A holiday that was worth waiting for
Beginning in 2001, I took three writing classes each summer at Chautauqua – for five years. I gradually learned my way around campus absorbing the babbling fountains, magnificent gardens, and snatches of symphony rehearsals. I dreamed of spending a week there.
My dearest friend, Ginger, fulfilled that dream – under challenging circumstances.
Tom, my late husband, died in May, 2007. Weeks later, Ginger sensed that I needed a change of scenery. I needed new conversations … and time to think. Her enormous gift – a week at Chautauqua – was just what I needed when we went that August, 18 years ago.
Last winter, when I read this season’s Chautauqua’s schedule, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to go back? Just once again – before I die?” I am now sufficiently long-in-the-tooth to be thinking about the shortened timeline ahead. Dear Richard wasn’t really interested. “A whole week? It’s not my cup of tea,” was his response.
So, I immediately called Ginger in New York City. Her response? “ABSOLUTELY! When?” Her birthday fell into the ninth week of the season. A natural schedule for celebration.
Together we rented an apartment and bought our gate-pass tickets for the week, including parking. I don’t get excited by much anymore. But I was grinning looking ahead the many months to a real holiday.
Every week I plan and write a column. In an incredible twist from procrastination, I wrote last week’s column early, emailed it ahead, and removed the deadline from my 8-day vacation. Yahoo!
Then, when Ginger confided she was too ill to come from NYC, I was shattered. I don’t want anything happening to her, ever. She was in devastating pain with a barrage of tests, and no possibility of Chautauqua. How could I enjoy the gorgeous week we had planned – without her?
The angel on my shoulder found a last-minute replacement – a friend who could change a few appointments and share my week. Ann said yes. She packed a week’s worth of slacks and tee tops, eggs and popcorn, and her intellectual curiosity. She brought along her friendship, a good book, and the ability to doze off in the sunshine – all pre-requisites at the adult camp on the lake.
The magic there is unmistakable. We went to the morning lectures, awed by the thousands that overflowed the amphitheater for Doris Kearns Goodwin, the brilliant Pulitzer Prize writer. The program host, commenting on the audience size, said “and for a historian!” That was Chautauqua – not for a rock star – for a historian. The next morning, Morgan Freeman commanded another crowd to introduce his Mississippi Blues to the symphony experience. We went back that evening for the stunning combination concert.
We walked a lot. And when we couldn’t we climbed on the little jitneys… sort of golf cart stretch-limos with seven seats. We spent reading times on the porch with fleeting glimpses of children on pink bicycles, and passers-by in deep conversation. Our duplex neighbors were Californians, sometimes porching with us at the same time. Our east coast/west coast conversations occasionally devolved into politics, but mostly just laughter.
On our very first day, we set an inspirational goal of almost academic importance: we planned to eat ice cream every day. It’s vacation. It’s spoil-ourselves time. We missed only one day. With little to brag about otherwise, I am a connoisseur of coffee ice cream. We New Englanders are raised on the stuff. Millie’s ice cream was world-class and had my attention from the first Saturday cone through to the second Sunday at departure time. Yum.
We meant to eat out, but usually cooked and ate at odd hours. The schedule of our interests intervened. We saw four lectures, three concerts, a world-premiere play and four thought-provoking movies. Oh – and we shopped!
We went to church both Sunday mornings. With a rousing 1600 other voices, we prayed and sang well-remembered hymns. The 70-voice Chautauqua choir added elegant harmonies. And with all its 5,640 pipes roaring, the historic Massey organ massively filled the soft air around us. A tingling stirred deep in my chest.
I took a writing class and went to a fun lunchtime prose and poetry reading. Ann and I ambled through narrow streets lined with colorful Queen Anne architecture and Queen Anne’s lace.
And every event challenged us – to think differently, to remember, to refocus. We talked into the wee hours and set no alarms. We laughed irreverently and commiserated freely. We know each other better now, and yet it was also a week of personal rediscovery. Maybe even renewal, the kind of moments that stay with you. It was wonderful.
Eighteen years until the next Chautauqua holiday? I hope not, but Chautauqua is free for 90-year-olds! That, along with Millie’s coffee ice cream, is worth waiting for! Flower by flower, cone by cone. I can’t wait.
Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.