Gifts

Last week, I had the pleasure of attending a dinner in Manhattan for my college radio station, WVBR. We hold them from time to time as a way to keep our alumni in touch with each other and introduce us to the Cornell University students who are currently working at the station. The dinners are a lovely way for us to socialize, catch up, meet new people, and perhaps rekindle old friendships.

This time, though, there would be another, very special component.

WVBR is in the middle of a fundraising effort to relocate the station from its inadequate facility in the basement of the New York Holstein Association on the outskirts of the Cornell campus to one that is state-of-the-art and more accessible to students. Until 2000, when the station was forced to move, it was situated just off campus in Collegetown, making it easy to get to and a natural hangout in between (or, in some cases, instead of) classes. Careers were launched there. Deep friendships were forged. Some marriages may even have resulted. ;-)

Since the move, things have been quite different, as its far-flung location required tremendous effort and dedication for the students to get there.

Wanting to address the problem, within the last year, the WVBR Board of Directors amped up its efforts to return WVBR to its Collegetown roots.

Recently, a house became available on East Buffalo Street in Ithaca, just off campus and less than a half mile from our old digs at 227 Linden Avenue. All we needed were the financial resources to make it happen.

Enter the WVBR Capital Campaign, spearheaded by my husband Peter and tended to by some VERY hardworking and generous alumni. Among them, our friend Keith Olbermann ('79), who has made significant contributions to the radio station before. 

Keith indicated he would, indeed, like to help, and he would make a substantial donation to facilitate the purchase. The official announcement was to be made at last week's dinner. Keith's endowment would cover the "naming rights" for the new building, which will be called the Olbermann-Corneliess Studios, in honor of Keith's late father, Theodore, and Glenn Corneliess, a dear friend and former program director of the radio station, who died in 1996 at the age of 39.  

Glenn is largely responsible for my career in radio. He was a friend and mentor to me in a crucially important stage of my life. He was brilliant where radio was concerned, and passionate about it and so much else. He was giving with his time and expertise, and fiercely loyal, although he loved a good argument, even (especially?) with those he liked most. We lost him to a massive heart attack caused by Marfan Syndrome, with which he had not been diagnosed in time.

And so we gathered in midtown for an evening of drinks, dinner, conversation, and the very special check presentation. Among our guests, Glenn's widow Kathy and two of his three children, Brian and Patrick. 

Keith Olbermann and Kathy Corneliess

It was a truly special night. The food was good, the company, even better. Keith sat with the Corneliess family regaling them with stories of time spent together with Glenn at WVBR. Brian and Pat paid rapt attention, soaking up these memories of a father they barely knew. Even Kathy, who met Glenn after college, learned more about the husband she lost far too early.

There was laughter and more than a few tears, especially when Keith made his dedication, noting his gratitude to the radio station and his friendship with Glenn, who, he said, "surely would've objected to the ordering of our names until I told him that this precludes any chance that anybody will ever think there was a guy named 'Corneliess Olbermann'."

Today, the tale of Keith's generosity became public, published first by The Hollywood Reporter, then picked up by TV Newser and the Daily Kos.

The articles are wonderful and a true testament to Keith's extraordinary benevolence. But they only begin to touch on what was perhaps the greatest gift he bestowed that evening and the people who will benefit from it most: Kathy, Brian and Patrick Corneliess, along with their sister Caitlin. What Keith did for the Corneliess family FAR surpasses naming a building after Glenn, as huge as that is ... he brought Glenn to life for them in a way that few others could.

All of us suffered an incalculable loss when Glenn died, but none more so than his family. His children have what Peter's called an "unfillable gap" that those of us who knew and loved Glenn have tried to close in the years since his passing. Last Thursday evening, as Keith sat with them sharing story after story, he went a long way toward filling that hole.

Not to diminish in any way the giant check for "a whole f'in bunch" of money Keith wrote out that night, but that was the greatest gift of all.

