavy traffic, it was already after 11 p.m.
        To my amazement, we found a free parking space right across the street from the hotel which was good until Monday morning.
        To my delight, the hotel was just as stylish and whimsically furnished as the Delano, although the brisk bar scene made me wonder if we belonged there. (Somehow, mingling with the young and the beautiful doesn't make me feel young and beautiful. It makes me feel old and frumpy.)
        But after checking in quickly, we wandered into nearby Little Italy, where we treated ourselves to a midnight snack of mouth-watering gelato at Ferrara’s bakery.
        And when we returned to our gorgeous deluxe room, decorated exquisitely in shades of pristine white and royal blue, I nearly swooned at the sweeping view of the twinkling city skyline, complete with the Empire State and Chrysler buildings all aglow. Then I fell into that spacious, comfy, king-sized bed, and that’s the last that I remember.
        The so-called continental breakfast to which we were entitled turned out to be one of the most ample and classiest buffets we have ever had. Served in the chi-chi Isola Trattoria and Crudo Bar in the Mondrian’s lobby – a cavernous glass-enclosed dining room hung with cascading chandeliers – it boasted everything from mini croissants, pains au chocolats and other pastries to fresh fruit salad, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and the very best Greek yogurt and home-made granola I have ever had in my life.
        Although there was also the option to order such delicacies off the menu as Nutella- Stuffed French Toast with blueberries and ginger mascarpone ($17) or Eggs Benedict with Charred Leek Biscuit and Hollandaise ($17, or $20 with smoked salmon), after helping ourselves to the buffet repeatedly, we couldn’t have downed another bite.
        We decided to work off brunch in the fitness room, followed by a little shopping. But I barely managed to walk a block before wandering into an alluring jewelry store from which I was unable to leave.
        I’m not in the habit of buying myself expensive jewelry. But my husband wanted to get me something special for our anniversary, and the prices at Seasonal Whispers (31 Howard St. or seasonalwhispers.com) were surprisingly reasonable, and the unique styles too special to resist.
        It was an added bonus to learn that all of the jewelry there was designed by a mother-daughter team originally from Israel named Esther Lixenberg and Yafit Goldfarb.
        But what truly sold me on these delicate and inventive creations was how weightless they felt to wear. I was tempted at first by an unbelievably cool “vest” for $80 made of 24k gold-plated chains being modeled by the vivacious salesgirl, Courtney, who’d gone to college with Yafit’s daughter Tyler, a third-generation jewelry designer herself.
        Then there was the ultra cool “hand chain” in 24k plated gold that you looped around your middle finger, extended down the back of your hand, and wound gracefully around your wrist.    
        Yet I finally settled instead on a novel accordion-style “wraplet” bracelet made of stainless steel wire and 24k gold plating, set with Swarovski crystals ($73.60). It felt so light and airy around my wrist that I would have forgotten I had it on had those teeny brilliant crystals not kept catching the light.
        Now it was my turn to find a special gift for my husband. In a trendy boutique next door called Opening Ceremony, he found a pair of red sunglasses. It was love at first sight. For him, anyway. I thought they looked a little too special and insisted we move on.
        We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the area enjoying Soho. And before we knew it, it was time to hop a subway up to the original scene of the sublime.
        The Water Club, that is, where I had booked us a sentimental journey for dinner.
        When we had begun searching for a venue at which to tie the knot, The Water Club had been the very first place we visited. I’m not sure that I believe in love at first sight; as I confessed recently, when my husband first appeared at my door to take me out on a blind date, I thought he was cute, but mostly the most nervous person I’d ever met.
        The Water Club, however, was another story. For me, that was love at first sight. And although we continued searching for several months, nowhere else ever compared, and we finally realized that when it came to pitching a chupa and saying our vows, this classy eatery on East 30th Street overlooking the East River was the only place for us.
        It was hard to believe that 30 years had passed since we had last walked through its doors. But the moment that we did, the momentousness of what had happened there hit me.
        No, let me be honest. It was way more than that. Soon after the maitre d’ seated us side-by-side at a large round table overlooking the water, my husband excused himself to go to the men’s room. That’s when it hit me – right in the gut – kind of like a Mack truck.
