Vegas was totally different in the early ’60s. With 100,000 residents it had one twentieth the population of today, and while it had a certain tacky sheen it hadn’t approached the aggressively grotesque grandiosity you see today. It was quieter, more modest, less inclined to force itself down your throat.
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The third week of August on Martha’s Vineyard always brings the much-anticipated Agricultural Fair or “Ag Fair”, as it is called. The Vineyard has a huge farming community and everyone gets to show off their season’s accomplishments, from the best pies and jams, to livestock and largest vegetables. There is a whole display hall for crafts, photographs, paintings and other handmade items. On the opening day of the fair, everything is judged. If you go on subsequent days (the fair runs four days), you’ll see items adorned with their ribbons for the prizes they took during the judgement period.

Competitions take place on various days as well (the schedule is printed in a special section of the local paper). Our favorite has been dog agility. Who knew that poodles could run like the wind and do the leaps through the various hoops and hazards set up around the ring. Any breed can compete, but we think poodles are the best. Skillets are thrown, oxen are pulled. This is a real country fair. There was a big state fair in Detroit when I was young, but I never attended. This was my first; it was manageable and so much fun to do with our young children.

Junk food abounds – fried dough, cotton candy, soft-serve ice cream. And lots of things to buy including branded souvenirs of the fair each year. We’d buy the tee shirts with that year’s special design (the Featured photo if this year’s design, just revealed in the Vineyard Gazette).

Through the years, we also bought the posters for each year and frequently framed them. But as our real art collection grew, I discovered that I gave most of the posters to the Boys and Girls Club resale shop. I have one left, in our sunroom. It is the same design as the left-most tee shirt above. Look how the sun faded the color.

Of course there is a midway with lots of rides and games. This is particularly popular at night time with the older kids who are trying to score, but the younger children love the game booths. As a child, Jeffrey loved one game in particular; some sort of ball toss, hit a hole and win a prize. If he couldn’t do it, Dan would take over. Little Jeffrey WANTED that stuffed animal. I’m sure he spent more on tickets than the prize was worth, but we’d keep at it until the prize was his. It’s still in his Vineyard bedroom, though she’s now 32 years old. Sadly, she doesn’t visit often any longer.

At a certain point, the kids outgrew the charms of the Ag Fair, and we were weary of the crowds. After years of absence, we went again a few years ago and were again delighted by it, but once every few years is enough for us.

Perhaps we’ll visit again some day with our granddaughter.

 

I love art, music (mostly singing, but listening as well) and now spend much of my time writing for Retrospect; a cultural triple threat.

I have written over 250 stories on everything from my first job; Posing in 3-D, to the harrowing story of my grandparents’ escape from the 1906 Russian pogroms to their trip across the Atlantic Ocean, arriving on Ellis Island and making their way to Toledo , Ohio where Grandpa opened a jewelry store and flourished; My Grandparents’ Story .Thinking of him, I am truly moved and grateful when I exercise my constitutional freedoms of religion and the right to vote. Both seem increasingly imperiled at the moment.

I recently read a long, interesting article by Timothy Snyder in The New York Times Magazine about those (particularly in southern states) who are trying to dictate how history is taught, making it illegal to teach “critical race theory”. He calls these “memory laws” and the article is entitled “The War on History is a War on Democracy”. He likened it to Stalin during the post-war famine in Ukraine, and Nazi Germany. We cannot re-write history. It does not bode well for our country. I WANT to know about my own history and that of my country. The more informed I am, the better citizen I can be.

I began singing with the Newton Community Chorus in 2003, once my husband retired and could stay home on Monday nights so I could practice. We’ve sung everything from Bach to Mozart to spirituals. Of course COVID kept us apart these past 18 months.  Some tried the electronic programs available, but I didn’t, for various reasons.

I miss my friends in chorus very much (we number between 60 and 90, depending on the popularity of the music we are performing that semester; Mozart and Brahms always gets a great turnout). There has been one email that seems to indicate we will try to gather again, even wearing masks, but much is up in the air. Will we be allowed into the parochial school where we rehearsed before? Will we be able to perform in January? Who will return (Newton has one of the highest vaccination rates in the country, so I’m sure we are all vaccinated, but still…singing in close quarters). Much remains to be seen, but I am hopeful. Now the Delta variant has raised its ugly head, so who knows.

