Booksmith Recollection IV: Peter Bogdanovitch

This was the view he would have had, Mr. Bogdanovitch, as he set up a scene and began shouting at the young woman at the other end of the block. He was standing with the Cathedral on his left, looking down toward that very small, very last building on the same side of the street. This tiny block was home to so much of what was central to my life, for a long time and through much change.

I worked at the wonderful Booksmith, as many of you know. I learned the fundamentals of small business there, where it was closely tied to the magic of matchmaking though admittedly the matching of books with people is less fraught with disastrous possibilities than matches with no books involved. Some of the friendships that would frame my whole adult life were born there. We gradually began the long process of mourning the demise of the small, independent bookseller, and we figured out how to keep our professional affinities alive in times of drastic change.

Just up the block was the Cathedral. I was born with a love of singing and perhaps some small talent, but it was at the Cathedral that my voice found its wings, coaxed and nurtured and enriched by Sister Patricia. More friendship came to me, or (in the case of Miss Jo) returned to me, and here again, the architecture on which I was building my life was made strong. Here I learned how to be a friend and how not to. Here I learned about love, and about having sisters, an ironic lesson for one whose family includes 3 half-sisters. Here I learned that people really can love you forever, no matter what, and that you can love people in the same way. The lessons I would need to be a married person, to be a mother, to be a friend: too many of them to count were learned on this tiny block. At the Cathedral end of that block, they were all learned against a backdrop of musical scores. Standing in front of that very large congregation, I found some reserve from which I could sing week in and week out without being crippled by stage fright. So well-integrated is that lesson that to this day I'm able to talk in front of people without more than a gentle nervousness. Sister used to say, "As you rehearse, so will you perform..." and she usually added some reference to not goofing off, or working harder. She was right in many ways, not the least of which was repetition helps improve performance, and training shows, often just when you need it most.

In large measure I grew into the person I am in the tiny neighborhood described by that block. And one morning, as I stepped outside the beautifully embossed brass door of the Booksmith to hang out the "Open" sign, the street was deserted except for a handful of people all focused on the same job of work, a man in big glasses standing in front of the Cathedral shouted down the street, "HEY! You there! Get off the street!!" And then I saw the camera, and realized what the job of work was: they were the movie crew we'd heard about, come to town to shoot a movie. The shouting man was the director, Peter Bogdanovitch. (Another of his movies had enjoyed a summer run during the time of my first high school job at St. Augustine's drive-in theater, but that, my loves, is a tale for another long winter's evening.)

Back into the store I stepped, away from my closest brush with moviemaking, to wait for Gamble Rogers to browse through a copy of Wooden Boat, to wait for Mr. Montagnaro to pick up a stack of erudition and art books and tell me about the blue collar working person passion for opera in Italy, to wait for you, maybe, and all you brought me in that tiny, dusty, beautiful library of books and sisters and learning, down the street from the heart of music, emerging spiritual thought, sisters and music. What a block that was you shouted down, Mr. Bogdanovitch. What a street. What a town.

The EatHere bulletin board

Stuff you post on a bulletin board: notes, schedules, updates, coming events: works in progress. I have 2 exciting works in progress to talk about, and others that seem to have emerged from their intersection.

Reminders. This is a picture of jasmine, just coming into full bloom, growing against a huge framework of thunbergia which twines itself up along a hickory tree every year, and has become an annual joy since Miss Inga gave it to me for my birthday about 200 years ago. It reminds me, as the beautiful tiny pink roses from last night's blog do, of resurgence, of spring, of my heart's sisters whose graces can't be confined to a bulletin board post.

Alzheimers. I've been writing about its effect on my family, and mean to keep doing so. Rodney's dad was badly afflicted with it. So was a much-loved uncle, sister of his mother. As hard as it is to talk about Alzheimers, it's too scary NOT to talk about when it's found on both sides of the family, and its destruction lurks too closely for comfort.

Teaching. My dear old voice teacher Sister Patricia Eileen, who taught me what it meant to find my own voice, is herself (irony of ironies) suffering from dementia. She's been retired for some years, and although remembered with energy, inspiration and laughter by individuals, she has been collectively forgotten, I think, and this small humble blog has begun to put energy behind Not Forgetting. We are using the tentative beginnings of my blog recolllections to help frame reminiscence.

