The Oak Room at the Algonquin Hotel, NYC

I was half awake this morning while NPR's talking heads were educating me about this and that, when I heard a voice mentioning the Oak Room at the Algonquin Hotel in New York. The Oak Room is closing (I don't know about the hotel), and the story was about some of the people who have played there, the room itself, and why it is such a special place. Even in semi-dreamland, I went back to the one time Max and I went to the Oak Room, a time when I actually saw my friend Terry Teachout instead of just reading his blog or something else he has written, a time when I could simply sit and listen to the thing I love best - good music.

The year might have been 1995, but I can't really remember. I do know that we had, on a whim, decided to go to New York, one of my favorite places, with Bob and Susan, two of our favorite people. Bob and Susan were New York Newbies, and we promised to take in a variety of events while showing them how to get around on their own. Our plans included an obligatory tourist East River tour around the Statue of Liberty, an obligatory tourist trip to The Today Show, the New York City Ballet on its season closing night, Bring in Da Noise, Bring in Da Funk, and what I was looking forward to most, a trip to the Cafe Carlyle to hear the legendary Bobby Short. I also planned one evening of down time so that I could go see my good friend Terry, who at that time lived on the Upper West Side in a "garden apartment," which turned out to be two floors in a brownstone with a kitchen that had one time been a closet. The "garden" consisted of a small (!) patio surrounded by stacked cement blocks forming a two-foot high, three-dimensional fence upon which sat two flower pots containing straggly flowers trying desperately to find the sun some 200 feet higher than they.

I was in charge of getting tickets and set to my task earnestly, finding good seats for the musical, the ballet, and a special Picasso exhibition at MOMA (where another exhibit was a cherry nineteen-sixty-something Jaguar X-12 that Bob would LOVE). I was striking out, however, on seats at the Carlyle, and took the maitre d's advice to show up one night and something would turn up.

So off we went. Things were going swimmingly, and I was so excited to see Terry after so many years of NOT seeing him. He told us of his life as a writer in New York, doing pieces for The Wall Street Journal, The Congressional Quarterly, even Time Magazine. He was doing music reviews, had fallen into the art world, and was at that point in love with modern dance. He asked about our itinerary, and I gave him the list. In his matter-of-fact voice, with an almost-imperceptible nod to being one in the know, he said, "Oh, my dear, you MUST go to the Oak Room. Susannah McCorkle is playing there, and she is such a wonderful, smart singer. She is doing a program on Cole Porter. It is a fabulous show."

What Terry says must be done, and so when we got back to our hotel, I called the Algonquin Hotel and made reservations for the Oak Room to see Susannah McCorkle. We were going to a real cabaret - a NIGHT CLUB in NEW YORK CITY!!! We got the last table available, and when I reported back to Terry, he said, in the same tone, same voice, "Oh, dear. I'll bet you got the Table of Death." Being one NOT in the know, I asked what that was.

"Well," he said, "the Oak Room is very small, and one table sits about five feet from the singer on the singer's right. I'll bet that was the last table, and I'll bet you got it. For Heaven's sake," he said, as though he were talking to a rube from Thayer (Oh, wait! I AM a rube from Thayer!), "DON'T talk while she is singing. That will drive her crazy and she won't be able to concentrate."

So we got dressed that night and went to the Oak Room in the Algonquin Hotel to hear Susannah McCorkle sing. We were all somewhat hushed as we entered the room, as it was very tiny, even smaller that Terry had prepared us for. I think that fewer than 100 people would be in that room at one time, even when it was very, very full. The room had a series of tables around its perimeter where some people would eat after-theatre supper. The rest of the room looked more like what I expected a cabaret to look like - several small tables scattered about where patrons would be served the drink minimum and listen to background music while carrying on a conversation. And then we were taken to our table - the Table of Death. We were indeed about five feet from where Susannah McCorkle would be standing as she sang Cole Porter's songs to us and to the rest of the room.

