I believe that most people have incredible stories to tell and I want to hear yours. Celebrity encounters, tripping in front of a crowd, accidentally kidnapping two kids (happened to my brother); the stuff you never thought would happen to you, but did. So let’s hear it.
Tequila and horses. A sketchy combo at best. But I was young, had my Girl Scout horse riding badge, and a faint memory of how good it felt to gallop. It was Baja in the ‘70s.
Living in San Diego, which was still a secret with ideal weather, room to roam, reasonable prices, I fell easily to the beckoning call of Mexico twenty minutes away.
We’d go straight through Tijuana, eschewing the tempting photo ops in giant sombreros on zebra-painted cart donkeys, and head for Puerto Nuevo, an hour south. A tiny fishing hamlet on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, Puerto Nuevo was just another shack-town of twenty-five make-shift homes built helter-skelter on random unpaved streets. The place was literally dirt poor. But from those cliffs, from those dusty pitted roads, I’ve watched Gray whales migrating in the sunset and lost myself in the curve of the earth.
One family put a few tables and chairs on their patio, enclosed it, and started serving lobsters. Around at the back of the house you chose your langosta from one of two buckets: large ($7.50), or small ($5). It was strictly BYO tequila in the early days but the store down the road sold the local brand in unmarked half-gallon plastic milk jugs and that worked just fine.
Like swallows to Capistrano, Mariachi bands showed up bringing their essential ingredient to the exploits. I calculate, all told, we put about 17 Mariachi kids through college.
The lobster had been split and laid over perfect hot coals, charring the shell and, deliciously, some of the meat. With it came endless beans, rice, and the flour tortillas we’d watched the mamacita clapping and slapping into perfection moments earlier. We fashioned and devoured lobster burritos amid laughing, spilling, toasting, and La Bamba-ing.
Within weeks, other families had done the same thing and San Diego happily supplied all the customers they could handle. Signs of success were everywhere, starting with the large and elaborately carved front doors that began appearing on the homes. Charmingly, the first thing they did as a town was to build a small chapel. Eventually, the local news did a special on the place, signaling the beginning of the end of my personal lobster shack haven. Matching furniture began showing up, I smelled doom. Printed menus and credit cards followed, and when it glowed with neon, I stopped going to Puerto Nuevo.
But for this story, we’re still in the good ole days and there were many trips to come. This was the drill: cross the border, head through Tijuana, past the new bullring with the panoramic ocean views, first stop Rosarita Beach Hotel, a famous prohibition hotspot built by Rocky Marciano. Or Graziano, I could never remember. A drink and a wander ‘round the hotel then down the coast and dos mas at Popotla, a pentagonal bar/restaurant perched atop a cliff over the beach. Ditto a few miles farther south at Calafia, which is carved spectacularly into a cliffside and stunningly beautiful. Calafia was Baja-lavish, which was simultaneously fancy and loud while also slipshod and dingy. Sort of Liberace plus the Jersey Shore minus potable water. By the time you got to Puerto Nuevo, your appetite was whet, real life was mañana, and you were ready for anything. With, perhaps, the exception of the Shock Man. (Yeah, imagine my surprise when you wrote about this guy!)
There are two things I can say I’ve never done in Mexico: eat the worm or buy a shock. The Shock Man would circulate through tables of diners clanging two small metal cylinders together while calling out, “Shock lady? Shock mister?” He wore what looked like a large beeper on his belt that was wired to the cylinders. The object of this particular recreation was to put your fingers in the cylinders and receive a shock. To my chagrin, I never saw anyone buy a shock, which is surprising really, given the amount of imbibing and general loss of frontal lobe function.
Only fleetingly did it ever cross my mind to rent one of the horses available on the beach. A pleasant thought to dream about but oh, those horses had to be thinking “keep on walking gringa, keep on walking.” The horse-riding-on-the-beach fantasy stood up poorly to scrutiny and scrutiny stood up poorly to tequila.
