Friday Flashback: In a Jersey state of mind

My father's side of the family hails from Elizabeth, New Jersey. As a kid we used to make the trip from Connecticut to Jersey at least three or four times a year.

The four of us--me, my parents, and sister--would pile into the station wagon and make our way to the highway--eventually. Papa Cat was a huge fan of winding, country back roads, and we'd spend a good 45 minutes on such roads before we even hit the highway. And when we did hit the highway, it was a two-lane road filled with nothing but trees.

We picked up 84 west in Waterbury, and would drive it to Danbury, where we picked up 684 west. Eventually we'd hit the Saw Mill Parkway, which led to 87 and 287, the highways that led to the Tappan Zee Bridge. That bridge was a childhood symbol of going to Jersey. I thought it was the ugliest bridge in the world. I still think it is. As we crossed the span, Sister Kitten would be crying the whole way because she was terrified of bridges--particularly that one. It's a fear that has stayed with her, and has only intensified now that the bridge is much older and in need of repair or replacement.

Anyway, we'd all breathe a huge sigh of relief once we made it over the Tappan Zee. We'd get off 87 and 287 to pick up the Palisades Parkway, and from there we picked up the New Jersey Turnpike.

I don't consider anyone to be an expert in highway driving until they have driven the New Jersey Turnpike. It is the most interesting road on the eastern seaboard. First of all, there's the traffic. We'd get on the NJT at Fort Lee, just as the other drivers were getting off the George Washington Bridge. Here is where a driver becomes proficient in the art of merging.

Then there are the sights along the way. As you travel south, to your left, you get this amazing view of the Manhattan skyline. We loved looking for the Twin Towers (RIP), the Empire State Building, and especially the Statue of Liberty. To your right, there's...well, it's not a pretty sight. There are landfills, more highways, and lots of litter. That's about the best I can describe it. So as you drive down the NJT, and you see all of this, your goal is not to get distracted by everything.

And let's not forget about the Meadowlands, kittens. Yes, those Meadowlands, home of Giants Stadium, the New Jersey Nets, and the New Jersey Devils. Never travel southbound on the NJT on game day. Consequently, never travel northbound if there's a Yankee game, as hundreds of cars pile into the Bronx, causing major traffic jams getting on to the GWB.

Finally, there are the factories. At our exit, there was this huge oil refinery with a flame coming out of it. Papa Cat used to ask us if we thought the flame was pretty. That was our signal that we were ten minutes away from our grandparents' house.

My grandparents lived on the bottom floor of a two-family house--the same house where Papa Cat and his brother grew up. They owned it, and rented the top floor out. It was a one and a half bedroom apartment. You'll find out why I say this in a minute. Their living room had this white couch with a strange green, orange, and brown swirl pattern on the cushions. My grandmother ordered the couch in 1973, and had custom-made plastic covers over the entire thing. I hated sitting on it during the summer, when the heat from my legs would cause them to stick to the plastic.

Sleeping arrangements were tight. My grandparents had the one bedroom. My sister and I slept on a really tiny fold-out couch in the half bedroom, which was really a walk-in closet/storage space. We never slept well on that couch for two reasons: 1. There was a big metal bar in the center of the matress (which was really thin and flimsy), and 2. My grandmother, in later years, could not fall asleep without the TV on. She was hard of hearing, and kept the volume LOUD. Meanwhile, my parents slept on the fold-out couch in the living room.

And then there was the pink bathroom. Sister Kitten took pictures of the house right after grandma died, and I wish I had a copy to share with you right now of this gaudy, pink bathroom. There was a pink carpeted toilet bowl cover, a pink rug in the middle of the floor, a pink toilet brush, pink towels, a pink skirt that went around the sink, and a pink shower curtain so big that you had to wrestle with it every time you took a shower. And may I add, that this was Pepto Bismal pink we're talkin' bout here. Barf.

There was a playground right at the end of the street. Papa Cat used to take us there so we could use the swings. He was the director of that playground one summer--but that's another story for another time.