We ordered our drinks, and then the time was upon us where we would hear what Terry called a smart singer making Cole Porter come alive. There was no reason for Terry to have warned us not to talk. Being so close to the singer and being able to watch her piano accompanist move his ten fingers to make beautiful music was nothing short of magic. I don't think any of us said a word during the entire show. It was as if we were holding our collective breath. I did note that she had on the same Bruno Magli shoes I had bought that afternoon, except mine were gold-toned and hers were black. I was entranced, and I will never forget that evening or her performance or the feeling that I had done something really special that I would rarely, if ever, be able to describe or explain.

After that night, we had a really good time at all the other events we had scheduled. We went to the Cafe Carlyle and saw Bobby Short, but that evening was tainted because we had to wait an hour in a really hot lobby to be admitted, and we spent over $200 for eight watered-down drinks, AND the drummer was too loud and Short too, and I mean this, trite. And I at that time was disappointed to have to say that the legend of Bobby Short could not and did not compare with the unplanned evening we spent in a quiet little night club, where we heard a smart singer breathe life into not only Cole Porter's songs, but into Cole Porter himself - a smart singer who, tragically, a few years after we heard her, heard something in her own head, a different kind of music, that sent her to her death from a very tall New York skyscraper.

So things go on: the Oak Room is closing, The New Yorker will list Patti LuPone as the opening act at a new cabaret, and Bobby Short died several years ago. But this will never change: I still have that night that came back to me with stark clarity this morning - sitting at the Table of Death at the Oak Room at the Algonquin Hotel in New York City, listening to Susannah McCorkle sing Cole Porter. Magic.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

So, I booked Max’s flight from KC to Savannah for Friday, June 8 (because he has only 3 days of vacation by that time), with a return on Tuesday, June 12. I asked Southwest to send a confirmation e-mail to me, to him, and to Emily. About an hour later, I got a text from the Divine Miss Em saying that “Daddy booked his flight for the wrong weekend.” Several frantic texts later, the truth was revealed: the date for Emily’s graduation is NOT June 9, as previously thought. It is June 2. The truth is out: Emily has inherited her father's calendar genes. So we will be celebrating Emily’s graduation one week later, with pictures of her in mortarboard and black gown and NOT having to sit in some stadium or arena watching people we don’t even know trudge across the stage. Max and I plan to carry forward with our previously scheduled arrangements – my leaving Sedalia after my docket on June 6 and maybe picking up Susie in St. Louis that evening on the way to the Aloft and Bonefish Grill in Nashville Wednesday night, and arriving in Savannah on Thursday afternoon; Mother and Don’s flying into Savannah on Thursday; Kevin, Kim, and Kate’s, and Kelsey’s, we hope, arriving on Thursday sometime; Johnny’s thinking of us while his granddaughter graduates from high school in San Antonio; Patty’s and Libby's wishing they could be there; and Max’s flying in the next day to Jacksonville and getting a car to get to Savannah on Friday; and a plethora of entertainment for the weekend with our favorite family and friends. Best, I am planning a couple of tours and a couple of dinners at a couple of fabulous restaurants, including the one that serves the best wine and Irish whiskey we have EVER tasted. Regardless of our calendar-challenged mess, we will not really miss a graduation ceremony. In order to satisfy our graduation hunger, we will make Emily wear her cap and gown to dinner. I hope no one will need to change plans, but if that is necessary, we will understand and will never hold it against anyone. We will simply think of him or her or them while we drink margaritas on the beach!

Court

Court last week was, to say the least, extremely frustrating; however, the day gave me fodder for the Book That Should be Published.  I had not one, but three, dog cases, two with the same two dogs, and the third with a heretofore unknown dog, as well as the couple whose house will be torn down as they say inside, "Did you hear a noise?"

I pray for the wisdom of Solomon, but so far, it has not appeared.  I will keep hoping.

The older couple, although I believe they are probably pretty close to my age, have been appearing in court over several years, always for violating the housing code.  I have seen pictures of their home, which seems to be similar to the tar paper shacks common to the area where I was born and grew up.  Over the years, the pictures show some windows having been replaced with corrugated tin and some with plywood.  The roof now has, instead of a few small blue tarps hiding a few small spots of disrepair, a huge blue tarp covering about one-third of the house.  A porch has been torn off but not rebuilt.  Shrubs and vines abound in the summer months, so that the area looks like the scary forest in Walt Disney's Snow White.  The house is probably Webster's picture definition of the word "dilapidated."  I have no idea how they live in that excuse for a house.