L-R: Keith Olbermann, Patrick, Kathy and Brian Corneliess, Peter Schacknow, Dan Zarrow, Drew Endick

I Do, DQ

There is a blizzard in my future.

Of course, this being January, you might not be surprised to read that, although you might wonder how I can state it with such certainty.  Global warming and all, you know.

Or perhaps you have guessed that this is no mere random meteorological prognostication on my part, and there is, in fact, something more profound involved. Thank you for the benefit of the doubt.

I had my first (and so far only) blizzard (or, more properly, "Blizzard") at the Dairy Queen on Palisade Avenue in Fort Lee, New Jersey in the summer of 1998.  I was on a date, having recently been divorced, and it was a warm evening that just cried out for a nightcap of ice cream.  (I scream, you scream ... ) I can't remember now if the DQ was our destination or we stumbled upon it, but we were drawn in by the lights, the crowd, and the anticipation of soft-serve goodness.

We were not disappointed.  We took our treats to a corner of the parking lot bounded by huge trees lying on their sides to serve as benches.  We sat and enjoyed the ice cream, soaking up the ambiance, the warmth of the summer night and this promising new relationship.  There may even have been some kissing going on.

Yes. Yes, I'm sure of it.

Oh, trust me, nothing sloppy or inappropriate, given our family-friendly locale.  It was all very tasteful -- and tasty, what with all that ice cream!  But there was definitely some kissing going on.

The crowd was in high spirits, drawn together as we were by the beautiful evening and DQ deliciousness.  It was the kind of festive atmosphere where strangers feel like friends.  Conversation passed between couples and groups.  There were smiles, laughter and camaraderie.

So it wasn't entirely shocking when a man leaned out the window of his car as he was leaving and yelled over to us, "You're going to have to marry her now, buddy."

A moment in time neither of us have forgotten.

Not then.  Not six months later when Peter proposed -- fourteen years ago today.  Not the following summer when we got married.  And certainly not when I read the article on a local patch.com website that Long Island will be getting its first-ever Dairy Queen this coming May in my hometown of Massapequa ... almost fifteen years after our Fort Lee DQ date.

To this day, we don't know how the guy in the parking lot knew we weren't married. Do you look at each other or act differently together over time?  Do the public displays of affection become that much more rare?  Do you seem less like people who are together because you want to be and more because, well, you just are?

I hope not.  And I really don't think so.

Which is why there is a Blizzard in my future.  We will visit the Massapequa Dairy Queen when it opens this spring, and I will sit with my husband on whatever is their equivalent of that sideways log in the parking lot enjoying both it and his company.

And, oh yeah, there will definitely be some kissing going on.

My Unforgettable Mother

Two years ago this evening, I got the call from the hospital that my mom had died.  It wasn’t unexpected, although the beginning of her precipitous slide surely had been.  Unfortunately, as things progressed, it was no longer an issue of “if” but “when”. 

The only real question was whether my mom would leave us on Christmas or wait until the following day. 

Before you get overly emotional, you should know that we are Jewish and do not celebrate Christmas, so this is less fraught with symbolism and significance than it otherwise might be.  That said, after we had kept our vigil and had family visit throughout the day, I did mention to the doctors that if they could keep her comfortable and prolong things to even a minute past midnight, that would probably be preferable to me over having her die on Christmas, when each year, the calendar would blink a big red and green reminder that TODAY WAS THE DAY.

Well, if you knew my mother, you would know that Christmas it was.  Of course.  Sally Appollo did not know from subtle.  She *had* to go on Christmas.  In case we’d forget.

Last year, the first anniversary of her death, was a bit difficult.  The tears would come without me realizing or knowing exactly why.  Although, of course, I knew exactly why.  As if I could forget.

That day was made a bit easier knowing we were about to put my daughter Jordan on a plane for her Birthright visit to Israel … an occasion to celebrate, if ever there was one.  All of us felt as if there would be an extra passenger on board: a weightless guardian angel named Grandma.