Whenever we visited, we'd see our aunt, uncle, and cousins. They all lived in the same town. My aunt and uncle lived three blocks from my grandparents; one of my cousins lived across town with her husband and four kids. My aunt and uncle also lived in a two-family house, and rented out the top floor. They had a series of dogs as I was growing up, most memorably, a German shepard named Brando.

We all used to get together for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and we'd make a pit stop there whenever we returned home from vacations on Long Beach Island. Food was always plentiful; my aunt is an excellent cook. Conversations were always loud; we are Italian, after all.

As we got older, the visits slowed down. We were lucky to make it down to Jersey once a year. When my grandmother died, we didn't have any reason to keep making even the annual treks. We went down once last year, for my cousin's 25th wedding anniversary party.

Things changed a lot when we went down last year. My grandparents' house, which was not up to fire code, was torn down. The playground we used to go to has become a haven for drug addicts. There are many more ethnicities present in the old neighborhood. And we take the Garden State Parkway down now; there's much less traffic, and it's a more pleasant ride.

This weekend, we're trekking down for my aunt and uncle's 50th wedding anniversary party. We won't be staying over at anyone's houses, but we have a hotel room. I really have mixed feelings about going. My family has gone down to Jersey so many times over the last 29 years (when we first moved to Connecticut), but the Jersey clan has only made the trek up to see us four or five times. Let me put it to you this way: when my father moved out of the house to take a job in White Plains, New York--one hour away from where he grew up--and you would think that he was moving across the country. Distance has been the main factor that has driven my extended family apart. There are other factors, but I won't explore them now.

However, I'm really looking forward to just being in another state. Jersey has its own unique flavor, almost like an American sub-culture. New York has its own unique subculture. Long Island has a unique culture as well. Connecticut? We're so vanilla here. New York, New Jersey, and Long Island are all places that inspire people's passions and imaginations. People from these areas have great pride in telling people where they're from. Connecticut? Not so much. Tell people you're from the Nutmeg State, and they're like, "Oh."

So I will return either Sunday night or Monday afternoon, depending on my level of fatigue. In addition to the travel, we'll be eating a lot of food. It's an Italian celebration, after all.

But first, let's pray that we make it across the Tappan Zee in one piece...

Friday Flashback: Girl in the chorus

I sang in the choir when I was in college.

Mama Cat suggested I audition before I started my freshman year. She thought it would be a good way for me to meet people, since I was very introverted in high school. I sang sporadically in high school, and always enjoyed it, so I figured, "Why the hell not?"

I first auditioned about a week into my freshman year. There was a small group of people in front of the auditorium, waiting to try out. They were closed door auditions; one person went in at a time to sing for the choir director. I was completely confident that I would make it into the choir; I wasn't nervous at all.

I auditioned after a guy I met at the door. He seemed a little awkward and shy, and I listened to his tryout through the door. His voice cracked in a couple of places and he sounded off-key. I thought, "I can do so much better than this!"

Then it was my turn.

A week later I found a very kindly-worded rejection note in my mailbox.

I burst into tears in the mailroom.

Oh, and the guy who auditioned before me? He got in.

And he became my best friend, whom I still mention in the blog today.

But that's another story for another time.

I got over my disappointment and ended up making friends in the choir anyway. One guy was in one of my classes, a couple of girls lived on my floor, and the guy who became my best friend (we'll call him BFF from now on) lived in the same dorm as I did, three floors above me. They helped me get tickets to all of their concerts, as well as into parties on campus. I had so much fun at those parties and concerts, it only strengthened my resolve to get into the choir my sophomore year.

And so, at the beginning of the year, auditions rolled around again.

This time, I was nervous as hell. I dragged my roommate to the audition. She was a transfer student and didn't quite understand what all the fuss was all about.

She would soon find out.

I got in this time.

Rehearsals were twice a week, each Monday and Wednesday, in an auditorium located on the ground floor of one of the dorms. A group of us singers would eat dinner before rehearsal, then we'd all walk over to the auditorium together. We'd chat with our fellow singers for a few minutes before rehearsal, then our director would signal us to come on the stage.

We had a director who demanded nothing but perfection from each one of us. She would make us reach our highest potential, then ask us to do more. She was tough on us, but we all knew that she did it out of love for music, and for us.

