Backstage at the Thanksgiving Show

   

Husband and Guest doing a frogstand

      I’m not quite sure how it started.  How the first germ of an idea came to be or how it developed into the extravaganza it is today.  Perhaps it was the Adirondack family fitness challenge, which could do the most sit-ups, push-ups and pull –ups that provided the spring board.  Maybe it was the constant climbing/ dance lifts my niece Cara did onto my now husband then boyfriend’s back that clearly needed a performance opportunity that spurred us on.  Or maybe the fact that Grandpa Dave, mom and I would sometimes casually sing together provided an inspiration.

        Whatever it was led us down the path of the annual post dinner Thanksgiving show. No sitting around after dinner regretting our gluttonous intake with our belts loosened; we were ready for action. It started small with my niece Cara singing the repetitive song Mr. Pumpkin, followed by one of my brother’s twin sons Jeremy executing his hand stands.  Next, Grandpa Dave would take out his harmonica and play something down home like the “Swanee River.”  To bring back the vaudevillian flavor of our program, my brother and I would then perform the family frog stands on the rug.  Those who could like my husband’s nephew Tommy, the twins Jeremy and Greg as well as my husband Johnny joined us.  Cara and Johnny would perform a few ballet lifts and we would finish off the show with an uplifting rendition of “Amazing Grace.”  Grandpa Dave, my mom and I would sing the first verse and then everyone would join us on the remaining verses.

      I think you see where we are going with the show; nothing too typical, nothing professional, the unusual was favored.   We used our lesser talents and brought forth are parlour tricks, if you will.   My husband and I are professional dancers and performers but have never used that as an act; we prefer to do frog stands or acts of flexibility.  An Argentine Tango just wouldn’t fit in.  In addition, I produced the show yearly and Johnny was our unflappable MC.  I seem to have the talent of creating something out of nothing, putting a spin on it and justifying it.  He, on the other hand, had the talent of communicating this to the audience with conviction, comedy and drama.

       What kind of family puts on these yearly events?  Well, “the show” never occurred until I met my husband and his family and we started having our annual Thanksgiving celebration up at our camp in the Adirondacks.  We all slept there for two to three nights so perhaps our personalities coupled with cabin fever provided the right atmosphere for our theatrics.  My husband’s family is artists of varying talents, and my brother’s family is divided between sports for the three guys and dance for my niece and her mom Bonnie.  On top of this each family possesses some circus like abilities; my husband’s family is extremely flexible through the hips and my brother’s family has unusual balance.  As the producer, I have exploited both characteristics to provide comedy and oddness for our annual shows.

       Over time new family members arrived and with the new additions, the show altered. As the creator and producer, I was thankful for the additions, as putting a new and interesting spin on Mr. Pumpkin and a frog stand every year had become challenging.  Tommy’s girlfriend Melissa (now wife) joined us in 2000, and my family expanded to include two boys Joey and Lucas in 2002.  Thanksgiving 2002 included the mystery of the stolen prince that involved my 10 week child and somehow tied the whole thing together.  Tommy was always fun by himself but now with the addition of Melissa they would add an act that entailed art.  No slouch in the athletic category, Tommy also participated in the flexibility category while last year Melissa somehow sustained her yoga headstand next to my flailing headstand that lasted all of 2 seconds before falling three times.  Persistence is one of my strengths and downfalls, as I continued to say “I got it, just one more try.”

       Sadly, the theater was black in 2008 when Thanksgiving was in New York City without my brother’s family and we were uninspired with half the cast missing.  However, in 2009 we were back together in Vermont and the New Yorkers made the six hour trip up to Stowe, Vermont for the Holiday.  I’m going to say that this was one of our better shows.  Grandpa Dave had written his own introduction for his musical performance and had a costume, Tommy and Melissa had planned some camera flashing in the dark outlining the body act, the flexibility acts with the Martinez hips and my head to toe touching flexible back were impressive and the dog obedience act outdid itself.  We were back.

Son executing the frogstand

       Of course no show is complete without an audience and we were lucky to every year have Uncle Freddie, Johnny’s mom Carmen and Cream Puff (Uncle Freddie’s dog) as our consistent fan club.  My brother was also in the audience but annually made his walk to the stage with dignity to perform his requisite frog stand and his wife Bonnie (also in the audience) was frequently involved in a dog act.  My mom, sitting in the audience, rose every year to sing the finale “Amazing Grace” with solid harmony. The rest of us were running around backstage in the dining room and kitchen readying ourselves for our barely rehearsed acts.

       Thanksgiving 2010 was filled with joy to be together but tinged with sadness as the Adirondack house was for sale and we were quite sure it would be our last Thanksgiving there. Nonetheless, the show must go on and we received new inspiration that year in the form of the neighbors.  We had just found out that new friends (the Maxwells) in Saratoga had a home down the road from us in Speculator and they were joining us for dinner.  They took their food and theater seriously, bringing all sorts of goodies to eat and arriving for the show with a violin and a reading from Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Canterbury Tales.”  I’m not sure anyone quite knew how to take the first thirty seconds of Otis’s reading of “The Canterbury Tales” in Middle English wearing a unique hat, but within minutes, we realized that it fit the 19^th century salon theater style we craved and embraced it.  Hence, we had ushered in a new era of “the dramatic reading.”

