In 1979 I was standing in line with a throng of New Yorkers and tourists waiting for the doors of a Broadway theater to open. The show was The Wiz. A pigeon pooped on my head. I was disgusted and without tissues and finding a restroom and losing my place in line was out of the question. Of course, because I'm as self conscious as any other human, I turn to see if anyone else notices the vile grey waste that sits atop my head. Florence Henderson just happened to be standing behind me. A very bizarre moment but thankfully her handbag was overflowing with tissues.
Before the pigeon incident I hadn't really given much thought to Florence Henderson. Of course, I had seen every Brady Bunch episode more than once and, perhaps my line between TV and reality was a bit blurred, but when I was young I thought she was the world's most perfect mom.
Post-pigeon poop I found myself stopping to watch all of her interviews. It's funny that when you meet someone famous or sort of famous you instantly think you have a bond with them. Or that might just be me blurring another line.
Florence (can I call her Florence?) has a just released book called "Life Is Not A Stage" and, although I haven't read it yet, based on the excerpts, it is full of starkly honest remembrances. I hate a sugar glazed memoir. Her honesty and tell-it-like-it-is style gives insight into who she is...a real person with foibles, a sad childhood, affairs, a messy divorce and insecurity.
It's the honesty that I love. I don't like to sugar coat my reality and I become highly annoyed when others do. If I'm broke, I don't pretend to be rich. If I don't care for the company of another person I'll make the break swift and clean. If I need to vent I do it quickly and move on. If my past has been colorful I'm not going to whitewash it.
It's hard to believe that my Mrs. Brady encounter in New York City was over 30 years ago. I never feel as old as I am.
I just returned from another visit to the metropolis. I know I give pause to New Yorkers because I smile at them on the street and I say please and thank you to curmudgeonly cab drivers. If I take up their time with a short fare I feel compelled to hand over a big tip. On the subway, when my purse strap hooked the handle of a baby stroller and pulled it two feet down the aisle I didn't just disengage the wayward strap, mutter and turn my back like any seasoned New Yorker would. I profusely and way too loudly apologized for being so clumsy and then, not knowing when to just shut the hell up, proceeded to explain that "I just don't know why I'm so discombobulated today!" Yep. They stare at me. I'm not a country girl but for some reason that town brings out the bumpkin in me.
There are things that I appreciate about the city. I love the New Yorkers' total disregard for Don't Walk signs. I am amazed that so many people, with crazily diverse back stories, from cultures all over our world can coexist in a crowded, hemmed in space where you have to crane your neck to see the sky. They spend a good portion of each day enduring the stop/start/stop/start of mass transportation and being reminded over and over to stand clear of the closing doors. Repetition and crowds, day in, day out and New Yorkers seem to find their own little Zen place. I do notice an occasional smile from other people and I usually find the waiters spend a little extra time at my table. Even 7 out of 10 cabbies smile when I exit their taxi. Maybe they're looking for a little friendliness in a town that prides itself on being gruff. Or maybe I'm just a curiosity.
After 10 days of being jostled on crowded streets and in cramped trains it's great to get back home. Even after 23 years of marriage I look forward to seeing my husband whenever we've been apart...and we've been apart for a lot of our years together. For over 6 years he lived in Dallas while I lived in Los Angeles and it's only been in the last 12 months that we've been together again, under the same roof.
“Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness blow the rest away.” George Eliot
I've always loved that poem and after just a few months of relearning the rhythm of our routine together I can read it aloud and feel the truth of the words. The living apart was difficult and we anticipated that life together again would also be difficult. But, it was surprisingly easy. It helps that we share the same values and the same religious beliefs and that we made an effort to make friends that we both shared once he moved to Los Angeles.
So, this morning I'm still on New York time. I'm sipping my coffee, watching the sun fill the California sky and giving thanks for my blessings over the years. I'm thankful for crazy real life scenarios and the kindness of a TV mom, thankful for honest and forthright people and thankful for trips that shock me out of my comfort zone. And I'm always thankful to get back home.
