DEAR MR. GABLE

When I finally stopped thinking about writing a book and sat down to actually write about Peter Pan I quickly realized that despite the extensive research that would be required I would also need to interview participants of the key productions of J.M. Barrie’s play. Fully aware that many of the writers, composers, and actors were up there in age I made a list of whom I should interview in chronological order. Actress Eva Le Gallienne topped the list followed by songwriter Jule Styne, actress Josephine Hutchinson, Jean Arthur, Charles Eaton (who played John in the 1924 Broadway version starring legendary Marilyn Miller) and a host of others including Sandy Duncan, Cathy Rigby, Leonard Bernstein, and Jerome Robbins. However, there were three theatre people whom I wanted to meet all of my life: Mary Martin, Betty Comden and Adolph Green.
I fell in love with Mary Martin on Thursday, December 8, 1960, when my mom allowed us to eat in the living room to watch Peter Pan. (No, of course I didn’t actually remember the date; that’s what we keep records for.) What I didn’t realize until recently is that mom also extended our bedtime curfew as the television “spectacle” (that’s what they were called in those days) ran from 7:30 to 9:30 and our bedtime was at 8:00. I knew that Peter was being played by a woman the moment “she” flew in the Darling nursery window but who cared? Mary could sing, dance, perform shadow puppet shows on the wall, and best of all, she could fly. The next day at school Peter Pan was all the talk; even the bullies watched it.
It was a few years later that I discovered Betty Comden and Adolph Green. Living in Brooklyn at the time, my friends John Pampinella and Philip Azzolini would allow me to tag along on record buying excursions in Manhattan. I remember the subway fare as thirty-five cents but usually, we tried to get away with using our school passes as much as possible. Although we were only twelve years old at the time, our over-protective parents allowed us to take the subway from Brooklyn into the heart of Greenwich Village to buy old records. Ahh, the Village in the mid sixties. It was something I had never seen before. Many of the buildings were colorfully painted with incandescent colors, grafitti, and murals. Head shops lined Eighth Street and lured us in with their powerful incenses and beaded entrances. There were bright and crazy posters by Peter Max as well as large photo reproductions of Theda Bara, W.C. Fields, Mae West, and Clark Gable. I had no idea that these small drug havens were serving as my intro course for the history of popular culture.
There was a used book and record shop near Cooper Square owned by a charming old couple who had their own posters all around their shop; blowups of their wedding, anniversaries, Christenings, and other family events. The store itself was a mess yet somehow the proprietors had an order to the chaos. There was no particular genre I listened to at this point (even though my parents bought me Any Williams records). I was already quite proficient at thumbing quickly through hundreds of albums as I looked for nothing in particular. Suddenly I stopped at one record and pulled it out to examine it more closely. On the cover was a color photo of Judy Garland dressed in a sort of blue tutu surrounded by circus clowns and performers. I recognized her from the Wizard of Oz, which at that time was a yearly event to look forward to on television. The record was the soundtrack album from the MGM film, Till the Clouds Roll By. Better yet, on the reverse side of the LP was another soundtrack, Singin’ in the Rain. Wow! Two records for the price of one. And it was only one dollar. You couldn’t beat that.