       The Maxwells were not the only new performers that year.  Logan Blaise Martinez (heir to Tommy and Melissa) had entered the world and was debuting at the age of eight and one/half months.  Actually, he was in two acts; the first being a series of unusual baby sounds assisted by Tommy and he opened up the lift act.  I am practically proud of this further development of Johnny and Cara’s lift act which had grown a little predictable and needed a new spin.  I called this act – the unaware, the bizarre and the classical.  Tommy and Logan did some interesting poses in which Logan unaware of his participation was highly cooperative.  Lucas and I on the other hand worked our butts off.  Lucas and I frequently do lifts at home and it was time to bring it to the public combining my strength and sense of drama with Lucas’s flexibility and passion for the bizarre.  We concluded the lift segment with some classical ballet lifts with Johnny and Cara who has now grown to 5 foot 7 inches.  As always, the frog stand is done as both a nod to the tradition of our show and a nod to vaudeville.  Amazingly, it never gets old.

       To bring you up to date with our most recent show, I’m going to say that it was one of our most casual shows.  With our beloved Adirondack home now sold, we hosted Thanksgiving this year in Saratoga. Additionally, it was my birthday, so my energy was high but I started to slow down after dinner and had not given the show as much forethought.  Unfortunately, we were missing my brother’s family but I did have many people from which to cast the show from.  Providence prevailed and the arrival of some new guests and presence of the Maxwell’s violin and dramatic reading script pushed me into action.  Within fifteen minutes, I had auditioned a hoola hoop participant, secured some audience participation on the frog stand and put together a show order.  I notified the sound man (Joey), the MC (Johnny), cleared the living room floor of the Greco/Roman pre-show act going on by the four young boys and organized the audience.

       Somehow the show always comes together and this year was no different featuring a wonderful harmonica act, a hoola hoop act, a poem, a violin and piano duet, a Thanksgiving reading, a gymnastic feat of cart wheeling into the chair, a piano solo, a reading of the menu from the Thanksgiving dinner at the NYC Delmonico Hotel in 1888 and of course our closing song “Amazing Grace.”  New audience members appeared simply stunned after some of the acts before clapping. We aim to please.

        Perhaps not our best show, but entertaining nonetheless and after the music, the solemn readings and the comedic physical acts, we bring it all together with the singing of the song ‘Amazing Grace.”  As we face each other and sing our thanks with moist eyes, I am touched by our ability to do our show in any location.  In past years our strains of Amazing Grace drifted across the quiet Adirondack lake and the solemn November landscape. Now our voices carry out into the Saratoga Thanksgiving evening and a passerby can look in and see a group facing each other with meaning and grace.  No television, cell phone or computer required.  Just us and our many “talents.” It is a time worth revisiting.  It is a time worth preserving.

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

Author performing the frogstand

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A SARATOGA TRADITION

    It's that time of year again when Saratogians rent their homes to incoming ballet, track and summer fans.  The following article was my first published writing piece ever and describes our preparations and the exciting final 36 hours leading up to our exit the summer of 2009.  We just moved out of our home again and a new article is in the works.  Enjoy and if you are a homeowner who habitually rents out their home or first timers, please share your experiences.

    It is a yearly Saratoga phenomenon; when teems of local residents vacate their homes to rent to the summer crowds.  Hundreds of seemingly emotionally and financially stable Saratogians sign contracts, clean and de-clutter their homes and ultimately move out and find new digs while someone takes over their home.  While the financial rewards are considerable, home owners in many cases earn every penny as the preparations are intense and the homelessness inconvenient.

    Our family enters our sixth season of renting this summer and five out of six have been for the full season.  Preparations for the 2009 season start December of 2008, when our realtor contacts us to update our website information and confirm its accuracy.  One year we had a rental by January, but this year there are no bites until March.  First, we contact our 2007, 2008 gentlemen renters and they politely decline.  So we move ahead with new unknown summer renters.

    The time between March and April passes uneventfully as we sign leases, receive deposits and speak occasionally with the realtor.  Conversations with my friends who rent are frequently peppered with “Do you have someone yet?  Is it the same people as last year?  How long are you renting for?”  The rare bold question is “How much are they paying?”  No one is panicked in the spring.

    And then late June comes, the final payments are in, it occurs to one that you only have five weeks remaining in your home and you need to start sorting and cleaning.  We start by categorizing and recycling our children’s school papers as well as our own. Trips are made to the Salvation Army with clothing and we have our annual stoop sale.   The experience of annually ridding our home of unnecessary items is cathartic and welcome.

    My husband and I in early July start eyeing our teenage son’s room, anticipating and dreading the emotional and physical energy it will require to put his room in shape.  Up until fall of 2008, our two sons had shared a room and somehow the younger ones presence had kept the older one’s true self at bay.  But now, my older son has had full reign in the room, unplugged, unedited, undone.  Throughout the past nine months, we had issued daily warnings, comments and suggestions with unsatisfactory success.  We start him packing boxes the first week of July and we feel hopeful. 

    On Monday July 20^th, we have a family meeting to plan the next ten days to our exit on Tuesday July 28^th at 3pm.  I get out the chalkboard and we name our project “Operation Escape,” which goes at the top of the chalkboard.  Underneath our inspirational heading I list every day and what we need to accomplish each day.  In addition to packing ourselves up to live at my mom’s and de-cluttering our home, we include our to do list: return library books, banking, teaching, recycling and changing our mail.  Finally, we boldly list two ambitious projects we hope to accomplish prior to our exit - wash the exterior of the house and finish the taxes.  I am the eternal optimist.

    On the evening of July 20^th my husband’s family arrives from New York to help my husband with his sailboat and they go sailing on Tuesday.  Our “Operation Escape” chart is ignored and we reconfigure on Wednesday.  They depart Wednesday afternoon and we go back to fulltime work on the house. 