It was in this way that I and my two friends ended up on horses, heading down a Baja beach. But hey, I had my Girl Scout badge, and my goal. My horse was tepid about going beyond a funereal pace and I don’t know how I managed to get that bored, tired, old horse to gallop. Before I could break the surly bonds, hear the music swell, revel in the soaring freedom, I started to lose my seat. The horse was covering some ground and the sand seemed to be getting closer. Desperate clutching of the saddle horn had thoroughly disappointed and the thought of using my knees never once came into it.
As I was going down, I heard my friend call out with no hint of alarm or irony,
“Oh look! JR’s trick riding!”
I hit the beach, the horse’s hoof grazed my groin and my head. I would sport a doozie of a headache for a day and a horseshoe shaped bruise beneath my bikini line for some weeks. These were far and gone the worst UTIs I ever sported. (It wasn’t until 2004 that I learned that UTI stands for urinary tract infection and not unidentified tequila injury) I recovered myself, retrieved my horse and we walked back to rejoin my friends.
“Hey!” I called out as I neared my fellow riders, “You guys see me pick up that hankie with my teeth?”
May 19, 1972. A day or night rather that will live on in my memory. I attended the Kansas City Royals – Oakland A’s game at old Municipal Stadium with my Mom and Dad and my good buddy from school, Pat Riley. The Royals romped to a 16-1 victory in front of 11,364 fans. Amos Otis went 4-6 with 5 RBI’s. Lou Pinella was 3-4 with 3 runs scored and a couple RBI’s, raising his average to .343. “Big John” Mayberry went 2-4 with 3 runs scored and 3 RBI’s. And two home runs. And that is wherein the real story lies.
It all started on the day before, May 18. Back in those days, sports talk radio wasn’t the focus that it is today. But on this day, I was listening to a station in Kansas City hosted by a man by the name of Jimmy “The Greek” Morgan. I was attending a private catholic school in Bonner Springs at the time. I love baseball and especially my Kansas City Royals. My folks had gotten 4 tickets to the ballgame for the next night. Pat & me were excited as heck about getting to go to the ballgame. So I tuned in to hear what the latest was in regards to the Royals. The topic of the day was “Big John” Mayberry. It was of the opinion of this particular “expert” that the Mayberry deal made over the winter with Houston was a total bust. We had traded Jim York and the late Lance Clemons for Big John. The Royals were struggling and this was all due to John not living up to expectations. He was considered a potential power hitter who, with 84 MLB games under his belt prior to coming to KC, was evidently supposed to rescue a 3+ year-old franchise from a totaled failed season. At the time, Big John was hitting .208 with 1 home run and 10 RBI’s to his credit. Yeah he was scuffling. But the more I listened to this fellow knock Big John the madder I got. You see, as a baseball fan, former ballplayer of sorts and a huge believer that baseball is a total team game, to place all the blame on one player was more than I could stomach. So, I called in to the show. I waited my turn and finally was “on the air”. I told Mr. Morgan I took exception to his argument. That while Big John was struggling it was a team game and everyone has to share the good as well as the bad. We bantered back and forth for several minutes. His take was that John Mayberry was a failure. John Mayberry should be shipped off to Waterloo. The Royals Class A team of the Midwest League. Well, I totally disagreed. So I threw down the gauntlet. I, being a true fan and defender of my team (#raisedroyal; #foreverroyal) and a defender of Big John, because dang it I knew in my heart he was gonna be a star, I countered. I said, “if John Mayberry hits two home runs in tomorrow’s game, will you go to Waterloo in his place?” Immediately, Jimmy “The Greek” Morgan said yes. I’ll take that bet. That was all I needed to hear. The wheels started turning.
I hustled back to the dorm and I rounded up Pat. We gotta make a sign I said. And we did. It said, “Go John, hit two. Send the Greek to Waterloo.” We spent the rest of the day and part of the night making this banner. The next day my folks picked us up and we headed to Municipal Stadium. Once we arrived, Pat and me headed to the right field wall where we taped our sign up.
4th inning, Blue Moon Odom on the mound. There’s a drive to deep right-center field. Home Run! Royals lead 4-1. 7th inning, one on two outs. Don Shaw on the mound. There’s a drive to deep right-center field. Home Run! John Mayberry has a two homer night.
