Today is also my first day off in over 3 weeks. The opera closed last night. I'm not sure who I'll miss most. The eccentric and hilarious director, the incredibly talented lead soprano, the sweet and funny ladies in the cast, the talented and organized and fun lighting designer, the funny baritone who hung out backstage and was always eating in rehearsal, the cool light board op who chatted with me on com, the ubiquitous maestro who has lived everywhere and has amazing stories, the male lead who got made up like Frankenstein for the Act II nightmare and walked zombie-like around backstage, or my amazingly hilarious, totally thorough, and very kind ASM. To name just a few.
I'm also reminded of a Memorial Day blog post from a few years back which I'm pasting below. Hope everyone has a great day and weekend.
The other day in Chicago, I found myself trying to explain my parents' neighborhood. I was at a loss for words, which is rare if you know me. Unless you've spent time on this street, you really cannot understand the neighborhood-y feeling this place exudes. When I called last weekend to talk my parents through my travel plans, Dad said the Memorial Day Cookout was on Saturday and I knew I needed to arrive on Friday; I couldn't miss the cookout! Anyway, when I was telling my friend about the neighborhood cookout, he was confused and asked if that mean that each house had to have a cookout at the same time. I tried to explain: there are two houses next door to each other down the alley, they both have big driveways, and they’ve offered to host. Everyone pools together grills, tables and chairs, each family brings their own meat (or non-meat) to grill and beverages, and the rest of it is a big potluck. It's not just neighbors, either; there are always former neighbors who can’t stay away, friends and extended family of neighbors, and plenty of children!
This year’s party was a lot of fun, but I must admit that this new generation of block parties seems to be lacking something of the legendary old days. I have very vivid memories of the summer day when Al and my dad hung all of our colored Christmas lights in Mike's back yard, while picnic tables were set up, and we had the biggest crab picking party I have ever seen in my life, known to all who attended as the 43rd Street Crab Feast. Then there was the annual Pig Pickin’ at Danny and Romayne's, an event I recall happening in late summer which involved Danny and his buddies from North Carolina roasting an entire pig, everyone staying up late, the adults drinking a lot, and the kids playing sardines and flashlight tag, and having ice fights into the wee hours. What can I say? This neighborhood knows how to throw down! I remember shivering around the grill at the Fat Man's Party in mid-February waiting in Chip’s front yard for our oysters to roast, and hoping it would snow (which it did!). One year on Labor Day weekend, the cops shut down the streets to control vandalism on the resort strip and called it LaborFest; my neighbors ran extension cords from Chip’s house, set up tables and blenders on the beach, made daiquiris all afternoon, and called themselves NeighborFest. (I still tell about the batch of virgin daiquiris Mark made for us kids before we realized the mix had rum included!) During my formative years, I rang in each New Year with all my neighbors at someone’s house (on a rotation), playing Trivial Pursuit or Outburst (or poker at Carol Jean’s elbow!) all night while Marianne and Molly or Vinnie and Ken tried to get as much champagne as possible. And that's not to mention the Christmas Caroling parties, or of course, the now famous 43rd Street Grand Illumination which had its humble beginnings in the mid 80's with ours and two other families and in recent years has become the ultimate block party with 500+ in attendance.
Don't get me wrong: I really like my neighborhood in Chicago, but there is not a street in all the world that can compare to the street I grew up on. With no formal “neighborhood association” like I’ve seen in bigger cities, the people here exemplify what it means to be neighbors. They watch out for your kids, let you use their oven for Thanksgiving, rally when you need their support, and hold pot luck dinners every week to watch Survivor. The ladies lunch together and play Bunko once a month. They mind their own business, but they also know when to party like rock stars
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