    Thursday morning, I walk with my neighbor who is also a habitual renter.    Although she does not have a chalkboard family list, she has her own personal to do list and cleaning the shower is one of three things on her list today.  Her efforts to ready the house will be thwarted by a houseful of company over the weekend and into Tuesday.    We check in over the next couple of days to commiserate and give the update.

    By Friday, we see progress.  We proudly get out our chart and are able to erase off the do list: playroom, my youngest son’s room, living room, and third floor. My teenage son’s room, although it has seen improvement, remains a source of stress and we are concerned that it could be our undoing.   Friday afternoon I cajole my sons and one of their friends to wash the house siding by our back garden entrance.  There is a fair amount of horsing around but they clean it well and we reward ourselves with root beer floats in the backyard.  It is a great Saratoga summer afternoon.  Life is good.

    Apparently, we feel that we deserve a break and we go sailing for two full days on Saturday and Sunday July 25^th and 26^th.  We manage to not think about what waits for us at home and what extreme effort lies ahead on Monday and Tuesday.  Arriving home Sunday at 6pm, we unpack, accomplish a few more chores and hit the hay early to ready ourselves for the final 30 hours of “Operation Escape.”

    Monday July 27^th, finds my six year old, husband and I washing the siding on the front of the house by 9am.  My teenage son (the time management expert) refuses to help or work on his room as he says;” I have plenty of time.”  At one point my husband has his head in his hands and declares my eldest son’s room akin to kryptonite; he is weakened every time he enters the room.  I manage to get both my husband and son back on task.   A good friend hosts my younger son for the rest of the day for a play date.  We are grateful. 

    The rest of Monday passes in a blur as we continue to pack our clothes, clean out draws, closets, take down posters, box up toys, sort paper and earn a living teaching dance in between.  My mom comes by for my youngest to gather him for dinner and an overnight.  I take a short nap on my Saratoga porch, enjoying the breeze and mourning how much I will miss it.  All my clothes are packed by 4:20 and I am feeling good about my day until I receive a phone call from the realtor that the renters would like a full size bed in one of the bedrooms not the two twins.  What??   I had imagined the sheets and blankets I would use and how I would dress the beds.  All for naught.  My husband is teaching at the studio and I decide to deal with this when he comes home.

    I break the news to my son and husband around 6pm.  After considering our options, we decide to bring a futon mattress from the third floor down and put it on top of the antique twin beds pushed together.  It looks ridiculous as the mattress is not as wide as the two beds.  We had considered putting the two beds together but the mattresses are different heights.  Suddenly, I remember another twin mattress on the third floor in the Jacuzzi room and yes after my son measures the height, it will work.  I disappear downstairs as the guys heave mattresses up and down stairs.  In the end it works and it is decided that I will go and purchase king size sheets at Target the next day in my “spare time.”

    By evening we are in good shape, packed to travel, possessions are secured on the third floor and in the basement.  The kitchen remains the final frontier for Tuesday.  The cleaning people are scheduled to arrive at 9:30.  Our final night of sleep is short and with great enthusiasm and no energy we look forward to the “Final Day.” 

    D-Day, Tuesday July 28^th has arrived and we are working by seven with a piece of fruit to sustain us until breakfast at 10:45.  We manage to get my eldest son out of bed and working by 8:30 and his eyes are swollen from lack of sleep.  This is the first year that he is really involved in the exit process.  He resents the work, the change and what he sees as the intrusion.  My husband and I are holding up well. 

    I have set a goal for us to be off the second floor (bedrooms) completely so that the cleaning staff can clean easily, thoroughly and quickly.  The cleaning staff arrives at 10:00, starts on the third floor bath and we are off the second floor by 10:45 and take our breakfast break.  Every time we eat in the last two days, it has been an exercise in cleaning out the fridge.  This time is no different.  My son is not thrilled with his breakfast.

    Everything we are taking with us is piled in the dining room, adjacent to the kitchen and near the back door exit.  We are literally making our way out the door.  One of the renters shows up at noon, saying that she was told she could move in then.  I politely remind her that the lease says 3pm and that we need all the time allotted.  I escort her back to the front door, close the door and go back to work.

    And now for the kitchen and the fridge.  For how much room the fridge takes up in our home, it remains the most intense work area.  We sort food to be tossed, food to go into the cooler to be transported to my mom’s fridge, food to be moved to the downstairs fridge and then we repeat the process with the freezer.  I make decisions as to the foods’ destiny and my son and husband execute.  Then my son and husband take out every shelf and drawer and clean it in soapy water, rinse, dry and replace it.  My six year old calls from my mom’s missing us and asking if I could bring over his wallet, his money for the bank and his Buzz Light Year piggy bank.  I have remembered the first two and promise to do my best on the third.  We miss him too and will be reunited by 3:30.

    At some point, I head over to Target and purchase the king size sheets.  I make the trip in a succinct 35 minutes and they work great.  The cleaning people are efficient, pleasant and flexible and the five of us work around and with each other for the last two hours to make our 3pm goal.  We all are doing what it takes to get the job done.  In the morning, my son had the occasional breakdown that I got him through but now with 90 minutes left, there is no sign of that.  After every job is completed, he says, “What’s next?”  If only.

    At 2:53 the renter shows up again and I invite her to sit on the porch.  We are wiping the last counter, vacuuming the kitchen floor and straightening the last pillow. 

The house looks pristine; no signs of clutter, plenty of sparkle and ready for inspection.

My husband, son and I take everything out to the van and come back in to welcome the renters.  By this time, the other two renters are gathering on the front porch and I welcome them in at 3:03pm.  