And though I hate to succumb to cliché, time really does heal.  In the past year, we laid my mom to rest in the way she had requested, scattering her ashes in the Rocky Mountains.  I feel that she and I are at peace.  She resides amid the grandeur and glory of this gorgeous mountain range, and I have become comfortable with both her absence from and presence in my life.

She has challenged my skepticism by visiting me through two psychics, John Edward and Theresa Caputo.  And while I can’t go so far as to say I am a true believer, I did find both experiences at once soothing and cathartic. 

Which brings us to today, anniversary number two.  We decided, true to our Jewish roots, to see a movie and go out for Chinese food.  We also decided, true to our musical theater-loving roots, to see Les Miserables.  We settled into our seats, sat through the previews, and eagerly anticipated the start of the movie.  We thrilled to the opening scene, saw Jean Valjean be granted his freedom, steal the bishop’s silver, begin to repent and … BOOM, the screen went dark.

They eventually got it going again and BOOM -- it happened again!

Mom??

I’m sure. 

TWICE.  In case we weren’t sure the first time.  In case we’d forget.

Third time’s a charm, I suppose, and when they started the film again, it ran all the way through.  Brilliantly and magnificently.  Without a dry eye in the house.

And with some of us possibly crying for more than just the film.

We came back home before going out to dinner.  I poured a glass of wine and started to straighten up a messy pile of papers in the kitchen.  You know, the one with my mom’s yahrzeit postcard from my synagogue in it.

My mom died on the 18th day of the Hebrew month of Tevet.  Christmas day in 2010.  This year?  New Year’s Eve.  New Year’s Eve!!   

Really, Sal??!

As if we would forget.

My Mom's Azalea

Yesterday, I returned from spending a wonderful four-day visit with my daughter at the University of Miami.  It was a blessing for both of us.  After months away from home with no physical contact between us, she needed her mom.  And I needed to be needed.  We did a lot of nothing special except spending time together, which is really the most special thing of all, and the visit filled us both up and helped get her ready for the final push to the end of this spring semester, the final one of her first year away.

It brought me back a long way, to the spring of my sophomore year, my first at Cornell University, where I landed as a transfer student in the middle of a long, cold, snowy winter … the very first I was to spend on my own away from home.  Ithaca was always beautiful, but it could be brutal, and the thaw came late that year.  Back on Long Island, the gardens were in bloom, especially the one in the front of my house that my mom had planned and planted herself with a beautiful assortment of evergreens and dwarf shrubs.

Perhaps the most striking plant in the garden was a tremendous lilac azalea, its large soft purple flowers opening like trumpets to announce the annual changing of the seasonal guard from winter to spring.

That spring, a Polaroid of the azalea came enclosed in a letter to me at school (which knowing my mother, almost surely contained an original poem, as well).  It soothed my soul in the same way I hope my visit touched Jordan’s … it was a needed glimpse of home toward the end of a long journey.  The regal plant reminded me of where my own roots were, in that garden back home on Long Island.

Many years later, the bush got so large it needed thinning.  Mom dug up a part and asked if I’d like to add it to my own home garden.  Yes, I would.  And I did.  I will always remember the happiness and comfort it brought me seeing that plant, even in a photograph, and I would love to have it grace my own landscape.

I transplanted it two summers ago, just about six months before my mother passed away.  It’s taken firm root here now, growing, blossoming and linking me even more firmly to my past through its presence.

Which made it all the more fitting that it is what greeted me when I pulled into my driveway after returning from my visit with Jordan … my own Azalea x ‘Robles’ 'Autumn Lilac'.  In glorious bloom.  The plant and its beauty live on, continuing to tie our family together and link one generation to the next.

Roots.  They’re extraordinary things.

800 Pound Gorillas

Today's lesson in business etiquette is this: don't blindside people. It shows a distinct lack of class, courtesy and common sense. It creates bad feelings and a sense of noncooperation.