        The last time we’d been there, on July 15, 1984, we had posed following the ceremony for all sorts of pictures with my mother, my father, and my mother-in-law. None of those people were alive any longer. But sitting there, I could see their faces. And feel their presence. The room was filled with memories. But also full of ghosts.
        And sitting at that big table all by myself, I couldn’t begin to fight back another river. A river of tears, that is.
        Moments later, I looked up to see my husband returning, followed by the maitre d’, who was cradling two slender flute glasses fizzing audibly with golden Champagne. I had mentioned both the wedding and anniversary when I had reserved the table online, and the bubbly was on the house.
        Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I managed to flash a big smile when our waiter snapped us. And then to flash yet another one when at the end of the meal – which was uniformly scrumptious, from our shared appetizers of fried artichokes and a beet salad to my grilled salmon – our waiter appeared with a special anniversary dessert, also provided gratis.
        It was reassuring to discover how good the food was, even 30 years later, since at our wedding we had been busy making the rounds and dancing, and barely had gotten to eat a bite.
        It was also thrilling to be introduced on our way out to owner Buzzy O’Keefe, the famed restaurateur who’d created the club, as well as Brooklyn’s legendary River Café.
        But I decided not to take our waiter up on his kind offer to bring us into the banquet room in which our wedding reception had been held. It felt overwhelming enough to be back on the premises and to view the balcony in the lobby on which we’d been snapped with our many ushers and bridesmaids. I didn’t have the heart to face any more ghosts.
        Besides, we were running late for the next segment of the evening that I’d planned.
        If there is one thing that my husband and I enjoy even more than hanging out in Soho, it’s going to the theater. Unfortunately, most shows on Sundays are matinees. But that didn’t mean we were out of luck.
        The New York Musical Theatre Festival had just kicked off a few days earlier, and it had several productions running that night. NYMF, as it's known for short, is an annual series that since 2004 has spawned such resounding successes as Next to Normal and Altar Boyz.
        It was presenting 24 new musicals through July 27, with all tickets priced at $25 or less. The one I had chosen for us to attend was a musical comedy called ValueVille, with book, music and lyrics by someone named Rowen Casey.
        In this surreal creation, a young fellow named Eddie with a newly minted MFA from NYU takes a temporary job at ValueVille, a superstore that makes Walmart look classy. But on his very first night, he learns that he is doomed to serve out a life sentence in this retail hellhole under the thumb of a demonic boss and alongside a cast of cantankerous coworkers, including Sharonda (a larger than life, bad-ass black girl), Stacy (a skanky bimbo whose idea of discourse is spewing the plots of B movies), and Meg, a tormented former flame who remains overwrought over the loss of Eddie’s affections.
         Being just a nice Jewish mom, I cannot claim to have entirely understood all of the proceedings, which seemed to me to have some sort of basis in Christian theology. Why were these eccentric characters doomed to an eternity inside a cheesy box store, where a pregnant shopper had her baby permanently packed on board and customers could never check out? And what was Eddie’s deceased, batty grandmother doing there? Were they stuck in a bargain-basement Purgatory? Or had they gone straight to hell?
        Also, why, when they finally rid themselves of their fearless leader’s dictatorship, did everyone desperately want him back? Was it just a matter of preferring the devil you know? Or is it the human condition to need someone in charge, no matter how evil?
        Who knows? All I can say is that we thoroughly enjoyed all 90 minutes of this spirited, uplifting, and highly energetic production and were very sorry to see it end.
        In fact, within the hour, I found myself to be very sorry about this indeed.
        We took a series of subways back down to Soho and arrived a little past 11, only to remember that our car needed to be moved before we went to bed because street parking was prohibited on our block after 8 a.m. Monday.
        I wanted to go find a parking lot right away. My husband, however, insisted on going up to our hotel room first to put down his heavy backpack and change his shirt. He was convinced that this would take only 5 minutes. I knew it would take 20.
        And it did.