    I thank and pay the wonderful cleaning people and then take up my job as tour guide.  The women seemed pleased as I show them around, explain appliances and go over security.  My husband takes over the technology part of the tour and exchanges phone numbers.  I give the garden tour as I will be watering while in town at my mom’s and they will be in charge while we travel.

    We climb into the car and head over to my mom’s, a mere mile away, and look forward to showers and lunch.  I know for a fact that I smell and look like I smell.  The renters looked surprised when I said we were professional dancers.  We arrive at my mom’s, gather our younger son in our arms and have sandwiches and showers. My husband heads out the door an hour later to teach at 5pm.  I am in awe of his stamina and calm.  I opt to go out to dinner with my mom and the kids.

    A week has gone by since our dramatic exit and now we experience the aftermath of our move.  Currently the checkbook, my younger son’s socks, my bathing suit bottoms and some cash are still at large.  We manage to miss my son’s eye appointment twice, have yet to complete the taxes and make my mother cry within three days of our arrival.  However, like a new mom who vows never to go through childbirth again, we have forgotten the pain and are readying ourselves for next year’s rental.

           

           

           

Diane L. Lachtrupp

           

           

           

THE ALLURE OF THE FAMILY SOCK FIGHT

        No parent can resist the allure of a sock fight.  They are indeed good, clean, rousting family fun.  First of all, everyone is encouraged to throw something regardless of age or experience, secondly what you are throwing is soft and less likely to injure another family member or your home; and now for the allure part.  I’m torn as to which is more satisfying – pummeling my spouse with a sock or pummeling my children.  It’s a toss-up and something I’m willing to work through – with time.

HISTORY   Sock fights were a part of my upbringing.  On Thursday nights, when my mother was at choir rehearsal and my dad was in charge, my brother and I would go at it.  Our upstairs hallway was ideal.  He set up his fort in front of his bedroom door and I set up mine in front of the opposing attic door.  Socks were then gathered and hurled at each other for at least a good hour.  An hour later, we had exercised, gotten out any frustrations and screamed in terror before my father figured out what was going on and my mother arrived home.

        I introduced sock fights to my crew about two years ago.  Everyone enjoys them, but they are a particular favorite of my eight year old and myself.  Might I add that we have the preferred long hallway that lends itself to the perfect battlefield.  The long corridor defines the parameters of the battle and decreases home destruction.

        My younger son and I are usually on the same team; we start by setting up our fort comprised of a laundry basket filled with summer towels as our base.  Next, we add several layers of pillows and put blankets on top to secure the linens underneath. Its width is a foot less than the hallway’s width to allow for quick entrances and exits.  My husband and older son are left to build their fort out of whatever’s left and their lack of attention to fort building detail shows- their fort is the first to fall.



weapon of choice - pre-rolled



  Next we gather socks and make sure that they are rolled up. We prefer natural fibers like cotton and wool.  Leave the nylon socks in the drawer.  They may have great patterns and panache but we prefer the bulky winter wool socks and adult athletic cotton socks.  Then when everyone’s fort and ammo are readied, someone yells go and the battle commences.  At first, people keep behind their own fort alternating throwing and ducking.  As ammunition runs low my younger son is usually the first one to rush out and reload.  He runs down the hall, gathering thrown socks and runs back leaping over the fort (hurdle style)    immediately ready for the next throw.

       While my younger son and I are all business, (aiming, ducking, throwing, jumping, running) my older son and husband bring theatricality to the sock fight.  They respond in a cartoonish fashion to each and every sock that hits its mark with grunts and groans and dramatic “Oofs,”  “Aahs” and “Dang its.”  Their outbursts greatly add to the thrill of the battle.  Admittedly, my younger son and I are very competitive which could account for our lack of vocalization and our attention to the task at hand which clearly is –Hit the opposing team ( Daddy and Joey)with as many punishing socks as possible.

       Ambushes are allowed but not encouraged.  My husband’s and my bedroom has two doors (fifteen feet apart -which the opposing forts are built near) and affords teams opportunities to run behind enemy lines and throw socks at our backs.  For the most part, we try to keep our battleground between us.

AFTERMATH  I cannot deny that an aftermath exists but steps can be taken to lessen it.  Missing socks is perhaps your biggest downfall.  Socks have a tendency to come undone during flight and impact and stopping the battle to repair all ammo is well – boring.  Chaos and intensity must prevail not neuroticism.   We do occasionally call a brief time-out to retrieve and repair but not to a fault.  So – it is likely that for the next week, you will be wondering where your favorite argyles have gone or most likely your athletic socks will have been rewrapped with your children’s.

       As to destruction of property; we have yet to experience that.  We do take a few precautions and remove any art on the walls or any vases behind us that might see action.  Naturally each team is responsible for dissembling their own fort and attempting to gather up all socks.

BENEFIT REVIEW

Health - After a good sock fight, everyone is most likely sweating and smiling.  You have increased the accuracy of your throwing arm, raised your heart rate, used your legs for all the up and down, and certainly had some good belly laughs.  Without a doubt, something outrageous will occur during the fight (socks ending up in unusual places, two socks colliding midflight – whatever) and everyone’s happiness meter will be up.  Although I am no psychologist, I can’t help but think that a little soft violence within a family unit can be healthy.  Remember, I am still working through which is more satisfying – a sock thrown by me that hits my husband or my sons.  I did a quick survey amongst friends as to their satisfaction level in pummeling spouses versus children and the results were embarrassingly overwhelmingly leaning towards the spouses.  Perhaps I should be the embarrassed one as I am still considering my children as satisfying targets.