Might does not always make right, and just because you CAN, doesn't mean you SHOULD.

I will have to leave it at that for now, but I did have to say it out loud. Or in print. Somewhere.

More Than Seven Words about George Carlin

And much more about Didi Conn, his erstwhile colleague.

It all started when our friend Pat Lyons, eulogizer of record, posted the announcement of George Carlin's untimely death to our college radio Yahoo group. (Is there ever such a thing as a "timely" death? I wonder.)

In Pat's words, "George Carlin has died at age 71" are the seven words he wished you couldn't say on the radio. Pat correctly identified Carlin as the greatest stand-up of the last 50 years, bar none, and the wry wellspring to whom everybody from Jon Stewart to Jerry Seinfeld to Robin Williams to Whoopi Goldberg to Penn Jillette owes a deep debt.

That caused Donna Rubenstone to recall George Carlin's role as the narrator of and "Mr. Conductor" character on Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends in the early nineties, as the show was her daughter's favorite during that time of toddlerhood.

Which sparked the following reminiscence on my part.

My son Justin goes to camp and is friendly with Charlotte Maltby, one of Richard Maltby's daughters. (For the rest of the universe that is just slightly less theater-geeky than my family, Richard is a Tony Award-winning writer/director/lyricist and occasional collaborator with David Shire, ex-husband of actress Talia Shire, and current spouse, since 1982, of actress Didi Conn.)

A couple of summers ago, Justin was invited to Charlotte's bat mitzvah, the service portion of which was taking place at the Maltbys' synagogue on Saturday morning, with the party to follow much later that evening at a posh restaurant/club downtown. Being of the belief that the service IS the bat mitzvah, there was no way we'd consider having Justin eschew the synagogue in favor of simply attending the party that night, so it fell to me to drive him in.

The plan was for us to attend the service (with me sitting FAR AWAY from him and his friends, of course), enjoy the kiddush luncheon that would follow, and return home until he needed to be delivered to Meatpacking District that evening.

All went swimmingly. The service was lovely, Charlotte did a wonderful job leading prayers and reading her Torah and Haftorah portions, and it was very enjoyable seeing the friends and family get called up for honors. Among them were David Shire and Didi Conn, longtime bffs of the Maltby family.

So it wasn't surprising when I looked a couple of tables over at the kiddush to see Ms. Conn sitting with their young son. I looked over at MY son, and all I could think of was -- Stacy Jones, Manager of Shining Time Station. Because Thomas the Tank Engine was also Justin's favorite toddler TV fare, and I don't think he would have made it out of those years without it. (I know I wouldn't have!) I can't tell you how many 5 AM videos I popped in to keep him quiet and happy while I took my pillow and blanket to the den floor trying to catch just a few more minutes of sleep.

I KNEW I had to say something. Before I could think, before I could let my easily-mortified teenager talk me out of it, I walked over and said something along the lines of "My son and I wouldn't be here today without you." (Hyperbole much?) I quickly explained my lasting gratitude toward Thomas the Tank Engine and thanked her for being such a wonderful and cheerful presence as Stacy. I told her that as a mom, I just wanted her to know what an important role she played in the happiness and well being in my family.

And, well, I don't think I could have said anything better or more meaningful to her. A HUGE smile broke out on her face and she asked me to point out the charming creature who thought waking up while it was still dark out was perfectly acceptable behavior (and now, ironically, rarely sees anti-meridian hours at all).

We chatted amicably for a couple of minutes and I left her to her son and her lunch.

And I swear it was only on the car ride home that I remembered she was Frenchy in both Grease movies, starred in You Light Up My Life, and spent several seasons on Benson. Sheesh.

For me, she was and always will be Stacy Jones. And I was -- and always will be -- eternally grateful.

RIP George Carlin, Mr. Conductor and so brilliant and groundbreaking a comic mind.