After the second homer, Pat and me headed for the right field stands to retrieve the sign. To our dismay, kids were taking down the banner we had made and we had no idea what to think. They kinda rolled it up in a cylinder it appeared. Then they headed toward us where we had our seats. Somehow, someway we met around the foul pole. They knew we had made the sign. They shoved it into our hands and said. “make sure Big John gets this”. They were as excited as we where. We grabbed our sign and said thanks guys, really we did. Different time, different place.
After the game, Big John was the focus. He was interviewed live and we just kinda hung around the back of the dugout in the stands till all was finished. As he made his way to the dugout to head to the locker room, we hollared out “Mr. Mayberry, Mr. Mayberry”. He stopped and asked what we wanted. We said, “we’d like to give you this. It’s a banner we made.” He took it, said thanks and headed into the dugout. That was my only encounter with John Mayberry. Folks I’ve met and known over the years have said they know him and they’d hook me up. Doesn’t matter if it never happens. He did what I knew he could do. And he did it on a night that I said he would. Might not be the same as the Babe promising two home runs. But he did it on the night I bet he’d hit two home runs. Jimmy “The Greek” Morgan went to Waterloo. Said he’d never wish it on no one. Big John hit 25 dingers that year, drove in 100 runs. Well, you know the rest of the story.
Pat, my roomie and my friend passed away in 2016 of cancer. He is Fr. Pat Riley. Good man, great Priest. Great Royal fan.
In the days before stars used private jets I was on a Detroit to Miami flight. I had been upgraded to First Class. We were ready to go and the Window seat next to me was empty. A stewardess ask me to get up and stand in the aisle. I did thinking I was getting booted. Two airlines people came on with a VIP between them. The VIP was a woman (I could tell my the shape) in a Burberry trench goat and Tigers baseball cap and shades. She slipped in and sat. I sat. The VIP whispered to me to get her a white wine. I signaled the stewardess who did so.
In the air the VIP had me talk to the stew for her a few times. “No dinner. Fruit is they had it wine.” Finally I introduced my self after I helped her remove the coat. She looked up and when I saw her mouth I knew who it was. I started to say her name and her hand came up to cover my mouth. She said “Mary? Unless you want to spend the next 2 hours with 100 people lined up for autographs in which case the stewardesses might kill you”
I just grinned. We talked a little. She was really nice. I said my two colleagues in coach would never believe who sat next to me. She said “they won’t so just keep it our secret”
I have had a few. I sat next to Madonna on a flight from Detroit to Miami and met Prince Charles on a flight from NYC to Miami
But by far my biggest moment, moments, was 6 days in early March 1998 at the Doral Ryder Open in Miami. I was a senior tournament course operations volunteer. I spent all day, Tuesday through Sunday, as the Marquis Player Escort for Tiger Woods. I’d pick him up at his room in the Spa at 5:30am and be with him all day until he returned to his room at night. On Tuesday night we went to a Heat game and then to visit the All-Star Cafe on Miami Beach returning to the spa at 2am
On Wednesday we got him out of the Spa to have a few cocktails on the lawn with other volunteers. That ended when a waitress recognized him and went crazy.
He was great to everyone. Signed thousands of autographs (but one media source ran a story to say his security kept him away from fans. He wanted to blend into the event “like Mr Love” (he called everyone, even me, Mister because Earl expected him to.). His briefcase was full of philosophy books for Stanford courses. And at night he’d do some online work with classmates since his Mom wanted him to graduate
He didn’t win but the week produced several “WTF! How did he do that?!” Moments.
Indian Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru once stopped to talk to me and my sister Mary in New Delhi, put his hand on my shoulder and arm around my sister -- and I still have a photo of the moment. I once stood in a peanut field in Plains, Ga., with Jimmy Carter. Paul Newman and his first wife Jackie lived with my family in our house in Woodstock, Ill., for part of a year early in his career. I once ran into South Korean Christian missionaries in Uzbekistan. I once was part of a newspaper team that won a Pulitzer Prize. I was in the Supreme Court the day David Souter was sworn in as a justice. I once got a hole-in-one on a New York state golf course in a round in which I shot an even 100. Enough. Enough.