Environment - Sock fights are green:  no electricity, no technology and no cost.  In short, they are a cheap evening or rainy day afternoon activity.

Parenting – Your  “cool” factor as a parent goes way up in your child’s eyes.  Mom and Dad throwing things in the house – excellent.  And I believe that your own “cool” factor goes way up in your own mind.  In the days following your sock fight, when you are finding socks in unexpected places around your home, it triggers memories of what a great time you all had together as a family and that you, disciplinarian, caregiver and guider of young life, were in there battling with the best of them.  With the warm weather upon us, I’m sensing that “Sock Fights Alfresco” are soon at hand.

       I’m hoping to hear from people regarding their own sock fight experiences and hope to inspire first timers to this family activity.

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

MOTHER'S DAY CONFINEMENT

 I awoke on Mother’s day 2011 at 7:30 and ready to face the day.  My husband and  younger  son were in NYC,  scheduled to meet up with us later and my older son was asleep next to me in my husband’s  and my bed.  We had gotten in late last night after a long day at a chorale competition in Massachusetts and I wanted my son to get some sleep.  Normally on Mother’s Day, I am greeted around 8am in my room by my two sons, my husband and a tray full of breakfast.  But today, with the main orchestrators out of town and a teenager in charge I had decided to stay flexible .

                After reading until  8:15, I quietly got up, got dressed, stuffed a few dollars in my pocket and headed out into my Saratoga mother’s day sunshine to walk and enjoy the views.  Maybe I’ll run into some friends as I stroll around the neighborhood.  As luck would have it, after a  mere half mile into my walk, my friend Monica is sitting on her porch with her sister –in –law.  I join them for a ten minute chat and then head on my way.  My walk turns into a bit of a jog and I stop off at the Five Points corner store for some decaf.  I try to buy the Times to accompany my decaf, but hadn’t counted on it costing $6 and don’t have enough.  I half expect the guy next to me to pick up the difference – (After all it is Mother’s Day) but that doesn’t happen.  No matter.  It’s Mother’s Day and my mood shall not be compromised.

                As I head down Clark st. towards home, another neighbor, Jeff, addresses me from his porch and I stroll over and take a seat with my decaf.  Soon his wife Margo joins me and I find myself involved in another ten minute chat.  At 9:10, I excuse myself and head home to White Street.

 I enter the back door cautiously not wanting to appear to anxious or to disturb my older son in the kitchen preparing my breakfast in bed.  No sign of him cooking, just Sponge Bob on the tele.  I walk into the living room casually and address  him using my most relaxed tone

“Good morning Joey.”

“Hey mom,”  Long pause.

“Well, I’ll be upstairs,”

“Huh?”

I’ll be upstairs” I say with an underlying tone meaning- “I’m now available for whatever you have planned.”

“Okay.” No eye contact.  Boy he’s good.

On my way back through the kitchen to the stairs I spot a half of grapefruit on the counter.  Aha. I have caught him.  I know that I didn’t leave it there and there is no way that he cut a grapefruit for himself.  I head upstairs at 9:20 with a knowing smirk on my face.

By 9:55, I am desperately bored; I’ve picked up my clothes, I’ve filed away some papers, I lifted my five pound weights, I snuck downstairs twice – once for a gluten free muffin and once for a sharpie to aid my filing tasks.  I’m tempted to call my husband but don’t want to appear like I care whether there are plans or not.  I sneak down one set of stairs one more time and peak into the kitchen to see if there is any action.  I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve trying to catch Santa.  I commit to waiting until  10 am when there is a break in the Sponge Bob action. 

I decide to water the plants and as I am watering a plant near the front stairs, I hear my son go out for the paper.   What!!  Now he is reading the comics.  My lack of need for a plan has turned into me questioning my motherhood.  I quickly review the last few days that Joey and I have spent alone together while Johnny and younger son whoop it up in NYC. 

Let’s see – Friday night we had dinner at an Italian restaurant and we played Spit and Go Fish at the table.  He seemed to be enjoying a high level of contentment.  Upon arriving home, I let him pick the movies and we watched “Taken” with Liam Neeson  in bed.  Good – Good.

The next day I chaperoned a trip to a competition and Six Flags from 7am until 10:15 pm.  As a chaperone, I asked only for one ride – the bumper cars- and let the four boys I was in charge of choose the rest of the day. I was not a pushover, as I instituted a few checks and balances to make sure each boy’s choices were acknowledged.  There was that time I jumped over the stanchion by the picture taking booth with Scooby Doo and some other animal  and the employee said “Ma’am – could you please not jump over the ropes”  Okay that was mildly embarrassing.  Let’s see – we all had ice cream, I purchased some fries for us to share while they waited in line for the ride Pandemonium.  Thoughtful!!  I let them all get air brush tattoos (nothing unseemly) and I got one too on my lower back and bent over to show everyone – Hmmm- May be that was the defining moment and the reason there was no breakfast  before me.

The phone rings and brings me out of my review session.  My husband and younger son in unison shout –“Happy Mother’s Day.”  We talk for a moment before I urgently whisper to my husband.

“What’s the plan?  It’s 10:10 and breakfast is nowhere in sight.  I’m fine without it but we need to leave about 11:30 and I need to know what is going on.”  My nonchalant tone is now gone.