I began singing as a small child – the classic Broadway musicals. Though my mother has been gone over a decade now, when she moved into the skilled nursing section of her retirement community, I got to know the music director, who invited me to work up a musical routine with her and we performed familiar Broadway show tunes for the residents a few times a year. Most were truly out of it, but some would sing along and my mother just beamed. The songs were always upbeat. I’d encourage participation on “Do, a Deer”, usually began with “Put on a Happy Face” and end with “Let Me Entertain You” (but only brandishing a scarf). Even after my mother died, I continued to go and entertain for five more years, until the music director retired. I felt like I was doing something good for the community and the staff really appreciated me. It feels good to be appreciated doing something I enjoy.

As I wrote in the “art and art museums” prompt earlier this year, I am a life-long devotee of both art and museums, but the Rose Art Museum (as seem above) at Brandeis has attracted my time and attention for over 30 years. I became an active member when Vicki was seven months old and a Board member 24 years ago (with a few gaps along the way). One could say it is an all-consuming hobby. In addition to loving the shows and learning about the art, I thoroughly enjoy being part of the acquisition process. My husband and I are no longer very active in the art market, so this is the way I can stay active and continue to learn about what is going on there. I keep current and alive. I am involved in two collections committees there.

One, the Sam Hunter Emerging Artist Committee, only considers work of “emerging artists” (a term we constantly debate), but what fun to look at. The committee works on a annual basis, looking at work in depth for about seven months, then going through another in-depth dive on the final candidates and a ballot selection process, until finally, by the end of the year, we determine a single work to add to the Rose’s collection. We have made some memorable purchases; several now on display in the 60th anniversary show. It is a fun activity every year.

I am a life-long learner. Whether being active at the Rose, writing for pleasure or singing new music, these are all ways to use my brain; fun hobbies that keep me moving forward.

 

 

Piano Man – Remembering Herb

My memories of that summer between college and grad school,  when I took a camp job with my friend Liz,  are bittersweet.

Liz and I were co-counselors for a bunk of kids,  and I had also signed on as drama counselor.   When we arrived at camp I was introduced to Herb,  the music counselor I’d be working closely with.   He was a wonderfully warm,  bright and funny guy and I liked him immediately.   Music was Herb’s avocation and I soon learned what a talented pianist he was,  even on the tinny rec hall upright.

Together Herb and I decided on the shows,  and then cast,  rehearsed,  and directed the campers in three musicals  – The Mikado,  Oklahoma,  and Guys and Dolls,  mounting a new show every two weeks.   And to this day when I hear tunes from those three great musicals,  in my mind’s eye I see Herb sitting at the piano that long-ago summer,   patiently teaching the kids to sing in key.  (See Theatre Dreams)

Meanwhile Liz and Herb were fast becoming a couple,   and unlike many summer romances,  theirs seemed destined to last.   As Liz’ good friend,  and as Herb’s work partner,  I became their natural go-between and confidante.   And while working with Herb on such a creative and challenging endeavor,  he and I came to know each other well and became good friends,  much to Liz’ delight.

In the fall I started grad school in New York,  Liz was also in New York,  and she and Herb were still committed.   But Herb was soon to return to Indiana to finish a graduate program,  and after their wonderful summer together he and Liz were resigned to a long-distance relationship over the coming year.

Herb did fly back to New York to spend Thanksgiving with his family and to see Liz,  and after the holiday weekend he headed for the airport for his Indiana flight.   But he and I hadn’t had the chance to see each other,  and he called me from the airport to catch up.   We spoke for awhile,  and when he heard the call for his plane we said good-bye and he ran for the gate.

Hours later I got the awful news from an inconsolable Liz.   After landing at the Bloomington airport Herb had picked up his car,  and then driving to his apartment was in a fatal crash.   I may have been the last person he’d spoken to.

Herb’s untimely death was tragic for his family,  for Liz,  and for all of us who knew him.   But the scene we witnessed at his funeral was the most heartbreaking  –  as others tried in vain to restrain him,   Herb’s weeping,  disconsolate father jumped into the open grave as if to stop the shovelfuls of earth that were landing with mournful thuds on his son’s coffin.

May your memory be a blessing Herb,  for those of us you taught to sing that bittersweet summer.

– Dana Susan Lehrman