In 2004, I did Weight Watchers online and lost 25 lbs. Later that year I applied to be a WW Success story that they always featured online and in their magazine. In the summer of 2006, I was called and told I was selected if I still at or near my goal weight which I was. They paid to go to New York City and be in a photo shoot in a cool loft near midtown with about a half dozen other women. Later I did make it into the Weight Watchers magazine and was always surprised by how many people I knew that saw that, and I am still friends on Facebook with one of the other success story women.
Seeing Jimmy Buffett at La Cigale in Paris in 2015. Jimmy always sings Southern Cross. That year Crosby, Stills, & Nash were playing In Paris the same weekend. Stephen Stills & Graham Nash came out for Southern Cross at Jimmy’s concert and he returned the favor at their show.
Turns out 2015 was the last year CSN would tour together.
Qweetly.com is a place where you can have a look at various samples of academic papers. They are absolutely free and can be used to do your own assignments. https://qweetly.com
I was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY--and I should probably write my own blog about all that!
But then I began thinking about my mom. It was a cold, dismal Christmas vacation day and she was taking my brother and me into the city to see the Rex Harrison "Dr. Doolittle" movie. I was still barely past the "how could you get me the Animals instead of the Monkees?!" phase of my life and this Dr. Doolittle was basically for my little brother's sake--I wanted to see something a little more grown-up!
My mother was wearing her good coat, a long, gray, wool coat, with some kind of silky fur trim. She looked grand, dressed for going into Manhattan. We were just headed to the subway, away from our house, (a brownstone at the edge of Park Slope, well before Park Slope became really chic) when all of a sudden we heard a scream. We turned and saw a man leap off the top of our stoop. His back was on fire. My mom, without a second thought, tore her coat off, ran and put it around him as he rolled on the cold, gritty sidewalk.
His name was Eddie and he had been working for us, hired by my stepfather to do some painting around the house; he'd been using some flammable paint thinner while painting the doorway, and either he was smoking, or the work lamp he was using was too hot.
An ambulance came and took him away. I remember hearing that he healed, we helped pay his bills, and somehow, my mom's coat was returned to her.
I never forgot the sight of Eddie, jumping from the top of the stoop, his back on flames. Haunted my dreams for years.
My mother was now Wonder Woman, as fast as she ran (in heels) and sacrificing her coat, and neither my brother nor I cared what movie we were going to see. We were both in shock.
My mom passed away...it will be 6 years on December 16th and our relationship was rocky, (starting with the Animals), but I've been thinking about her, trying to focus on the good, because in her later years, she had dementia, and so much of her, the good and the bad, was gone.
I've got the worst vacation experience ever...short of someone dying on said trip. We left for Siesta Key FL. on 9-9-01 onto a beautiful strip of pristine beach. Upon arrival we ran in the dark toward the water only to slip and fall on millions of dead fish. A red tide arrived same day as we did. Monday morning we decided to play golf because, well our beach sucked. The rest of Monday was fine. Woke up Tuesday to 9-11...Tuesday ruined. Wednesday we decided to venture out and went on a sailboat ride. Waves, wind and rain...horrible. The reason....Tropical storm Gabrielle was building in the gulf. Oh and Wednesday was my birthday...reason for the trip. Seasick in bed rest of the day. Beach still worthless....can't even swim due to water contaminated. Wake up Thursday morning to hurricane Gabrielle direct hit on our Key Island. Around noon power is goes out...can't even watch coverage of 9-11 on TV. Thursday and Friday no power, flooded island, no water either. Planes aren't flying yet, and a rental car one way back to KC is $2k. We finally abandon the condo and our island on Saturday morning to a closed airport and no clue if our plane will take off. It didn't. Spent the night in expensive hotel and left Sunday morning returning to KC with one helluva story. Oh and we heard and saw Air Force One take off from Sarasota the morning of 9-11 and it was the loudest plane I've ever heard. That was the highlight of our trip; President Bush getting airborne because the country was under attack. And nobody died in our group of four.