My husband says that there is a plan and he will call my older son on his cell.  At 10:20, I have exhausted myself and decide to take a nap and see what happens.  I dose briefly and wake up at 11:40 noting that my situation has not improved.  I call my husband who says that my son is not answering his phone.  We decide that I should just move on and start the day.  Still on the phone, I head down the stairs to the unchanged kitchen and as my gaze shifts left, I see a plate in the dining table containing a half a grapefruit, a handful of gluten free cereal and  glass of water.  Surrounding the food are three family photos.  Wow – not the repast I had imagined but I was thought of, I was considered, I am someone’s mother.

I say a quick goodbye to Johnny, and go into the living room and say casually but directly.

“So Joey, is that food for me in the dining room.”

“Yeah mom, I’ve been waiting for you to notice.”  Deep breath on my part.

“I was waiting upstairs, so let’s eat.”

Joey follows me into the dining room and waits as I scarf down my breakfast.  He hands me a bag with three great gifts; two books on King Arthur and Sir Lancelot ( I love all that is Avalon and Arthur) and the DVD of “Romancing the Stone.”  I am pleased, my blood sugar is stabilizing and Joey seems happy but incredulous that I had not appeared sooner.

My bedroom level confinement ended, Joey and I prepare for the rest of Mother’s day.  I manage to get twelve minutes of gardening out of him and he succeeds  in hiding my gifts from me as we travel south in the car to meet my husband, younger son and in-laws for Mother’s Day.  A cool customer, he gets the job done and I had a great Mother’s Day.

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez 

KIDS AT CHIANTIS - A NATURAL FIT

Upon finding ourselves on our own one Friday evening last May, my seven year old son Lucas and I decided to go out for dinner.  I posed two different restaurants to him and after a brief consideration Lucas announced Chianti as his choice.  As he is an occasional fan of the cooking channel and a fine cook with a discerning palate, I did not question his decision. ;; It was a fine spring evening and we headed off on foot from our White Street home;  an easy 15 minute walk with a few minutes budgeted in for a young man’s wanderings.

                When we arrived at Chianti we were treated as always with smiles of warmth and recognition.  I said it would be dinner for two and presented my young companion.  Debora Zecchini, the general manager/ hostess, warned that it would be forty-five minutes to an hour for a table, but upon seeing my young dinner guest, suggested that we could be seated immediately at the Chef’s Counter in front of us.  Lucas and I nodded in agreement and Debora showed us to our seats.  The counter has three seats adjacent to the kitchen that affords its diners a perfect view of the busy kitchen.

                Presently, our server Michele appeared with smiles and words of welcome.  As we have been there on a number of occasions, being remembered by the staff is always fun for my kids.  Lucas made his drink selection of cranberry and orange juice combined and I ordered water and a glass of 2008 Salviano Turlo.  It is a Super Tuscan and is all at once complex and deeply satisfying after a mom’s long week.   After looking over the menu, my son was inspired by the cooks before us and announced that he was going to start cooking.  Upon his bread plate he combined olive oil with balsamic vinegar and added a dash of salt.  After which he dipped his bread, with great satisfaction into his creation and relished his good life: dipped bread, alone time with mom and pasta on the horizon. 

                Being seated near the kitchen prompted another inspiration for my son, and he spotted the dish that he would order.  Upon Michele’s return with our drinks, Lucas was ready and ordered pasta with prosciutto in a pink sauce, Mezzanine all Vodka.  Michele treated him with respect and took his order seriously.  He felt validated as a real diner.  I ordered a Insalate Semplice and Pollo Al Limone Candito.

                Normally while waiting for our food in a restaurant, we engage in a napkin folding contest, but tonight with the kitchen before us we had plenty of activities to fill our time.  From our handy position, we identified the salad station, the pasta area and determined who the head chef was.  In the deeper recesses of the kitchen we witnessed the burst of flames as a steak entered the grill.  Waiters and waitresses  dodged incoming customers and hurried to pick up food from the counter.  We were at the epicenter of Chiantis and loving it.

                My salad arrives and Lucas and I share the delicious plate of  greens. The Insalate Semplice is an organic field of greens with grape tomatoes, grana padano and Chianti’s special dressing.   Normally a ranch dressing fan, Lucas clearly enjoys the balsamic and olive oil based dressing.  While eating our salads, we were treated to the birthday song, sung loudly and with gusto at a nearby table by the wait staff and most notably the owner  David Zecchini.   The song is being  sung in Italian and we join in singing.  My son has taken to singing it at home loudly,  passionately and with operatic styling. 

                After the song, David spots us and comes over to say hello.  He converses with both of us asking Lucas how school is going and how our dance company is doing.   Our food arrives and David excuses himself to visit with other customers.  He appears to speak to everyone  whether they are first timers or regulars like us.

                Lucas digs into his plate of pink sauced creamy pasta with a touch of fresh tarragon, I into my Pollo Al Limone Candito.  My delicious  dish is a chicken breast pan roasted with lemon juice, shallots and candied lemon zest.   It’s light savory flavor compliments the spring weather and Lucas sneaks a bite.   For a full ten minutes my son is completely committed to the plate in front of him and does not speak or move.  Most meals at home are spent reminding him to stay seated and continue to eat.   But here and now, he maintains his seated position and is a well mannered and appreciative customer.  We enjoy our meal together.

                After awhile, Lucas slows his pace and Michele comes over to check on us.  We assure her that everything is great but we might need to take some home.  He says he can eat a little more and she comes back for our plates in a few minutes.  And now, the requisite trip to the rest room.  As we pass tables on our way people regard us with a mix of surprise and smiles.  Children are not common here but certainly welcome.