We sang a very diverse repertoire every concert. Through the choir, I discovered music that I otherwise would not have known about. We sang Carmina Burana and participated in the chorus of Porgy and Bess. We sang many versions of the Magnificat and the Gloria. We sang music in Latin, French, Swahili and German. As a result of being a member of this choir, I started listening to a lot of classical music and opera in my spare time. My mind was becoming more open.

Oh, and the concerts! How we all loved being up on the stage! We played mostly to full houses; I don't mean to brag, but that's the truth. Our audiences were more than just our friends and families; we had people off campus call the box office repeatedly to find out the day that concert tickets would go on sale. Concerts sold out in hours; if not, days.

The day of the concerts, we'd all have our call two hours before showtime. We'd gather onstage of the performing arts center for rehearsal, warm up, and go through our pieces. We'd get a pep talk and shoulder massages from our fellow members.

And then we'd go to the dressing rooms to get ready.

We had to wear these red satin dresses with puffed sleeves (not Anne of Green Gables puffy, but very subtly puffed). Our dressing room was a mess of bobby pins, hair spray, mousse, make up, curling irons, and other beauty supplies. We'd drink hot tea with honey and lemon, water, or apple juice to get our voices in prime singing condition. There were always plenty of throat drops to go around. We were always excited, yet nervous, to perform. We knew we would put on a good concert, but we still had a little apprehension every time we stepped onstage.

About fifteen minutes before showtime, we'd gather backstage, in the set shop. We'd line up according to voice parts. (I was an alto, and was always stage left. I was also one of the shortest members of the choir, so I was always in the first or second row.) Our chaplain would lead us in a brief prayer to Saint Cecilia (the patron saint of music), and we'd all silently bow our heads and say the "Our Father" right along with him. Then we walked onstage.

We'd be onstage for about ten minutes before the audience was silenced and the curtain rose. I had performed many, many times on the stage of our college performing arts center, and every time that curtain rose, and we saw the audience for the first time, I would get chills down my spine. Once the curtain rose our director would say a few words, then she raised the baton and the show would begin.

In addition to the concerts we performed on campus, we sang at many churches along the eastern seaboard. During my tenure in the choir, we took trips to Montreal, Washington, DC, and Disney World. I loved every minute of it. I loved the music, I loved the bus rides to our off-campus adventures, I loved our trips, and I loved performing. Not to mention, some of my closest friends from choir are still some of my closest friends today. Mama Cat was right. I did meet people--and made some lifelong friendships.

I donned the red dress for the last time in May of 1998, at the Baccalaureat Mass, held in the bright sunshine the day before graduation. I wore dark sunglasses throughout the entire service to conceal the fact that my eyes were red, puffy, and swollen from crying. The fact that I was departing college life, and the choir, for good absolutely wrecked my spirit. It was devistating. I was not the only one, though. We all felt it, even the undergrads. We all felt it.

Turning in my red dress wasn't much of a problem, though. I just put it in the pile, ready for the next deserving soprano or alto to don it the following year. But the thought of not singing onstage again was incredibly depressing.

In 2006, I sang onstage with my college choir once again, to celebrate the 60th anniversary of its founding. It felt good to be back with my closest friends again, singing our signature pieces. It was especially good to reconnect with people I hadn't seen since graduation, to catch up on what had occurred in our lives since we last sang together.

Hardly anything had changed. There were still a lot of beauty supplies and apple juice in the dressing room. We still prayed to Saint Cecilia in the set shop before the show. The chills returned to my spine as the curtain rose.

Yet one thing had changed: The women now wore black dresses onstage.

I recently had the opportunity to attend a concert. I've been eleven years out of college, yet the minute they started singing the alma mater the memories came flooding back, as fresh as they were the day I made them. My friend and I kept referring to the singers onstage as kids. Kids?!? Man, I feel old!

It was a lovely, lovely concert. In addition to our signature pieces, there was a song in Swahili, and a medley of Gerswin tunes. Man, I missed being in the choir. I missed it something awful.

Some alums, however, missed being in the choir so much that they started their own, and asked our choir director to lead it.

My BFF and some other friends are now members.

They're performing tomorrow night.

I've got my tickets ready.