Lyrics and Lyricists

When we moved to the Upper Eastside many years ago,  we never imagined how much time we’d spend at the 92nd St Y.

My husband joined the gym and swam several times a week in their Olympic-size pool;  I became a Poetry Center member and twice or thrice a month I heard the most acclaimed writers of the day read from their latest works;  and we enrolled our toddler in a wonderful children’s art class called Red,  Yellow,  Blue,  and Glue.

One year at the Y I learned to use a potter’s wheel;  and a few years running I had Sunday morning bagels there as literary biographers talked about their subjects in a series called Biography and Brunch;  and one year I took a memoir-writing class;  and twice at the Y I read James Joyce’s masterpiece Ulysses.

And for many years I used the Y’s wonderful members’  library until sadly it closed.   A librarian myself,  I bonded with the Y librarian,  now a good friend.   And over the years we’d hear movers and shakers in every field from politics to science to the arts lecture at the Y,  and in the same elegant Y auditorium we enjoyed concerts in musical genres from classical to jazz.

In fact for more than 40 years we’ve subscribed to a concert series called  Lyrics and Lyricists.  In five concerts mounted between January and June,  L & L pays tribute to an American Song Book or a Broadway lyricist,  or a musical theatre theme,  with songs performed cabaret style by an always fabulous cast of singers and dancers.  And to the delight of loyal L & L fans,  each first act closes with an audience sing-along.

But each fall when our L & L tickets come in the mail,  I’m reminded of the time I almost landed myself in the doghouse.   That year when the series renewal letter arrived it somehow buried itself in my desk and was forgotten.  As January approached  I realized we hadn’t gotten our tickets and I called the Y box office in a huff to complain.

”Sorry,” I was told by the young lady on the phone,  “we have no record of your renewal.”

”That’s impossible,”   I said,  “we’re long-time subscribers,  we sit in the balcony, house right,  seats DD1 and DD3.  We’ve had those seats for years!”

“I’m sorry,”  she said again,  “but it seems this year you didn’t renew.”

I demanded to speak to the box office manager,  but he rebuffed me too.

“I’m sorry madam,”  he said,  “we didn’t receive your renewal and the dates you want are sold out.”

Then it dawned on me that with no cancelled check or credit card receipt to present,  indeed I may NOT have renewed.   It was time to bring out the big guns.

”Please sir,”  I cried,  you must give us back our seats,  we love Lyrics and Lyricists,  we’re loyal fans!”

”Sorry madam,”   he said,  “there’s nothing I can do.”

”But you must,”  I wailed   “my husband will kill me!” 

Between sobs I begged a bit longer until over the phone line I heard the box office manager heave a big sigh.

”Hold on please madam,”  he said,  “I’ll see what I can do.”

Soon he was back on the phone.

“Madam,  you’ve worn me down.”  he laughed,   “I’ve got your tickets.”

And so here we are back in the balcony,  house right,  seats DD1 and DD3,  getting ready to sing along!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Sold Out!

I love theatre and go pretty regularly,  often with my fellow theatre-loving friend Babs.  And although we’re both pretty savvy about ordering tickets,  sometimes one or the other of us screws up,  and the last  time it was me.  Here’s the embarrassing story.

For years Babs and I have shared a subscription to 59E59,  a wonderful off-Broadway theatre company on East 59th Street whose mission is to bring new and innovative works to a New York audience.  We usually love what we see there and were looking forward to the next production.

We checked our calendars and found a good mutual date.  I wrote it in my little date book and told Babs it was my turn to call and reserve our tickets.

The next morning I phoned and got a recorded message saying the box office hadn’t opened yet and to call back after 12 noon.   But apparently I got busy and forgot.

Then on the morning of the fateful day I called Babs to say I’d be driving down from Connecticut that afternoon.   Rather than meet for dinner as we usually do before the theatre,  I said the tickets would be at the box office and we should meet at the seats and have a bite after the show.

Unfortunately I hit bad traffic and called Babs again to say I might not make the 7:00 curtain,  but would get there as soon as I could.

In fact it was close to 8:00 when I got to the theatre,  walked through the empty lobby,  and asked at the box office for my ticket.  Hearing my name the guy at the window told me to wait a moment while he called the manager.

”Ah madam,”  said the box office manager,  “your friend said to tell you she left since we don’t have your tickets,  and tonight’s performance is sold out.”

”But that’s impossible,  we’ve had a 59E59 subscription for years,  and I called weeks ago to reserve seats for tonight.  I even have it written in my appointment book!”.  I proclaimed angrily,  taking the little book from my bag and practically thrusting it in his face.