                When we return, Michele greets us with a complimentary dish of ice cream.  In the past, waiters have brought desserts  to the kids saying that it was a reward for their good behavior.  We took it at face value, but also felt that it meant “Come back again with the kids.”  Lucas who moments before, had told us he was full, looks at me with a shrug and well - goes at his ice cream with the same attention he gave his pasta.  As he is truly enjoying his dessert, I manage to only negotiate a taste or two from his bowl.  I sit back, finish my wine and wonder at my terrific evening with my young date.

                Finally, he looks at me and announces he can eat no more as he has consumed beverage, bread, salad, pasta and dessert.  I think we’re done here and we ask Michele for the check.  Lucas helps me look over and pay the check  and we head out with a final farewell from Michele and Debora.  Back out on Division St., we start our stroll home sated, happy and relaxed.

                Epilogue:  The secret to  our successful evening at a nice restaurant  with children is a combination of the restaurant and  family practices.  Our children are not the shy retiring sort and give us a run for our money at home but manage to put on their public face when we are out.  In addition they  have gone out to restaurants since they were very young and know what’s expected. Couple that with a fun welcoming atmosphere at Chiantis and the kids are happy to rise to the occasion.  They feel  a warm welcome at Chiantis and are treated with respect as valued customers and not just as appendages of us.  The message comes across  as “This is a nice restaurant and we know you will behave , but go ahead  be yourself, make a little noise, enjoy.”    Although it is certainly fun to dine out only with  adults, we are also grateful that we can enjoy an elegant evening out with the kids.

                Don’t know where to start in transitioning your children out of a “Friendly’s” evening?  Try Chiantis – believe me your children will know the difference and the boisterous atmosphere will  make them feel at home.  No kids menu but plenty of delicious kid friendly food that will prepare them to not always expect a kids menu but that everything on the menu is for them.

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

               

               

MY HUSBAND WAS RIGHT; THE CROTCH CONCESSION

It’s rare, but it happens on occasion, when you can sincerely say, “Honey, you were right.”  These words were spoken in March of 20011 but our story commences in October 2010.

My husband and I are the co-directors of Tango Fusion Dance Company in Saratoga Springs, New York; a company that was once stationed in New York City, invited to perform in Argentina and now that we live in Saratoga and are parents, it’s recent incarnation has performed around the Northeast.  Tango is the backbone of the company, but we also dance and choreograph a fair amount of salsa and swing as well as incorporating ballet and jazz.  The majority of the time, the 4 to 5 couples dance with the same person, but we also enjoy shaking it up and having different company members dance with each other.

Such was the case last Fall(2010) when we were preparing a new Salsa number for our Fall show at the Charles Wood Theatre in Glens Falls and my husband and company member Deb Otto- Jones were slated to partner in the new four person piece: Shaky –Shaky.  Deb is a well trained ballet dancer; my husband is also strongly trained in ballet so I expected the piece to contain some fun lifts.  Johnny is happy to lift and Deb is delighted to be airborne.  I was not prepared.

Whenever Johnny works a piece with a company member, I generally come in after the majority of the choreography is finished to watch and perhaps offer some suggestions.  The piece did indeed offer up some exciting lifts including the one that starts with the woman jumping and being simultaneously lifted on the man’s shoulders with her legs apart; not in back of his head but right in front.  The crotch in the face moment gives one pause.  After a quick re-gripping of the hands and wrists, the lift continues with the woman flipping down to the floor and the fun didn’t stop there.  Deb then proceeded to do progressive splits forward with my husband’s help.  I believe I stayed fairly cool and said something like, “that’s   some prep.” And left it at that.

A week later, they were rehearsing the lift in front of Deb’s husband and myself and I said to Richard, “Have you seen the crotch lift yet?”

To which he naively and nonchalantly responded, “No.”

“Just wait.” I said.

He turned to me after the crotch lift with raised eyebrows and said, “I see.”

I said to Richard, “It gives one pause doesn’t it?” He agreed and we immaturely decided that we needed to work a crotch lift equivalent into any time that we danced together in our show.

Well, a crotch lift equivalent never came to pass and after gently teasing Johnny and Deb about the lift, they both said that it took much concentration to get the correct hand grip in that position.  I believe that my husband’s exact words were,”Honey – the position is not titillating.  At the time I am concentrating on keeping Deb safe as she flips to the floor.”  Deb concurred.

Nonetheless, even though both couples have been in the dance business a long time, danced with others and many Tango Fusion Dance Company steps and positions would not fly in the non-dance world, that  face to crotch position caught my eye until…

Last Saturday, I was rehearsing some of the cast of RENT (I am choreographing the show to be performed at the EGG in April) for the number “Contact.”  Overall, the show does not hold back on sexual content and the musical number “Contact” takes the cake.  One of the main characters, Angel, has died and the piece depicts his release from this world through sexual movement.  So-----I had the cast rolling around on the floor attached to each other, thrusting each other against the wall, mounting each other in various facings and pulling hair. 

We were rehearsing at our studio in our home and I invited my husband upstairs to help us with some lifts.  To give him an idea of what we were doing, we did a run –through and since one cast member was missing, I stepped in to fill her shoes.  Naturally, I’m thinking that this will be my husband‘s comeuppance  and he now can witness me thrusting, straddling, and performing intimate acts not meant for public consumption. 

However, that’s not what happened.  Instead I had an epiphany when I realized how much I had to concentrate counting the music to make my next move on time and make sure that it looked good and keeping my partner safe.  The athleticism it required to maintain our positions, hold our partners and pick up our partners overpowered any sexual experience.  Actually, we ended up laughing a great deal of the time and getting a terrific work-out.

