Rita Moreno walked over to say hello to me at my sample booth today. She always makes a point of coming over to say hello and to visit. It's not just about sampling the cheese of the day. It's about the connection. Community. Except today I had finished early and was serving raspberry almond tarts. I said I was the queen of tarts.
Rita laughed. Nibbled on her sweet. Nice to see you, nice to SEE you, she always says in her little Carmen Miranda lilt. And she means it. Putting her hand over her heart. We always gaze deep into each other's eyes for a moment as if to fathom something profound but the words never come. Her kohl-rimmed eyes are cinnamon brown with green flecks like mine. The makeup suits her.
Hard to believe that Rita's 82. She always wears interesting hats. A wisp of chestnut hair streaked with gold framed her face—she'd just come from the hair salon. Marvelous describes her. In a word: she is elegant. She has a beauty that never fades.
The first time I met Rita, she looked like she was at death's door. Her husband had recently passed away. She was frail, barely mobile. Shopping was an effort. But today she walked unaided. Sans walker. Today the red shopping cart was her surrogate walker. But it was banished to the far side of the aisle. She carefully walked over to me unaided.
She said: See, I am off my walker, but I keep it it in the car just in case. She's living dangerously. Wow! The hip replacement surgery was a success.
Rita, the Hollywood goddess of dance, did a halting little two-step and said Look, I can walk again—maybe even dance again! She said, smiling, her arm leading with a slow spin. Now those are immortal words to live by.
She said, But the balance is not so good. With a dismissive wave of the hand, she tottered off pushing the red cart like red Ferrari, but she was a frail hummingbird. My heart in my throat.
My cheese booth at Trader Joe’s is like a village well. The Regulars come to visit me, to share their stories. I tell them I am a stationary object. I am a lighthouse. I stand at this one spot five days a week greeting people, picking up dropped threads of conversation.
New friends tell me old stories. I give them recipes, wine and cheese. It is a civilized bastion, an outpost in the midst of commerce where the qualities of terroir are invoked daily. I have many Regulars who come to visit without fail.
Blind Augustine's wife, the flamenco dancer, took off the neckscarf I was admiring and then danced with it in front of my cheese booth. Customers clapped, said Olé as we twirled our hands like pigeon wings in unison. In that moment, we realized that we knew each other from long ago via Enrique Sánchez, the flamenco guitarist. A gig I produced at Sonoma State University in the 1980s. Small world.
And any (in)famous old friends always stop by to say hello and chat: Earl Kingston and Maxine Hong Kingston, Camille Dungy, and her daughter, Al Young, Alastair Johnson—even Jerry Brown and his retinue. I once gave him a standing ovation for all my CAC arts grants. He said Where's the salmon? But Rita Moreno, by far, is my favorite Regular.
In my CAC poetry workshop at Mark West School, an exuberant kindergartner once threw his arms open wide and told me: If I were king of the universe, I'd dance for a living. Pure poetry on the hoof.
Today we celebrate a small victory. I give Rita another piece of raspberry tart. We measure the progress of recovery in small, ordinary increments. Today the dancer can walk again. Maybe even dance because dancing is still in her heart.
That sterling moment more than made up for yesterday's sour customer from hell: a 20-something blonde who shrieked at me, Youfuckingbitch! and stomped off, because I said: Please do me a favor, use the serving tray next time instead of my cutting board as it's a health code violation. I never even got to finish my sentence. I was too shocked to respond as I dumped the tray-full of cheese in the trash.
Such displaced rage—a tantrum over what? A piece of cheese? Wow. Not the first time this has happened. Chalk it up to bad parenting. The young woman was too impatient to wait for an older woman to get her sample first. At that moment, the customer becomes my friend, she became a Regular. She vouches for me, tells the manager what happened, then calls the 20-something A real bitch.
I tell my Regular the story about Rita Moreno. She is thrilled. Says Bless her heart. Bless her heart.
May that tart young woman who cursed me, grow old and wrinkled too soon in her fallow heart and may she never find the joylines to dance at the cheese booth in a supermarket when she's old enough to know better. But does it anyway.
Read about Rita Moreno's amazing life and illustrious career here on Wiki. Few know that Moreno provided the voice of Carmen Sandiego. In 2011, Moreno performed a solo show at the Berkeley Rep: Rita Moreno: Life Without Makeup, scripted by a friend of Neil's, Tony Taccone, from interviews with Moreno. Theater critic Ken Bullock said the show was absolutely marvelous.
An earlier blog thread of mine on Rita. Mad, Mad World
Original Facebook post (this one came a long way from the original. I went to school with Broadway hoofer Joel Blum).
Ms. Rita Moreno came over to say hello to me yesterday at work (TJs). She is doing much better! She is off her walker, left it in the car—she's living dangerously. The hip replacement was a success. She did a little two step and said I can walk again—maybe even dance again! Now those are immortal words to live by.
And this was from another thread:
I saw Rita Moreno last night— She's recovering from hip surgery—she even did a halting little two-step for me. So precioso!
Joel Blum God bless her
Mo Hurley She's still in the game. I asked if she was going to restage her One Woman Show. She said Tal vez. If I can dance.
The first time I met Rita, she looked like she was at death's door. Her husband had recently passed away. She was frail, barely mobile. Shopping was an effort. But today she walked unaided. Sans walker. Today the red shopping cart was her surrogate walker. But it was banished to the far side of the aisle. She carefully walked over to me unaided.
She said: Look, I am off my walker, but I keep it it in the car—she's living dangerously. Wow! The hip replacement surgery was a success.
She did a halting little two-step and said Look, I can walk again—maybe even dance again! She said, smiling, her arm leading with a slow spin. Now those are immortal words to live by.
She said, But the balance is not so good. With a wave of the hand, she tottered off pushing the cart, like a frail hummingbird. My heart in my throat.
The first time I met Rita, she looked like she was at death's door. Her husband had recently passed away. She was frail, barely mobile. Shopping was an effort. But today she walked unaided. Sans walker. Today the red shopping cart was her surrogate walker. But it was banished to the far side of the aisle. She carefully walked over to me unaided.
She said: Look, I am off my walker, but I keep it it in the car—she's living dangerously. Wow! The hip replacement surgery was a success.
She did a halting little two-step and said Look, I can walk again—maybe even dance again! She said, smiling, her arm leading with a slow spin. Now those are immortal words to live by.
She said, But the balance is not so good. With a wave of the hand, she tottered off pushing the cart, like a frail hummingbird. My heart in my throat.
I had a kindergarden student say to me in my poetry class: If I were king of the universe, I'd dance for a living. Joel Blum, you must be among royalty! Are you in any production now? Tapshoe, tapshoe, tapshoe TAP! Joel—how's your leg, did it heal completely?
Joel Blum I'm
still touring with Billy Elliot. I don't dance in this one. Just in the
finally. I play the comic character guy. That's what I do now. More
acting and singing and less dancing. But I will tap until I die.
1 comment:
Lovely. I feel like dancing!
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