What do they mean, together? For me, for my sisters, for our friends and their friends? This will come from the work we do in the next year or two, I think. And more: Michelle's own Not Forgetting (by which I mean, connections made InRealLife, outside the confines of the blog) is driving us (both) to help voice some people with Downs Syndrome, another exploratory path with its own unwritten ending.

And in the short-term, kind comments following last night's post about Mother's Day breakfast and the simple fare of the night preceding have inspired a new direction for tonight. Usually I respond to comments with comments. Last night seemed worthy of a different approach, though. Ms. Moon and Michelle were sweet enough to take pleasure in a shared Mother's Day and a new photo of Rodney and me, squinting into the generous sunlight of a May afternoon.

Dylan's gorgeous golden pancakes got the attention of our Lulu, who knows a thing or two about good food AND about serving it beautifully. I'm working on the Home Visit Pancake Man thing, Lulu. To my surprise Dylan announced his pancakes would have been better had I provided fresh blueberries. Hmm. I suspect he has listened mor closely to Miss Lis than previously believed. In any case, let's see whether he's willing to take his Pancake Act on the road. They're worth getting up early for, that's for sure. In your case, I expect pancakes might be delivered day or night.

From Suldog, there was a well-timed reminder that the image of Mother's Day breakfast will remain with me always, even without the photo. And I think he was inspired by the Mother's Day Vigil menu, plates (photos) prepared by me, as was our dear Michelle H., who asked me for the meat loaf recipe. The rest of you can stop reading here. In honor of a fine writer, an excellent friend, and a person whose livelihood has been endangered by people apparently too blind to see the value of her presence as a member of any team, here is the recipe Michelle H. requested. To the rest of you, thank you for your continued care, and lots of love until next time.

Michelle H., here are my secrets. I believe my meat loaf to be the central reason for the naming of the imaginary restaurant my family envisioned some years ago. It was one of those meals that everyone loved, one that yielded leftovers that never lasted long. So if we ever HAD a restaurant, this would be featured.

You can make it with whatever ground meat you can live with, whether turkey or chicken or bison; in its humble form at our house, I use ground beef, ground pork and ground bison if available, about a third of each. And in this recipe, we're using roughly 1-1/2 pounds of meat.

Using a nice big mixing bowl, place the meat, about 1/4 cup each of finely chopped onion, green pepper and garlic, more or less, to your taste. Add one egg, a dash of ketchup (perhaps 1/4 cup, or a little less) and one slice of bread, finely ground into crumbs. I've found a slightly stale slice of bread can be broken in half and the two halves ground against each other to make crumbs....whatever works for you, but fresh bread crumbs is what you're after. (In a pinch, you can use 1/4 cup of uncooked oatmeal, crushed crackers, or dry bread crumbs. It's Angie at EatHere cooking, so more art than science.) Add a dash of Texas Pete (or just some black pepper) and 1/2 tsp. of salt (I like kosher salt). A dash of Wocestershire sauce is good if you have it, as is a bit of dried basil and one of marjoram; some people like a touch of oregano, too. Tread carefully, as these are all things you can add. You just can't take them out. Now use one hand to blend all the ingredients together (mixing really well) and shape into a loaf. Place in pan (I prefer a cast iron skillet, and often cook on the grill outside). Bake at about 325 degrees for an hour or so.

Meanwhile - and here's the 1960s Redbook, Woman's Day or whatever women's magazine my mother read back then - becomes important. It directed he creation of a simple sauce of 1/2 cup of ketchup, 1/8 cup of yellow mustard, about 1/8 cup of brown sugar and just a touch of ground cloves, whisked together. Use this to glaze the meat loaf about 15 minutes before the end of the cooking time. Be sure you have enough to use for meat loaf sandwiches to take to work the next day.

Michelle, DO NOT TELL anyone this recipe. It's a super top-secret revelation of the 1960s but I'm delighted to share it with you. In fact, I'd love to cook it for you, so let me know when you've started to take over the world as the great writer you are. I'll be ready.

EatHereEatery bulletin board readers: thank you. Thanks for staying with us, thanks for waiting us out. Mostly, thanks for watching for what I hope will be the fine work to come, as I dredge the Alzheimers memories myself and partner with old friends and new to create a portrait of our dear Sister Patricia. Stay tuned.

The long winter nap of The MadriGalz

Tonight the Feast of the Epiphany marks the end of the Christmas season on the Christian calendar. As the fading winter light spills through the oak leaves, this means it's also time to say good night to the MadriGalz as winter hibernation begins. To mark the occasion and tip our hats to Cafe Alcazar, here's A Brief History of The MadriGalz.

