She looked vaguely familiar, and her eyes reminded me of an older version of my mom—if my mom was still alive. She was my mother's age. I searched her face for some clue. At first I thought she was a cancer survivor, because of her sunken eyes but she still had her hair, and she looked sane enough.
I puzzled over her face. I tend to remember the faces of people I photographed, sometimes decades later. But I couldn't quite place her.
But she wanted me to take her trash after I'd offered her a sample and I refused, not wanting to cross-contaminate the food... I was taken aback that that she had even handed me her trash with such an imperious gesture. An awkward moment ensued as I withdrew my hand and pointed to the trash can. Inexplicably I was thinking of musicals—the scene between the Jets and the Sharks. Snap! Dancing in the aisles.
The little old lady, also taken aback, said she liked the cheese, and wanted two pieces. She said that she was having some people over tonight. Did I have a larger piece? Thankful for the distraction, I gathered my wits as I rummaged in the box behind the counter for a large chunk, and offered it to her.
Meanwhile, another woman came up and was thanking her for something, I didn't know what, so I asked what that was about? She said: I really like her work. What work? Her movies. Movies? Don't you know who that is? That's Rita Moreno! She lives in the Oakland Hills.
Oh. I was gobsmacked. No. I guess I didn't know that.
But indeed I was thinking of my mother's halcyon stage days when I thought the old woman reminded me of my mom.
I remember watching my mom at the Sausalito Gate Playhouse, performing Of Thee I Sing, and Pipedream. At Music Circus costuming Guys and Dolls. I remember searching for my mom in the big crowd scene in It's a Mad, Mad, Mad World. But I never found her. No matter how hard I tried. By that time she was already well on her way to the world of madness.
When I got my break, I went looking for Ms. Moreno in the store aisles. I wanted to apologize—well not so much to apologize so much as to smooth some feathers and to close the loop.
I wanted also to tell Rita that I knew of her world, and that my mother's escape came too late. But Rita was already gone. Deep into the Oakland Hills. An escaped West Side Story.
Snap!
ENVOI
Dec 3: I was chit-chatting tonight with Rita Moreno as I was putting away my cheese booth. We nibbled on dill havarti with salmon. I gave her suggestions for appetizers, etc., for a party.
I've become the Go To girl for spontaneous recipes and menus. This time she didn't try to hand me her trash. She must've remembered how I got cranky last summer.
Anyway, she does have the most marvellous eyes. So frail, yet so alive. Most people I work with don't even know who she is. Sad, Really.
At least they've heard of West Side Story.
Dec. 23 Wished Rita a Merry Christmas—we chatted in Spanglish. Sweet.
Dec. 30 Rita came right up to me to say hello. I met her friend
—we slid through several languages as he doesn't speak English. Fun. I told Rita about learning Russian while traveling there as an artist and poet. She looks so much better—I think she was sick. She said she was feeling much better. Anyway, it's fun conversing with her. I think she enjoys the one-on-one, with no mention of her stardom.
Jan. 21 Rita came over to say hello—she's looking positively marvelous. I told her so.
I asked her if she would be restaging her one-woman show. All my friends are still talking about it and I never never got a chance to see it. She said, "I don't know, it depends upon how I feel."
She said that she's recovering from double hip surgery and it's been a long haul. She said, "I'll be sure to let you know if I do decide to stage it again." Looking forward to it.
A newer blog entry on Rita, Maybe Even Dance Again.
Original post from Facebook
July 8, 2012 ·
Mad, mad world: A frail wisp of a little old lady, dressed flowing vague patterns of beige and white, wearing a lacy wide-brimmed hat, toddled up to the cheese booth where I was serving samples. She looked vaguely familiar, and reminded me of an older version of my mom around the sunken eyes—if my mom was still alive. At first I thought she was a cancer survivor, but she had her hair, and she looked fine. I puzzled over her face.
The little old lady liked the cheeses I offered, but she wanted me to take her trash after I'd offered her a sample and I refused, not wanting to cross-contaminate the food... I was taken aback that that she had handed me her trash with such a gesture.
Another woman was thanking her for something, I didn't know what, so I asked what that was about. She said: I really like her work. What work? Her movies. Movies? Don't you know who that is? That's Rita Moreno! She lives in the Oakland Hills.
I was gobsmacked. No. I guess I didn't know that.
But I was indeed thinking of my mother's halcyon Hollywood days when I thought she reminded me of my mom. I remember searching for my mom in the big crowd scene in It's a Mad, Mad, Mad World. But I never found her. No matter how hard I tried. By that time she was already well on her way to the world of madness.
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