        Then we went back down to find parking. I was beat and it was late, so I just wanted to locate the nearest garage and be done with it. After 30 years of marriage, though, I knew that my frugal husband all but refuses to pay for parking, and he was not about to make an exception, even when we were there to celebrate our 30th anniversary.
        With me behind the wheel, he demanded that we drive around the neighborhood slowly while trying to read the parking signs on every block. They all said roughly the same thing, though. (No parking Monday through Friday 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.)
        So I kept driving, and driving, and thanks to the labyrinthine, cobblestone streets of Soho – which all have names like Crosby, Grand, and Lafayette instead of easy-to-navigate numbers like the ones further uptown -- we were soon completely lost.
        Eventually, we found a block with several empty spaces amid a few parked cars. However, all of these spaces were situated in front of a public school, and a sign indicated that there was no parking after 8 a.m. on school days.
        My husband insisted that I pull into one of these, clearly euphoric to have found it. After reading the sign, however, which he’d bounded out to examine closely, I asked him to get back into the car because I wasn’t convinced that it was legal to park there.
        “There’s no school tomorrow. It’s summer!” he barked when I remained obstinate.
        Maybe there was, and maybe there wasn’t. There might be a summer session, I countered, and we might not only get a ticket, but also be towed. Why take a chance?
        What followed was a brief but quite colorful altercation in which my husband grew extremely red in the face and made many references to how stupid and annoying I was.
        And no doubt I made more than my share of rather unflattering remarks in return.
        Of course, I was in the driver’s seat in this case, both literally and figuratively. Being a nice Jewish mom, I’m someone who always errs on the side of caution. That school bore a big banner talking about the meals it was providing during the summer. There was no way I was going to throw caution to the wind and leave my car out front.
        So finally my husband had no choice but to scramble back in, still sputtering. Then we proceeded to drive around the neighborhood, still bickering and still basically lost.
        Eventually, we found a public lot which was charging $38 for 24 hours. Given that we’d found free parking the night before, not to mention our double room upgrade and being treated to free Champagne and dessert, I thought we should spring for it.
        He didn’t.
        We continued to drive around instead looking for someplace, if not free, then cheaper. And suddenly the dark skies opened up. It wasn’t just raining. It was a deluge. I’m talking about a downpour like Noah and the flood. (At last, a Biblical reference I got!)
        To our relief, we finally found a garage that was only charging $24 overnight. But despite a couple of empty spots, the surly Asian attendant declared that they were full.
        The upshot was that we ended up driving around lost and in the dark and torrential rain for over an hour in total, only to finally return to the original parking lot that cost $38. And even with a pair of umbrellas, we got seriously soaked walking back to our hotel.
        It was now 12:30 a.m. And never mind that it was our 30th anniversary. Nor that we had shelled out for a fancy hotel, a romantic waterside dinner, and theater tickets. I crawled into that king-size bed shivering and miserable and said that I wanted a divorce.
        Who knows? Maybe I was right the first time, when I wouldn’t come out 30 years ago. Yet 30 years later, my husband knows how to calm me down and warm me up.
       And the next morning we woke up to that wonderful complimentary breakfast again.
        Then we looked at some art, shopped some more for sunglasses, and drove back to Connecticut by nightfall so we could celebrate our actual anniversary the next day…
        At which point my husband brought me a bouquet of flowers… And finally gave me the gold Star of David charm that he had bought for me in May and safely put away.
        I gave him assorted hazzerai too, then cooked him a delicious three-course meal served with wine and another special dessert (heart-shaped brownies with vanilla bean ice cream and my famous homemade hot fudge). Now, that's a gift.
        Who knows? Maybe marriage is hell. Or maybe at times it is a purgatory from which we cannot seem to escape “till death do us part.”
        But when as a bride you choose to come out, you have to deal with the outcome.
        Sometimes, to be perfectly frank, even after 30 years, I wonder what my husband and I are doing together. But our friends Pat and Michael gave us an anniversary card on which they listed a whole lot of random things that they believe we have in common.
        This included late nights, tennis, Purim, and TV, along with jazz and being Jewish.
        They also mentioned books, New York City, and mothers. (Who doesn’t have a mother?) As well as sex. (Who doesn’t have sex?)