Tequila and horses. A sketchy combo at best. But I was young, had my Girl Scout horse riding badge, and a faint memory of how good it felt to gallop. It was Baja in the ‘70s.
Living in San Diego, which was still a secret with ideal weather, room to roam, reasonable prices, I fell easily to the beckoning call of Mexico twenty minutes away.
We’d go straight through Tijuana, eschewing the tempting photo ops in giant sombreros on zebra-painted cart donkeys, and head for Puerto Nuevo, an hour south. A tiny fishing hamlet on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, Puerto Nuevo was just another shack-town of twenty-five make-shift homes built helter-skelter on random unpaved streets. The place was literally dirt poor. But from those cliffs, from those dusty pitted roads, I’ve watched Gray whales migrating in the sunset and lost myself in the curve of the earth.
One family put a few tables and chairs on their patio, enclosed it, and started serving lobsters. Around at the back of the house you chose your langosta from one of two buckets: large ($7.50), or small ($5). It was strictly BYO tequila in the early days but the store down the road sold the local brand in unmarked half-gallon plastic milk jugs and that worked just fine.
Like swallows to Capistrano, Mariachi bands showed up bringing their essential ingredient to the exploits. I calculate, all told, we put about 17 Mariachi kids through college.
The lobster had been split and laid over perfect hot coals, charring the shell and, deliciously, some of the meat. With it came endless beans, rice, and the flour tortillas we’d watched the mamacita clapping and slapping into perfection moments earlier. We fashioned and devoured lobster burritos amid laughing, spilling, toasting, and La Bamba-ing.
Within weeks, other families had done the same thing and San Diego happily supplied all the customers they could handle. Signs of success were everywhere, starting with the large and elaborately carved front doors that began appearing on the homes. Charmingly, the first thing they did as a town was to build a small chapel. Eventually, the local news did a special on the place, signaling the beginning of the end of my personal lobster shack haven. Matching furniture began showing up, I smelled doom. Printed menus and credit cards followed, and when it glowed with neon, I stopped going to Puerto Nuevo.
But for this story, we’re still in the good ole days and there were many trips to come. This was the drill: cross the border, head through Tijuana, past the new bullring with the panoramic ocean views, first stop Rosarita Beach Hotel, a famous prohibition hotspot built by Rocky Marciano. Or Graziano, I could never remember. A drink and a wander ‘round the hotel then down the coast and dos mas at Popotla, a pentagonal bar/restaurant perched atop a cliff over the beach. Ditto a few miles farther south at Calafia, which is carved spectacularly into a cliffside and stunningly beautiful. Calafia was Baja-lavish, which was simultaneously fancy and loud while also slipshod and dingy. Sort of Liberace plus the Jersey Shore minus potable water. By the time you got to Puerto Nuevo, your appetite was whet, real life was mañana, and you were ready for anything. With, perhaps, the exception of the Shock Man. (Yeah, imagine my surprise when you wrote about this guy!)
There are two things I can say I’ve never done in Mexico: eat the worm or buy a shock. The Shock Man would circulate through tables of diners clanging two small metal cylinders together while calling out, “Shock lady? Shock mister?” He wore what looked like a large beeper on his belt that was wired to the cylinders. The object of this particular recreation was to put your fingers in the cylinders and receive a shock. To my chagrin, I never saw anyone buy a shock, which is surprising really, given the amount of imbibing and general loss of frontal lobe function.
Only fleetingly did it ever cross my mind to rent one of the horses available on the beach. A pleasant thought to dream about but oh, those horses had to be thinking “keep on walking gringa, keep on walking.” The horse-riding-on-the-beach fantasy stood up poorly to scrutiny and scrutiny stood up poorly to tequila.