When I got home late that day I couldn’t wait to listen to my new record. Among the singers I discovered that day were Lena Horne, Kathryn Grayson, Virginia O’Brien, Tony Martin, Caleb Peterson, Debbie Reynolds, Gene Kelly, Donald O’Connor and June Allyson. And of course there was Judy Garland. What a treasure! Inside the cardboard cover, protecting the old record was a paper sleeve that advertised other records. I carefully studied it, hoping that there might be other “two for one” records of MGM films. Eureka! There was ShowBoat/Lovely to Look At, In the Good Old Summertime/An American in Paris, Rose Marie/The Merry Widow and single soundtracks of Gigi, Deep in My Heart and The Wizard of Oz. Why Hadn’t I known about these types of records before? Several of the records were labeled as part of an “original cast series” but I knew the difference; after all, I was a native New Yorker. Original casts were Broadway albums. These MGM records were soundtracks trying to look classier with an “original cast” label.
In a short time I had amassed a collection of MGM soundtrack records and began to notice something special about the sound of the orchestras. My favorite conductors were Lennie Hayton, Johnnie Green, Andre Previn and Georgie Stoll. Many years later this would be referred to as “the MGM sound”. Naturally, I also was interested in the creators of these musicals. The screenplay of Singin’ in the Rain was written by Betty Comden and Adolph Green. In fact they also wrote a cute little ditty for it, “Moses” (who supposes his toes are roses). With a larger collection of soundtracks I would discover that they also wrote the screenplays and (sometimes the lyrics) to several of my favorite soundtracks including Good News, The Band Wagon, and Bells are Ringing. Long before I would ever see these films I became an expert on the MGM musical oeuvre. While most of my classmates were Beatles and Rolling Stones fans, I had my own exclusive Comden and Green fan club. Sadly, I was the only member.
After completing my list of whom to interview for my book on Peter Pan, I began Saturday excursions from Staten Island to the Library of Performing Arts at Lincoln Center. While there were several key items that had either been stolen or misplaced (such as the script of the first Peter Pan in America, Maude Adams), there was still plethora of material available. I was also invading all of the used book stores in Manhattan with Strand’s and the Argussy Book Shop being the most helpful. Armed with various texts under my arms I could go through the card catalogues with a better idea of what I was looking for. One cold and gray winter day, as I was leaving the library, I was stopped by an old man. In the raspiest voice I had ever heard he introduced himself as Robert Gable and asked me why I was carrying a book about Marilyn Miller. As I explained who she was he quickly stopped me to state not only did he know who she was, but he had also seen her perform on Broadway. I told him that I was doing research on all New York and London productions of Peter Pan. Professing that he had no idea that Miller had played Peter Pan, he was more patient with me as I went on about my research. When I was finished and about to take my leave, he asked me if I wanted to come to his apartment sometime to make my own copies from his photos of Mary Martin as Peter.
I looked at Mr. Gable more carefully now. The invitation was most enticing yet I was skeptical. He was obviously informed about theatre but he was also gay and at least in his sixties (I was later to find out he was about seventy). Was this just a cheesy pick-up? Or was it something worse? I explained that I had to get home as it was already late but we exchanged telephone numbers to meet another time. I arrived home after dark, fully intending to throw his number away. But as I explained the day to Donna, my wife, she asked me why I wouldn’t want to meet him again. She laughed as I explained my
“Do you think you could beat him up if he tried something silly?” she asked me. Then I too laughed as I thought about this old gentleman with his small walrus like mustache. A few minutes later I was on the phone with Mr. Gable making an appointment for the following Saturday.

Moving into Smallsville- June 2001

In a way, moving to Woodland, North Carolina, was going to be a lot easier than moving to Virginia Beach. You see, when I moved to Virginia from New York City, it was under the stress of an impending divorce. Don’t misunderstand me, it wasn’t ugly. No, our split was civil and friendly; perhaps even a role model for married couples seeking an end to their situation. I mean, how could we hate each other? We produced a beautiful son, her parents were like my parents, my brother married her sister, their kids looked like our kid, and we had been married for sixteen years. However, the split-up left me quite depressed so I decided to see a social worker. After three or four months (OK, three months and three weeks) and a crush on my counselor, we realized that there was nothing more to discuss. It was then that my counselor informed me that the greatest stimuli of stress in life are (and not in any particular order): a break-up of a relationship, changing jobs, and moving. “You decided to try all three at the same time,” he explained. “You have a right to be depressed.”
All I could think was, “Now he tells me!”
Seven years later, with my son, Drew, entering his last year in high school, I was finally able to make the break. Up to this point I had first lived two minutes away from my former wife in Virginia Beach and then I moved to Norfolk to buy a house which was about twenty minutes farther. We agreed not to use the expression “my X” as we did not come out of the divorce process with negative feelings. In fact, on one occasion I had received a traffic ticket in Virginia and did not have the funds to pay the fee. Donna sent the money in explaining that she did not want the father of her child being dragged to prison for a traffic ticket. Oh, I guess it’s a good time to mention here that our move to Virginia was so that my wife’s salary would go into the six digit figure. Naturally, my teaching salary went down almost ten thousand dollars! (This info is for anyone crazy enough to go into a profession where most school districts have figured out a salary scale that ignores any experience that an in-coming teacher has beyond ten years. Of course this does not include administrators who can also be paid to leave the system!)
Where was I, ahh, yes…eight years after our break- my wife married a really nice guy (darn) who could fix cars, earn a good salary and oil her teakwood furniture. I needed to get away. Also, I was now in a relationship of my own, even though we wouldn’t be living together. I was hoping to find a house in Murfreesboro but unfortunately, my house in Norfolk sold a week after the “Gingerbread House”, the house I really wanted, was sold in Murfreesboro. With much trepidation, I looked at homes in the surrounding towns, eventually choosing Woodland as the place to hang my paintings, posters and photographs, and perhaps, finally finish the screenplay and book I had been tinkering with for the last two years. Actually, I really lucked out when I found a stunning Victorian cottage on Main Street that was built in 1876 which was just as charming (if not more so) as the “Gingerbread House”. And for almost half the price! Finding the house was a cinch, just ten miles away from Murfreesboro, a few houses away from a Baptist Church that chimes Christian music throughout the day (my Jewish parents would be thrilled), a post office, and a house that was forever being renovated. I also liked the small population factor of this small town- probably four times as small as Smallsville, with about eight-hundred and fifty residents. I must confess that I told my students in Norfolk that there were only six hundred people living in my town. But what the hell, I could get away with it when you consider that until quite recently they had only had one restaurant (open two nights a week), a supermarket, service station, and one blinking traffic light. Plus I couldn’t have my mail delivered to my house as the postal service only delivers outside the town limits. I would need to purchase a mail box in the post office. Holy Mayberry, RFD!