        But they didn’t even get to any of the really big things that link us eternally and irreparably – not just love of Soho, theater, and trendy hotels, but our son and daughter.
        And Latke, of course.
        I still don’t know about love at first sight. But I do know about love after 30 years.
        And all I can say is that despite the parking debacle, it was a damn nice weekend. So maybe it’s good that I came out, eventually. And maybe, given another 30 years, eventually we’ll get it right.

A Word From the Weiss

        Normally, I try to keep my ruminations and reflections in this space relatively light. You get enough tsuris in your own life, God knows, let alone from watching the evening news. Yet this past week has failed to yield my usual nice Jewish comedy of errors. That is to say, it has come up extremely short in the comedy department.
        As for errors? Fear not. There have been plenty. And plenty of them, of course, have been mine, all mine.
        It all started, I suppose, a whole year ago, when we made reservations to spend last weekend at a lovely inn in Lenox, Massachusetts. This was certainly nothing new. On the contrary, we go to the same inn every year and have ever since I can remember.
        As you may have noticed, “frugal” is my middle name. OK, it’s actually Sue – just plain Sue – which, paired with Pattie, makes me sound like a cheesy country singer.  Still, I tend to be a reverse snob and to take endless delight in boasting about the great bargains I find and the cheap things, like cheesy hotels, for which I am willing to settle.
        But let’s face it, I also have the occasional luxuries on which I am willing to splurge, and our annual family trip to the Berkshires each June has long been chief among them.
        I hope I never grow too old or too set in my ways to not crave and relish adventure. Yet there is also something to be said for having annual traditions, beyond the holidays (Jewish and otherwise) that we celebrate each year. And going to Hampton Terrace in Lenox, MA, is one of ours. Along with being a delightful destination that we never fail to enjoy, it also evokes warm memories of the many years that we’ve gone there already.
        Many of these previous excursions included my mother, who joined us there each summer without fail. Somehow, it always turned out that only one of our two kids would be able to join us, while the other was away at a camp of some sort. And the child who came would be blessed with the dubious honor of getting to bunk with Grandma Bunnie.
        Being the original block off which I am a nice Jewish chip, my mom invariably would insist on giving that youngster the better bed, claiming the saggy cot for herself.  And when we were seated with other guests for the lavish breakfast served daily, she never failed to mortify the child on hand by saying the most embarrassing things, such as when she hectored our teenage son in a “stage whisper” to fraternize with female guests his age.
        We always went the same weekend every summer, because the main purpose of this trip was to attend the live broadcast of Garrison Keillor’s radio show A Prairie Home Companion, held at Tanglewood each year on the Saturday before the Fourth of July.
        This was another family tradition of which we never seemed to grow weary. And after Grandma, sadly, was no longer with us, and both of our offspring had grown up and gone on to have bigger fish to fry, we didn’t even consider relinquishing that ritual. We simply began to go to the radio show with our good friends Sally and Dial instead.
        Yet I still refused to give up on my basic template for the tradition, which involved our whole crew. Each year, when the tickets for Tanglewood went on sale in January and Prairie Home promptly sold out, I would buy an extra three, just hoping that our kids might join us in June and predicting that one of them might want to bring a date.
        And each June, when they didn't come, I would do my best to sell those tickets on Craigslist.
        To my delight, Allegra had vowed to come along last weekend for the first time in many years. So I was crestfallen when she was hired to go sing in Hong Kong for three months, beginning on July 1. Not only would she not be able to make our trip after all, but we’d be away and unable to give her a proper sendoff by driving her to the airport.
        Our son Aidan agreed to drive her instead, meaning that he wouldn’t be able to join us either. So as time went on, I began to regret not cancelling the entire trip. Never mind seeing Allegra off at the airport. I was full of angst and wracked with dread to see her go! I knew that there was no chance I would enjoy a vacation with her departure imminent. But I didn’t want to disappoint Sally and Dial, for whom we already had bought tickets.
        I know Sally and Dial – I’ve known them for nearly 30 years – and I know that what they love about going to A Prairie Home Companion each year isn’t really about going to A Prairie Home Companion. It’s about going to Prairie Home Companion with us.