It was in this way that I and my two friends ended up on horses, heading down a Baja beach. But hey, I had my Girl Scout badge, and my goal. My horse was tepid about going beyond a funereal pace and I don’t know how I managed to get that bored, tired, old horse to gallop. Before I could break the surly bonds, hear the music swell, revel in the soaring freedom, I started to lose my seat. The horse was covering some ground and the sand seemed to be getting closer. Desperate clutching of the saddle horn had thoroughly disappointed and the thought of using my knees never once came into it.
As I was going down, I heard my friend call out with no hint of alarm or irony,
“Oh look! JR’s trick riding!”
I hit the beach, the horse’s hoof grazed my groin and my head. I would sport a doozie of a headache for a day and a horseshoe shaped bruise beneath my bikini line for some weeks. These were far and gone the worst UTIs I ever sported. (It wasn’t until 2004 that I learned that UTI stands for urinary tract infection and not unidentified tequila injury) I recovered myself, retrieved my horse and we walked back to rejoin my friends.
“Hey!” I called out as I neared my fellow riders, “You guys see me pick up that hankie with my teeth?”
May 19, 1972. A day or night rather that will live on in my memory. I attended the Kansas City Royals – Oakland A’s game at old Municipal Stadium with my Mom and Dad and my good buddy from school, Pat Riley. The Royals romped to a 16-1 victory in front of 11,364 fans. Amos Otis went 4-6 with 5 RBI’s. Lou Pinella was 3-4 with 3 runs scored and a couple RBI’s, raising his average to .343. “Big John” Mayberry went 2-4 with 3 runs scored and 3 RBI’s. And two home runs. And that is wherein the real story lies.
It all started on the day before, May 18. Back in those days, sports talk radio wasn’t the focus that it is today. But on this day, I was listening to a station in Kansas City hosted by a man by the name of Jimmy “The Greek” Morgan. I was attending a private catholic school in Bonner Springs at the time. I love baseball and especially my Kansas City Royals. My folks had gotten 4 tickets to the ballgame for the next night. Pat & me were excited as heck about getting to go to the ballgame. So I tuned in to hear what the latest was in regards to the Royals. The topic of the day was “Big John” Mayberry. It was of the opinion of this particular “expert” that the Mayberry deal made over the winter with Houston was a total bust. We had traded Jim York and the late Lance Clemons for Big John. The Royals were struggling and this was all due to John not living up to expectations. He was considered a potential power hitter who, with 84 MLB games under his belt prior to coming to KC, was evidently supposed to rescue a 3+ year-old franchise from a totaled failed season. At the time, Big John was hitting .208 with 1 home run and 10 RBI’s to his credit. Yeah he was scuffling. But the more I listened to this fellow knock Big John the madder I got. You see, as a baseball fan, former ballplayer of sorts and a huge believer that baseball is a total team game, to place all the blame on one player was more than I could stomach. So, I called in to the show. I waited my turn and finally was “on the air”. I told Mr. Morgan I took exception to his argument. That while Big John was struggling it was a team game and everyone has to share the good as well as the bad. We bantered back and forth for several minutes. His take was that John Mayberry was a failure. John Mayberry should be shipped off to Waterloo. The Royals Class A team of the Midwest League. Well, I totally disagreed. So I threw down the gauntlet. I, being a true fan and defender of my team (#raisedroyal; #foreverroyal) and a defender of Big John, because dang it I knew in my heart he was gonna be a star, I countered. I said, “if John Mayberry hits two home runs in tomorrow’s game, will you go to Waterloo in his place?” Immediately, Jimmy “The Greek” Morgan said yes. I’ll take that bet. That was all I needed to hear. The wheels started turning.
I hustled back to the dorm and I rounded up Pat. We gotta make a sign I said. And we did. It said, “Go John, hit two. Send the Greek to Waterloo.” We spent the rest of the day and part of the night making this banner. The next day my folks picked us up and we headed to Municipal Stadium. Once we arrived, Pat and me headed to the right field wall where we taped our sign up.
4th inning, Blue Moon Odom on the mound. There’s a drive to deep right-center field. Home Run! Royals lead 4-1. 7th inning, one on two outs. Don Shaw on the mound. There’s a drive to deep right-center field. Home Run! John Mayberry has a two homer night.