But live there they do.

Over the years, they begin a project here and there, but never finish:  their son needed to use his truck and couldn't lend it to them; he has been sick; she has been sick; he has a bad heart; they didn't understand what I wanted them to do; and on and on.  Finally, this year, when the blue tarp took on its now gigantic proportions, I asked, "Do you think that his chronic bronchitis could have something to do with the mold that probably is in the walls at your house?  Do you think that the roof might leak into your house and cause mold?"  They looked at me as if they had never heard of such a thing.  In fact, they probably haven't heard of such a thing.

So the City has finally had it and has declared the house to be a dangerous building and subject to demolition. They have the right to challenge that finding, and they can show that the building is not dangerous; however, they have not done so.  The challenge time period is six months; that time period expires in June.  They are still living in the house.

I saw them three months ago.  The City's housing specialist came into the court to report that they had picked up paperwork, and that they needed to complete it.  After that, the housing authority would call them when an apartment became available.  "We don't want an apartment.  We want a house," the wife said.  The housing specialist patiently explained that houses didn't come open very often, but they would be next on the list when one appeared.  It was then that I found out that this couple has an adult son who lives with them. I got the idea that he might be unemployable, because although he is about 30 years old, he has never had a job.  The wife told us that he had "bad teeth."  I asked about his going to a dentist.  "We can't afford a dentist."  I explained that Medicaid would help them with medical costs.  "He's not on Medicaid," the wife said.  I asked why not, and she told me that they had never signed up for Medicaid.

I encouraged them to sign him up for Medicaid so that he could get the health care he needed, including a visit to the dentist.  They nodded, and I ordered them to come back the next month to report.  I really wanted to keep them on the move so that they wouldn't get too comfortable in their own home and just forget that it was going to be torn down.

The next month, they appeared, and I asked for a report. They had picked up the paperwork, and the son had gone to the dentist.  The dentist had pulled a lot of teeth, and the son was in pain.  I asked whether they had called the dentist's office to see if something could be done for the pain.  They kind of looked at each other, and the wife told me, "No, we haven't called back.  It hurts too much for him to go back."  I explained that maybe an infection had developed and that their son needed some medication.  They looked at each other again and she said she would call.

Then I asked about whether they had completed the paperwork.  They looked at each other and she said, "No."  I asked why not, and, you guessed it, they looked at each other.

I ordered them to complete the paperwork and take it back to the housing authority and return to court the next month.  They left and I sighed.

The next month, they appeared and proudly reported that they had completed the paperwork requesting housing.  They told me that they had also called the dentist but could not get in to see him because there were no more vouchers and they couldn't afford it.  I was happy because they had completed the paperwork, and let them go, but ordered them to return the next month.  Again, I didn't want them to forget that they were living in a condemned house and would have to move.

That takes us to last Wednesday.

They came in and approached the bench when it was their turn.  Jamie, the housing specialist came downstairs and was smiling, so I thought the problem had been solved.  She said, "The housing authority offered them an apartment this week!"  I began smiling because I thought this was good news.  Then the wife said, "We don't want an apartment. We want a house."  Jamie looked at me.  I looked at her.  She said, "You won't be able to get a house right away.  They don't come open very often.  But you will be first on the list for a house when one is available."  They looked at each other.  The wife said, "We didn't ask for an apartment."

I threw up my hands, both literally and figuratively.  I asked Jamie whether the apartment would still be available.  "Oh, no," she said.  Once they turn it down, it will go to the next person on the list."

I looked at the couple and said, "I have tried to do everything I can to get you a habitable place to live, and now you have turned down  a place that will get you out of the house before it is torn down.  I don't know what else to say.  Your house will be torn down in June.  It will be gone.  Where will you go?"

They looked at each other.

"You're dismissed," I said, and moved on to the next case.

Later, the clerk asked me what to do with the case.  I told her that we couldn't do any more with it.

Then I went to my church staff meeting and asked for prayers that I could find some answer that would keep these people in a house and not make them new members of the homeless community.

Solomon, where are you?