        Over the years, you see, we have developed our own elaborate ritual with them.
        We spend the afternoon perusing the many stylish boutiques in downtown Lenox, Sally and I shopping for shoes and so on while our husbands do a very poor rendition of acting patient… and when we can’t stand their kvetching anymore, Sally and I give up.
        Then we all drive to Tanglewood and have a lavish picnic on the lawn, complete with the copious food that Sally and I have prepared and multiple bottles of wine.
        Later, after the show, we repair to our room for dessert… and of course more wine.
        If we canceled out, then I knew that they could still do most of all this themselves. But I also knew that there was no chance in hell that they would.
        The four tickets I’d bought had cost $57 apiece, and it was too late to sell them on Craigslist. If we didn’t go, the only ethical thing to do would be for us to pay for them all. Plus, we would sorely disappoint our good friends. So I couldn’t see just canceling out.
        Then something far more urgent happened to make me want to cancel even more.
        One of my uncles had been gravely ill for some time, but a week before we were due to leave, my Uncle Gerard, who was 88, took an abrupt turn for the worse.
        The following day, he was put in hospice. His daughter called me the next morning to say that she didn’t believe he would live through the night. To everyone’s amazement he did anyway. But the nurses predicted he wouldn’t last more than a day or two more.
        My Uncle Gerard was not only my late father’s brother, but only 18 months his senior, meaning that they were very close throughout their lives, and I loved him dearly.
        Meanwhile, his daughter, my Cousin Susan, is only 18 months older than I am. She lives in the same town that I do, and we are about as close as cousins can be.
        I couldn’t imagine going away for a fun vacation while my life was in such duress, and I couldn’t imagine going away for a little R & R while her life was one big SOS.
        What’s more, if life is unpredictable, then death is even more so. There was no way to foretell when the funeral might occur. So as the week progressed, I became increasingly anxious that we wouldn’t be able to go or would have to check out early.
        I also grew fearful that the funeral, which would be held in New Jersey, might be scheduled for Sunday morning (Jews can’t be buried on Saturdays), so that if we stayed in Lenox on Saturday night, we were likely to arrive late. Murphy’s Law may state that anything that can go wrong will go wrong, but as a Jew, I subscribe to Levy’s Law – essentially, that anything that can bite you in the tush is bound to bite you in the tush.
        In this case, what if we got off to a late start? What if we got lost along the way? And what if we ran into heavy traffic, which is almost guaranteed in and around NYC?
        Yet by then it was past the point where I could try to cancel in good conscience.
        We had been going to the same inn for so many years that I thought the owners, Stan and Susan, might cut us some slack and let us cancel or reschedule under the circumstances.
        On the other hand, I knew that they weren’t full for the weekend, and it was unlikely that they could rebook the room at this point. And we had gotten to know them so well over the years that I would have felt enormously guilty to have them be out the dough.
        I also felt too awkward to confront them head-on. I simply wrote midweek to relay the news about my uncle’s condition. I said I was “terrified” that I might need to attend a funeral that weekend and to let me know if anyone materialized to reserve our room, my hope being that they would offer to let me cancel or rebook.
        But Stan merely replied to say that he was sorry to hear about it and that he would keep me posted if someone else called to book our room.
        “Maybe you will still be able to come,” he assured me. “Let's keep in touch.”
        I never heard back from him again, though. Meanwhile, I kept in touch with my cousin, who anticipated that each day might be her father's last. But he lasted through the week.
        So on Friday, I reluctantly packed up my suitcase, as well as our picnic provisions.
        I also decided to bring along a small display of old photographs showing my uncle in much better days. I found one of him with my father when they were each 20 or so, younger than my kids are now. Another captured him and my dad dressed in formal attire, beaming broadly at my parents’ wedding, for which my uncle served as best man.
        By the time we left for Lenox, I wasn’t just reluctant to go. I was sobbing loudly.
        Never mind the money that would have gone to waste. Why hadn’t I canceled out?