After the second homer, Pat and me headed for the right field stands to retrieve the sign. To our dismay, kids were taking down the banner we had made and we had no idea what to think. They kinda rolled it up in a cylinder it appeared. Then they headed toward us where we had our seats. Somehow, someway we met around the foul pole. They knew we had made the sign. They shoved it into our hands and said. “make sure Big John gets this”. They were as excited as we where. We grabbed our sign and said thanks guys, really we did. Different time, different place.
After the game, Big John was the focus. He was interviewed live and we just kinda hung around the back of the dugout in the stands till all was finished. As he made his way to the dugout to head to the locker room, we hollared out “Mr. Mayberry, Mr. Mayberry”. He stopped and asked what we wanted. We said, “we’d like to give you this. It’s a banner we made.” He took it, said thanks and headed into the dugout. That was my only encounter with John Mayberry. Folks I’ve met and known over the years have said they know him and they’d hook me up. Doesn’t matter if it never happens. He did what I knew he could do. And he did it on a night that I said he would. Might not be the same as the Babe promising two home runs. But he did it on the night I bet he’d hit two home runs. Jimmy “The Greek” Morgan went to Waterloo. Said he’d never wish it on no one. Big John hit 25 dingers that year, drove in 100 runs. Well, you know the rest of the story.
Pat, my roomie and my friend passed away in 2016 of cancer. He is Fr. Pat Riley. Good man, great Priest. Great Royal fan.
In the days before stars used private jets I was on a Detroit to Miami flight. I had been upgraded to First Class. We were ready to go and the Window seat next to me was empty. A stewardess ask me to get up and stand in the aisle. I did thinking I was getting booted. Two airlines people came on with a VIP between them. The VIP was a woman (I could tell my the shape) in a Burberry trench goat and Tigers baseball cap and shades. She slipped in and sat. I sat. The VIP whispered to me to get her a white wine. I signaled the stewardess who did so.
In the air the VIP had me talk to the stew for her a few times. “No dinner. Fruit is they had it wine.” Finally I introduced my self after I helped her remove the coat. She looked up and when I saw her mouth I knew who it was. I started to say her name and her hand came up to cover my mouth. She said “Mary? Unless you want to spend the next 2 hours with 100 people lined up for autographs in which case the stewardesses might kill you”
I just grinned. We talked a little. She was really nice. I said my two colleagues in coach would never believe who sat next to me. She said “they won’t so just keep it our secret”
They took her off first in Miami.
I have had a few. I sat next to Madonna on a flight from Detroit to Miami and met Prince Charles on a flight from NYC to Miami
But by far my biggest moment, moments, was 6 days in early March 1998 at the Doral Ryder Open in Miami. I was a senior tournament course operations volunteer. I spent all day, Tuesday through Sunday, as the Marquis Player Escort for Tiger Woods. I’d pick him up at his room in the Spa at 5:30am and be with him all day until he returned to his room at night. On Tuesday night we went to a Heat game and then to visit the All-Star Cafe on Miami Beach returning to the spa at 2am
On Wednesday we got him out of the Spa to have a few cocktails on the lawn with other volunteers. That ended when a waitress recognized him and went crazy.
He was great to everyone. Signed thousands of autographs (but one media source ran a story to say his security kept him away from fans. He wanted to blend into the event “like Mr Love” (he called everyone, even me, Mister because Earl expected him to.). His briefcase was full of philosophy books for Stanford courses. And at night he’d do some online work with classmates since his Mom wanted him to graduate
He didn’t win but the week produced several “WTF! How did he do that?!” Moments.
Indian Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru once stopped to talk to me and my sister Mary in New Delhi, put his hand on my shoulder and arm around my sister -- and I still have a photo of the moment. I once stood in a peanut field in Plains, Ga., with Jimmy Carter. Paul Newman and his first wife Jackie lived with my family in our house in Woodstock, Ill., for part of a year early in his career. I once ran into South Korean Christian missionaries in Uzbekistan. I once was part of a newspaper team that won a Pulitzer Prize. I was in the Supreme Court the day David Souter was sworn in as a justice. I once got a hole-in-one on a New York state golf course in a round in which I shot an even 100. Enough. Enough.