So – I guess the crotch lift is not just a crotch lift.  Although my husband waited a full 5 months for my realization to come to pass, he took my concession well and did not hold it over my head.  Now, how about that butt lift?


(Check out the video and pay special attention at 2:50 to witness the crotch lift)

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

ENTREPENEURS AND ENABLERS

 

       The winter of 2009 saw our front parlour filled with my younger son’s snowflake store.  Make no mistake, it dominated the entire room; snowflakes displayed across the entire red velvet couch and today’s special coddled in the red velvet chair.  Signs informed the customers of the prices and deals; 15 cents each or two for 25 cents.  My son eyed every guest to our home as a potential customer and contributor to his stash of cash.  The store opened in January and lasted through May after much urging to close up shop earlier.

       I held my breath in the winter of 2010 to see if the store would re-open.  It did not.  So you can see how I was blind- sided last Wednesday when my younger son announced  in the car that tomorrow was the grand re-opening of his snowflake store.  What?  I thought I was in the clear. I did not see that coming.

       First, we negotiated the real estate.  I knew in my mind, that the front parlour was not going to be inhabited by the snow flake store again; especially when the store had reached its height of inventory in 2009 and featured 379 unique snowflakes.  He assumed the parlour was still available.  It was not and I suggested the play room.  He countered with the reading room landing (located between the first floor kitchen and 2^nd floor bedrooms) and I said, “Deal.”    It is an intimate room and would hopefully prevent spreadage.  Although, every time I climb the stairs(about 20 times a day) I am reminded that our dance students also pass this way en route to their lessons and wonder at the wisdom of my counter offer.

       Thursday morning arrived and the little salesman arrived home after spending the night at his grandma’s.  As I welcomed him at the door, he gives me a cursory hug and rushed by me saying, “There is no time to spare.  My store opens in an hour.” 

       I thought he had plenty of inventory, but he informed me that he has next to none and so I set him up in the living room with paper and scissors to get to work.  I had already decided to embrace his idea and dedicated the next two hours to his grand opening.  Seeing his dearth of product, I rushed into the cellar to find the snowflakes that I had saved two winters ago.  Success, I find them and bring them up.  He seemed pleased with my find and felt less stress on producing mass amounts of snowflakes.

        While my son created, I hung chili pepper lights around the entrance to his store and found a bulletin board to hang and display his items for sale.   After 45 minutes of arduous work, he rushed up to his new store to set up shop.  He categorized his snowflakes as small, medium and large and amazing.  I helped him price them accordingly.  His prizes were at first a little high, and I warned him that his prices need to fit the pockets of his shoppers.

And who are his shoppers?  Well, they are his grandmothers, brother (reluctant), playmates, dance students and any guest who enters our home.

How do the playmates know to bring money?  They don’t.  I am both the land lord and the bank supplying nickels, dimes and quarters to his friends.  The money circulates back to us; I give the playmates a budget of a dollar, they spend it in my son’s store, he generally banks it.  A fun savings plan.

Do his parents shop in the store?  Yes they do, but not always appearing as his parents.  When there were slow days in his shop in 2009 and he longed for business, I would dress up as different characters and ring the front door bell to visit his shop.  He answered the door as a composed proprietor welcoming a new customer but with a knowing twinkle in the eye that acknowledged the secret that we shared as to my true identity.  I am no stranger to our dress-up box and Nanny McPhee has made several guest appearances at the store.  I can only wonder what the neighbors thought as I walked out my back door in full late 19^th century attire, walked the 125 feet along the sidewalk and then re-entered my home by way of the front door and rang my own bell.  Whatever.

       My husband ( no slouch in the dress-up department), grabbed a  sombrero-esque hat from the dress-up box area and pulled a south western looking blanket off the couch, slung it over his shoulder and made his entrance to the snowflake store doing the Mexican Hat Dance.  My son was delighted but managed to keep a straight face nonetheless.  It’s no wonder that my son wants to re-open the store – his parents apparently want to dress-up all the time.  We are enablers.



(young proprieter displays his wares)



BACK TO THE OPENING -10:30am arrives and the store is open; the open sign is displayed, merchandise is arranged, the change box is ready and the chili peppers lights are plugged in.  My younger son had a play date with a neighbor and I had prearranged for the father and daughter to come to the opening before the play date.  My mother was coming back to the house for the opening and I would be there.  Customers were expected.

       The opening went off without a hitch.  Customers purchased at least 25 snowflakes as well as some art work and I provided a toast to his success.  (He nixed the graham cracker hors d’oeuvres that I had suggested.)  All in all a fun two hours of play time.

How is the snowflake store faring?  Since the grand re-opening the store has had sporadic hours and lowered inventory.  BUT- my son did add a new a game feature of throwing a ball into a purple and green top hat that sits on top of the dress-up box in his store.  The customer receives three tries and you win a piece of art work if it goes in.  I love creative marketing.

EPILOGUE: This morning my son put his entrepreneurial skills to work and held a fund raiser in the living room.  Children in his school, were asked to bring loose change from home to support a charity called “Pennies for Patients.”   He did send in loose change as well, but isn’t it more fun to have a fund raiser in the living room that features games to raise the loose change.  My entry fee was four quarters and then I was invited to play a variety of games such as rubber horse shoes, foosball and toss the ball in the purple and green hat. He proudly headed off to school carrying the money from his fund raiser for the charity. Perhaps my son is the future organizer of a Saratoga High Dance Marathon that will raise over $200,000.00 like those great kids at South Glens Falls High School.

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

P.S.  For reasons unknown to me, I am back in the dog house.  If you don't know what I am talking about, go back about three blogs.