        We arrived only to learn that over the winter, Atticus, the inn’s resident dog who had been loved by all – especially us – had reached the age of 14 and they had been obliged to put him down.
        I sobbed again.
        Then we spent much of the evening conferring with family members about possible funeral arrangements. I needed to alert some other cousins about what was imminent.
        I heard from my Cousin Susan late that night that my uncle had just passed away. Then it was time to really cry.
        She called again the next morning to report that the funeral would be on Sunday after all, and would start at noon.
        Perhaps we should have decided at that point to go home right away. Or to go home that night after the show. But the fact was that the temple in New Jersey, where the funeral would be held, was an estimated 2 hours and 45 minutes away from our house and only 15 minutes further away from Lenox. If we got an early start, we could stay and still make it. And even if we left, I assumed we’d still have to pay for the room.
        And by now it was really too late to cancel on our friends, and much too late to cancel out on the innkeepers. So I decided to not only stay, but to try to put on a good face for the rest of the day and do my best to not ruin the experience for everyone else.
        There is indeed something to be said for having good friends and rituals you enjoy. Having Sally and Dial arrive was in many ways a wonderful distraction from my grief.
        Then again, when you’re in the throes of anguish over the death of someone you love, about the last thing you want to do is have to pretend that you’re having the time of your life so as not to disturb anyone else.
        We did our shopping and then had our sumptuous picnic supper, complete with a gorgeous vegetable salad that Sally had prepared and our customary array of libations.
        Then we proceeded into the massive Koussevitzky Shed at Tanglewood, where the show was just getting underway. Keillor was up to his usual lively yet irreverent antics, singing and dishing out heartwarming tales and homespun humor along with his usual entourage and lineup of special guests – including, as is part of his Tanglewood ritual, two girls’ singing groups, the DiGiallonardo Sisters and the Wailin’ Jennys.
        But in my state of distress, I found my mind wandering, and the only detail that still sticks with me now relates to a skit in which one of the characters was a diva with such an extreme allergy to almonds that she’d once gone into anaphylactic shock when someone arrived with an Allman Brothers’ CD in the glove compartment of their car.
        I kept trying to force myself to enjoy it, as long as we were there. But the truth is that you can’t will yourself to be happy any more than you can will yourself to be in love.
        Afterwards, Sally and Dial came back to our room for apple pie and ice cream, and I perked up a bit while showing them Allegra’s glamorous new publicity shots on my computer. But they left much earlier than usual, and then we were still up until 1 a.m. packing everything into the car.
        I didn’t want to risk leaving anything till morning.
        And of course I barely slept a wink, worrying that I might sleep through the alarm.
        When we stopped into the dining room on our way out on Sunday, Stan, the owner, went out of his way helping us pack up some eggs, toast, and coffee and a bowl of his famous grits to go. But as I hurried through the front door balancing this booty, I somehow failed to control myself when he called after me brightly, “See you next year!”
        “Maybe,” I retorted with an unmistakable grimace. “The fact is that forgetting this weekend is going to take me a long, long time.”
        He responded with a stunned look, but I was in much too big a hurry to explain.
        Our directions from Mapquest turned out to be fekakta, of course, and sent us 15 miles out of our way. Then we threw our fate to Siri. Equally perilous. But by some miracle, we managed to arrive at the temple by 11:50, with 10 minutes to spare.
        My cousin delivered a eulogy so moving and sincere that I sobbed through every second.
        Then her brother, my cousin Michael, offered his own poignant remarks, stating how proud he was to have been his father’s son.
        He described how my uncle had been a war hero – given both the Purple Heart and a medal for bravery after being wounded in World War II – as well as an incomparable athlete and eminently talented performer.
        Indeed, when I was a child, the entire family had turned out regularly to attend his many community theater performances in such classic musicals as The King and I (in which he, of course, played the king) South Pacific, and Guys & Dolls (in which he truly brought down the house as Nicely-Nicely Johnson belting out, “Sit Down, You’re Rocking the Boat.”
        I’m sorry that I don’t have any photos of him in these memorable performances. But he was equally famous within the family for crooning a truly magnificent Motzi (the blessing over the challah bread) at each and every simcha (celebration) anyone held, and I have plenty of shots capturing this at my children’s bar and bat mitzvahs. 