In 2004, I did Weight Watchers online and lost 25 lbs. Later that year I applied to be a WW Success story that they always featured online and in their magazine. In the summer of 2006, I was called and told I was selected if I still at or near my goal weight which I was. They paid to go to New York City and be in a photo shoot in a cool loft near midtown with about a half dozen other women. Later I did make it into the Weight Watchers magazine and was always surprised by how many people I knew that saw that, and I am still friends on Facebook with one of the other success story women.
Seeing Jimmy Buffett at La Cigale in Paris in 2015. Jimmy always sings Southern Cross. That year Crosby, Stills, & Nash were playing In Paris the same weekend. Stephen Stills & Graham Nash came out for Southern Cross at Jimmy’s concert and he returned the favor at their show.
Turns out 2015 was the last year CSN would tour together.
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I was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY--and I should probably write my own blog about all that!
But then I began thinking about my mom. It was a cold, dismal Christmas vacation day and she was taking my brother and me into the city to see the Rex Harrison "Dr. Doolittle" movie. I was still barely past the "how could you get me the Animals instead of the Monkees?!" phase of my life and this Dr. Doolittle was basically for my little brother's sake--I wanted to see something a little more grown-up!
My mother was wearing her good coat, a long, gray, wool coat, with some kind of silky fur trim. She looked grand, dressed for going into Manhattan. We were just headed to the subway, away from our house, (a brownstone at the edge of Park Slope, well before Park Slope became really chic) when all of a sudden we heard a scream. We turned and saw a man leap off the top of our stoop. His back was on fire. My mom, without a second thought, tore her coat off, ran and put it around him as he rolled on the cold, gritty sidewalk.
His name was Eddie and he had been working for us, hired by my stepfather to do some painting around the house; he'd been using some flammable paint thinner while painting the doorway, and either he was smoking, or the work lamp he was using was too hot.
An ambulance came and took him away. I remember hearing that he healed, we helped pay his bills, and somehow, my mom's coat was returned to her.
I never forgot the sight of Eddie, jumping from the top of the stoop, his back on flames. Haunted my dreams for years.
My mother was now Wonder Woman, as fast as she ran (in heels) and sacrificing her coat, and neither my brother nor I cared what movie we were going to see. We were both in shock.
My mom passed away...it will be 6 years on December 16th and our relationship was rocky, (starting with the Animals), but I've been thinking about her, trying to focus on the good, because in her later years, she had dementia, and so much of her, the good and the bad, was gone.
I posted an experience with Al Lewis at Universal Studios..but it disappeared..too lazy to repost it
I've got the worst vacation experience ever...short of someone dying on said trip. We left for Siesta Key FL. on 9-9-01 onto a beautiful strip of pristine beach. Upon arrival we ran in the dark toward the water only to slip and fall on millions of dead fish. A red tide arrived same day as we did. Monday morning we decided to play golf because, well our beach sucked. The rest of Monday was fine. Woke up Tuesday to 9-11...Tuesday ruined. Wednesday we decided to venture out and went on a sailboat ride. Waves, wind and rain...horrible. The reason....Tropical storm Gabrielle was building in the gulf. Oh and Wednesday was my birthday...reason for the trip. Seasick in bed rest of the day. Beach still worthless....can't even swim due to water contaminated. Wake up Thursday morning to hurricane Gabrielle direct hit on our Key Island. Around noon power is goes out...can't even watch coverage of 9-11 on TV. Thursday and Friday no power, flooded island, no water either. Planes aren't flying yet, and a rental car one way back to KC is $2k. We finally abandon the condo and our island on Saturday morning to a closed airport and no clue if our plane will take off. It didn't. Spent the night in expensive hotel and left Sunday morning returning to KC with one helluva story. Oh and we heard and saw Air Force One take off from Sarasota the morning of 9-11 and it was the loudest plane I've ever heard. That was the highlight of our trip; President Bush getting airborne because the country was under attack. And nobody died in our group of four.