Long ago, the magical power of St. Augustine to summon creative people together resulted in the arrival of a remarkable Dominican nun, Sister Patricia Eileen Consier, who assumed the duties of music director at the Basilica-Cathedral. (Was everyone delighted? Not by a long shot, but that's a tale for another night, my dears.) This amazing, demanding, gifted woman took a small church choir and dissected it into voices, the better to re-assemble according to the unique abilities of each. It was very much an evolution, and over the course of more than 20years, it looked different in every snapshop. It's a rich source of storytelling ore, likely to be mined early and often at Eat Here. For purposes of this story, it's enough to tell you that SPE, as she was (never to her face) called, helped some of us discover that our bodies harbored voices we'd never imagined: bigger, sweeter, richer...was this us? Could it possibly be? And it was. In many hours of choral rehearsals, individual voice lessons, small ensemble singing and vocalise practices in the classic bel canto style, she polished away at our modest talents and made the most of some voices that might otherwise never have been raised in song. Judy, for instance, the MadriGal to beat all MadriGalz, had been told it was a good thing she could play oboe, because she damned sure couldn't sing. Imagine.


So there was a madrigal group in St. Augustine. It was a good group, too, well-balanced, with about 14 or 16 voices, lovely historically accurate period costumes and a beautiful reportoire of Renaissance madrigals and carols. As time passed, key members dropped out for one reason or another, and SPE shifted her penetrating musical gaze to meet other needs. The madrigal group got smaller and smaller and in the end it quietly stopped performing.


The simple joy of singing is known to most everyone, even if we only sing to ourselves in the shower or when we're driving. Singing with other people intensifies the joy. For me, singing with a small group of other women in close harmony is one of the most profound physical experiences life offers: nestled in the arms of the other voices, my own is sweetened and made finer until it even seems to be akin to something, well, holy.

So for a time, Judy and I sang madrigals informally, and occasionally even rented costumes and worked it as a gig. We did this in three-part harmony with our old friend Tracy, a remarkable soprano who can't read music but whose voice could embarrass angels into silence. (This amazing friend and her voice are topics for a future tale, dears; stay tuned.) We even did a four-part setting for awhile with another friend, Teresa, a mezzo with whom we loved to sing. One Christmas, the four of us snuck into the Cathedral and recorded a small tape, and gave copies as holiday gifts. But Teresa and Tracy both moved away, so once again, the madrigal group rooted at the Cathedral slipped off unnoticed. Back into hibernation it went.


Time passed. And once again, the power of St. Augustine to bring about intersections of creative people and art exercised its gentle influence. This time the intersection brought about the crossing of Judy's path, and mine, with that of Lis Williamson. Regionally well-known and locally famous for her work with a variety of bluegrass and folk bands, Lis was a marvelous talent and Judy and I had admired her for years. The truth is that I'd been awed by Lis for years from a distance, and up close, I found an even more magnetic and humble beauty than could be seen fron a distance. Judy and I talked it over and we asked the question, and to our amazement Lis said she'd love to try singing with us. The MadriGalz were conceived in the living room of a house on Rohde Avenue. Not too many months later, the project came alive in several spaces, the most notable of which continues to be the deep end of the pool, at Cafe Alcazar.

The Madz had a busy season this year. We were delighted to carol at Creekside Dinery, one or two private holiday parties and, for the first time, Cowboy's Restaurant. We missed Cafe Alcazar this year; perhaps with some luck the Cafe will be back on its feet soon. And we finished the holidays on New Year's Eve, singing Blue Moon with Lis as she debuted her solo CD, Deep, and welcomed the New Year on a real, true, honest-to-goodness blue moon. In fact we sang a loose version of that very song, accompanied by a genuine band...there were our much-loved Lon Williamson, Gabe Valla, Jason Thomas and Rocky Tabyanan, playing with US. Imagine. What a year.


So we hibernate, think about our song list, and maybe even manage a rehearsal or two, and we watch for the days to grow longer, spring to lighten us, summer to warm us and ripen our gardens, and the fall equinox to remind us that the light retreats again. Until then, I have lots of stories to tell you. They should keep us busy until The MadriGalz step out and stretch, warm up our voices, and sing, "Here we come a-wassailing, among the leaves so green..."...