”Yes, I understand that you’re long-time subscribers,  and I see you noted it in your book,”  he said with the practiced patience of a box office manager,  “but it seems you never actually called to reserve tickets and unfortunately tonight we’re sold out.”

I realized of course he was right.

Embarrassed,  I called Babs at home to apologize,  afraid she’d be annoyed at me to say the least.  Her husband Bernard answered.

“She’s not home”,  he said,   “isn’t she at the theater with you?”

I called her cell phone.

“No problem,”  said my ever well-dressed friend Babs,  “Bloomingdales is open late tonight.” 

(I’m glad to say we saw the show a week later and it was great!)

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Smokey and the Screen Door

Until she outgrew it,  my baby sister slept in a lovely little wooden cradle.   One morning my mother found our cat curled up in the cradle next to the sleeping baby.

Not an animal lover herself,  my mother had tolerated pets in the house for our sake.  (See  The Puppy in the Waiting Room and Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes).

But a cat in the cradle was too much for her.   Although I never knew her to be superstitious,   she evoked the old wives tale about cats who smell milk on babies breathe and smother them,  and she banned the cat from the baby’s room.

Years later when our son Noah was born,   my mother implored us to keep our cat Smokey out of the baby’s room at night.   To placate her we promised we’d keep the door closed.

But the baby asleep behind a closed door was intolerable to me,  and so I asked our super to install a screen door on Noah’s room.  That way we could keep the cat out of the room while we could look in.

Then one morning I realized Smokey hadn’t slept on our bed that night as he usually did.   Nor was he in the kitchen circling his bowl and meowing for breakfast.

I walked down the hall and looked through the screen door.   In the crib was the sleeping baby,  and curled up on the floor under the crib – the sleeping cat.  Apparently the night before we’d locked Smokey in Noah’s room instead of out.

Needless to say,  we didn’t tell my mother.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

The Jane Addams HS boys basketball team with Coach Jon Ostrow (Ozzie) in the blue shirt.

A Favor for the Coach

I’ve shared many memories of my years working at Jane Addams HS.   (See Magazines for the Principal , The Diary of a Young Girl,  Going Back to Work , Mr October  and The Parking Lot Seniority List)

Here’s one more.

I live in Manhattan’s upper eastside and for the many years I worked at Addams,  which is in the Bronx,   I commuted to work by car.   It was an easy drive  –  in the mornings the southbound lanes on the FDR Drive would crawl,  but I was heading north against the traffic and would breeze along.

And I’d either drive alone or carpool with other eastsiders depending on our semester’s  schedule – our school had both early and late sessions.   But one eastside colleague who was never in our carpool was my friend Ozzie.   He coached the boys basketball team and stayed late for after-school team practices and games,  and thus drove up to school himself.

However on the afternoons the team had games at other Bronx schools Ozzie would leave his car in the school parking lot,  take public transport with the boys to the host school,  after the game take a bus or subway home to Manhattan,  and the next morning take public transport back up to school.  But in addition to the inconvenience of no car for his morning commute,  leaving a car in the parking lot overnight was always a bit risky as our school was in the infamous south Bronx,  a high crime neighborhood.

And so one day Ozzie asked me if I would do him a favor and on the afternoons Addams had away games,  I  would drive his car back to Manhattan and park it.   He and I lived only a few blocks apart and of course I said yes.

Ozzie was on early session and I was usually on late,   and so rather than wake up an hour earlier to drive up with him,  I’d come to school with my carpool and later drive myself in Ozzie’s car back to Manhattan.

I garaged my own car,  but Ozzie parked his on the street so once back in our neighborhood I’d have to look for a space,  being mindful of alternative-side and the myriad of other New York City parking rules.   And as the upper eastside is the most densely populated residential neighborhood in Manhattan,  finding a legal overnight space could take as long as an hour.  Then once I found a spot,  I had to let Ozzie know where to find his car.   He and his wife Liz lived in a small apartment building that had no doorman,  or that would have been an easy solution.

So this is what we did –  I’d find a parking space,   walk home to my own building,  and then write a note saying where I’d parked .  I’d give the note with Ozzie’s car key to my doorman for Ozzie to pick up when he got back to our neighborhood after the game.

And I’m happy to say during my years at Addams we had many winning basketball seasons.   The credit goes to the boys on the teams and to their great coach of course – but maybe just a bit of the glory should go to the coach’s friend who did him a favor and parked his car!

– Dana Susan Lehrman