        It was both heartbreaking and uplifting when everyone proceeded to the cemetery to discover that my cousin had arranged for my uncle to be given the honorable military burial he deserved, complete with a haunting rendition of “Taps” and two uniformed servicemen respectfully performing the ritual of folding the American flag that had been draped over his casket.
        During the shiva observed back at my aunt’s house over a lavish spread of corned beef, pastrami, and other deli meats (along with potato salad and kosher pickles), it was also heartwarming to catch up with many cousins and other relatives I rarely get to see.
        But then I stayed late to continue visiting after my husband left to drive our son back to the city, and I got caught in horrific Sunday evening traffic. It took me nearly three hours just to drive across the George Washington Bridge and six hours altogether to get home. I stumbled into my house just before midnight, utterly exhausted, and passed out on the living room sofa still wearing my funeral clothes.
        It would not only take me a long time to forget that weekend, as I had said to Stan. It would take me the whole week to recover.
        Meanwhile, I wrote to him the very next day. I wanted to explain my parting comment, lest he fear I had found his services somehow lacking. I also wanted to explain why he might not see us next year.
        “You probably did not have any way of intuiting this,” I wrote, “but there was barely a moment during the entire weekend when I could enjoy myself or begin to relax.”
        I went on to explain how was tense and sad I had felt about Allegra’s departure for Hong Kong, and how guilty I’d felt not to be able to drive her to the airport and see her one last time. As for the funeral, I’d been a nervous wreck and ashamed to be living in luxury while my cousin grappled with her father’s death and funeral arrangements.
        “Despite your usual hospitality, the weekend was, in a word, a nightmare,” I concluded. “I don't feel like I just got home from a restful vacation. I feel like I just got home from the war. I cannot imagine ever returning. But perhaps that sense will pass.”
        He responded almost at once, and what he said genuinely shocked me.
        “I am sorry you had a stressful weekend,” he wrote. “It is easy to understand why.”
        What I had taken to be astonishment on his face at my parting words, however, had merely been a look of mystification because he hadn’t heard a word that I’d said.
        And that was far from the only instance in which we had failed to communicate.
        He said that he had been prepared for us not to come, or to leave after only one day. “Since you are such a loyal guest, I would not have charged you for either night,” he said. “That is money right out of our pockets, but I know you wanted to come. And since you never said you were not coming – just that you might have to go to New Jersey at a moment's notice – I did not bring up what we would do if you had to cancel.”
        Oh.
        My.
        God.
        So I guess there were many errors over the past week, and as I said most of them were mine. If I could do it all over again, there is little that I would have done the same. But perhaps that means there are lessons to be learned here – lessons for us all.
        I learned that I must follow my gut; if something doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t.
        I learned that honesty really is the best policy, including honesty with yourself.
        But most of all, I learned once again – and, once again, the hard way – that you can’t expect people to know what you want unless you come right out and tell them. And if there’s something that you really want, you need to come right out and ask for it. (The worst that you can probably be told is no, but they also might very well say yes.)
        Dial and Sally are good friends, and if we’d canceled, even last-minute, they would have understood. (They are good friends largely because they would have understood.)
        And Stan clearly would have accommodated us too, even if it meant losing a good deal of money on our pricey accommodations. He is the mensch I thought he was. “If we see you next year, great,” he concluded. “Otherwise, thanks for your loyal patronage.”
        And even if he'd lost a big chunk of change on us last weekend, that probably would have been in his best interests in the long run. Just think of all the years to come when we might stay elsewhere now, or might simply choose to stay home. Because if and when we go again, looming over all those fun times with Grandma and all of the good déjà vu will be memories of Allegra leaving for Hong Kong and our losing my dear Uncle Gerard.
        Then again, time heals all wounds, as they say. Or at least it heals most of them. Maybe by next year I will be craving another dose of Keillor and another bowl of grits.
        Or maybe it’s time to pursue some new adventures and experiences, after all.
        Meanwhile, I am more than ready to return to comedy again. Seriously. Aren’t you?