Even before I entered the dwelling I knew that I had come home. The house was absolutely adorable: a cream-colored one-story gingerbread structure accented with green shutters and a wrap-around porch. The interior was just as sweet with a large center hall dividing a living room, kitchen and dining room from two bedrooms and a bath. With two more bedrooms in the back I knew that I was going to convert the front bedroom to a library. I had always wanted a quiet place to read and write, and now, in this quaint old town, I would find the peace, harmony and solitude I desired to carry on with my writing.
Even as I was checking out the house, a beautiful African-American neighbor, Patsy, walked over and introduced herself. “Oh, God,” I thought. “There goes the solitude.” Not at all- she and her family were wonderful, with each of us respectful of the others’ privacy. In point of fact, she was charming and helpful as she explained all that she loved about the area. I was quick to vocalize a few doubts whether this New York City Jew could find tranquility in a small Baptist town but Patsy was just as quick to point out other churches in the area including the historic Quakers. And it was basically as dry town as Murfreesboro. Never mind that some of the non-drinking Baptists actually met in private to drink the forbidden spirits. Who was I to judge; a Jew who eats pork and other non-kosher foods? Patsy said she knew that I would be happy here.
My first day in Woodland was tiring to say the least as we (I know that you are wondering who “we” are but more about that later) moved my furniture and other belongings into the house. The last to arrive were Mona (left) and Blue (below), my six year old Dalmatians. Warning! Do not become a teacher living over seventy miles from work with two Dalmatians. Mona and Blue had discovered the Ponte Leon’s fountain of youth. They were just as immature and stubborn as they were at one year of age. Yes, they were house-broken and very protective of me but that’s about all. Walking the two of them was a feat unto itself as they practically dragged me down the street. You see, in Norfolk I had an enclosed yard so there wasn’t much walking around the city.The only danger was walking in the yard in the winter when I might have stepped on one of their “mines”. It was nearly twelve o’clock that first night in my new house when I walked them along Main Street. The neighborhood was extremely dark with only chirping crickets and the occasional bark of a dog breaking the silence. Naturally, my dogs, being the pets of a native New Yorker, would not poop in their own front yard. No, they picked a choice spot on Patsy’s lawn. I immediately took out some plastic bags, my own home-made “pooper-scooper”, picked up their gifts, and deposited them in her trash can.
The next day as I was mowing the overgrown lawn in my backyard, Patsy walked over and told me how much the neighbors will like me.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because you pick up from your dogs,” she replied. Ordinarily, I would have been embarrassed if a neighbor knew that Mona and Blue had consecrated their ground but it was clear to see that she was not bothered.
“Your lights were out. Did you see me?”
“Oh no, we were sleeping,” she answered. “But she did!” She added as she pointed to the two story home just down the street.
Something was unclear. “Wait! How could she have seen me pick up after Mona and Blue?” I wondered out loud. “It was midnight and very dark. She would have to have been watching me!”
“Yup,” replied Patsy. “Welcome to Woodland!”