WE’LL NEVER SAY “GOODBYE” – my heart at its fullest.

…and this is a long one. Brace yourselves.
She burst into tears upon seeing me; she had thought she had missed the opportunity to say goodbye. Pam, of all people, was the last one I expected to cry at my farewell…not. She and I had had our share of tears with each other in terms of office troubles, but I was not expecting this well of waterworks. She had to go on home to take care of her young ‘uns, and 20 minutes in, had to go, thinking she would not see me again.
The long hallway begged to differ.
We embraced as we never had, and she knew full well that in the lobby, a slew of people had already assembled…she encouraged me to traverse the hall, and we bid a quick farewell. Quick is best, and we both knew that…and we also knew this would not be the end; just a temporary distraction from seeing each other every day. I knew I would miss her, but something was telling me…this wasn’t over yet. Not with Pam. I strode along, and as I turned the corner to enter the lobby, I heard that familiar echoing clink of the double metal doors on the opposite end of the corridor…that quickly she was gone…the first.
I opened the lobby doors.
I don’t suppose anyone was expecting me to enter from anyplace except for the main entrance…in fact, many had their backs to me in anticipation of my arrival; it was like the surprise party gone wrong – everyone suddenly turning around, re-acclimating themselves to my understated entrance. The hugs and hellos commenced and I was astounded by so many dear and familiar faces…young and old, theatre and non, family and friends, co-workers, colleagues…and a few recent newcomers into my life.
The lobby was already decked out for the Christmas Show at the theatre, and the theme continued with a long set of tables spread center with sandwiches and crudite, snacks and sweets, festively dressed in holiday decor. The Christmas tree was lit, and there was a piano and microphone set in place…hmm. The bar was open, and my favorite Grand volunteers were standing at the ready. Along one side, a miniature “shrine” was laid out, with scalped photos of me downloaded from my Facebook page, all framed in splendor, along with the quintessential photo of me: the one that was also on my goodbye cake…the “yes, it IS my job” photo of me bussing tables at The Grand’s Season Preview. As I continued hugging and saying hellos, I also found out why everyone was facing the main entrance: there was a sandwich board with a large-scale photo of me on both sides out on the sidewalk with an arrow pointing inside. I laughed out loud when I saw it…a frightening marquee, if ever there was. I was additionally giddy at the current art exhibit on the walls of the acrobatic Three Little Bakers…my face had been cut and pasted into almost every one of them, and taped over the face of the unsuspecting Bakers…odd to see me in black and white unitards…haven’t seen that since college. I was filled with mirth.
My heart was particularly touched when I saw our Vice Chairman of the Board, and the Co-Chairs of Board Development appear, with hearty congratulations and best wishes. They three are some of the closest colleagues I have had on the board, and I was touched that they came…we laughed and recounted many a tale – of old and new regimes—and they each in their own way stated how they wondered how The Grand will go on without me. I assured them it would, because they would be the ones to see to it. I encouraged them to proceed to “the shrine” and drop a note in my “memory box”…a large colorful box brightly on display with paper and pens nearby. The only thing I asked of anyone coming to my farewell: let me take my memories with me. Everyone seemed to be in compliance.
And then I noticed a figure dressed in black, her strawberry blond hair resting gently on her shoulders; she was sipping a glass of wine. Laney was not expected. In fact, she and I had had some words about my leaving. But I had hoped against hope we would mend…that’s what friends do…they can fight, and tell it like it is…and then…move past it. Laney and I seem to have that kind of strength in our friendship. She is one of my “five little fingers.” By that I mean, there is a longstanding theory I have adopted ever since my father’s funeral. My brother Jimmy, his namesake, gave his eulogy, during which he relayed this perspective from my dad (one which, I unfortunately did not learn until he had passed): “If you have five good friends,” he said, flexing his thumb, index, middle, ring, and pinky fingers, “they will give you,” (here he reached out) “…a hand.”
Laney is one of my fingers. The index one, in fact. The maiden mother, the pointer in right directions, the pointer of shame, the pointer of emphasis and “listen to me.”
I had thought my index finger was “broken.” But here she was…reluctant, unwilling, reserved. I approached her softly, and we embraced. Unlike we’d ever have…it almost felt like it could not ever end…such strength, such depth, such emotion attached…it was surreal.
She did not wish to stay long, and continued to insist that “this isn’t happening.” We spoke intimately, and made peace. Spoke from the heart, and spoke truth. Again, I assured myself, this isn’t over yet. And with her trademark softest kiss in the world on my tear-lined cheek…she was off.
That was two.
But my finger felt better.
More hellos, more hugs…it was beginning to get crowded…I was not expecting this. My boss, Steve Bailey, arrived with his wife, Maryann, and their two Cairn Terriers in tow: Jack and Gracie (my adopted “kids”…I would sit for them often while the Baileys would travel to Florida or Montana…and exercise some discipline with them…they are not wonderfully trained – cause they’re spoiled – but they are responsive:) .
Jack and Gracie flitted about, obviously turned on by the smell of the food display, and searching for remnants between visits to my calves and scraping me in their traditional pawing at my legs. Steve and Maryann met me with quiet determination – knowing the inevitable, we all went on to mingling. Clearly, they were headed to the bar to improve their steely resolve.
Melissa zoomed in to me as I petted the doggies. She uprighted me and turned me in the direction of the main entrance to the lobby…asking me if I’d seen who had arrived. I was stunned. There he was, Damian, my best friend from high school, along with Ann Pinto McCarney, whom I’d known since we were 10, along with her darling husband Dean. All my worlds were colliding. But in a good way. I could not believe my eyes. We embraced as if it were yesterday. Oh my, how time goes by. They knew so many others in the room as well that I knew they were in excellent company, and I promised myself I would catch up in moments…again, best laid plans. I was stupid not to dedicate every precious moment I had to them. No regrets, Patrick, no regrets. Here they were…wow…what an honor.
I spent a goodly amount of time with the Robsons, David and Sonja, and their daughter Ingrid…whom I’d not really seen since 1995 (well, Ingrid wasn’t part of the equation back then). David, a playwright, and Sonja, his actress wife, and I had done work together to Christen City Theater’s Pub Plays in “the old days.” Our tour de force was Christopher Durang’s Naomi In The Living Room…my first real excursion at drag (and my last!). We were briefly interrupted by board members from another theatre at which I worked, New Candlelight…Sue and Tom Hornung…I was so very surprised and delighted at their arrival…what a compliment. And how enthusiastic they were, despite my loss as a fellow board member.
And then: Mother arrived.
With big brother Jimmy in tow…I was glad they’d endured the weather and the half-hour trek from outside Philly to come down to lil’ ol’ Wilmington. Famished, she immediately grabbed a sub sandwich and a plate, took a seat, and chowed down as I got her a VO Manhattan. Mother’s not shy; there’s a reason she goes by “Auntie Mame.” (“Felize”…her other nickname, is another story entirely.) She handed me a card and then another card from my Godmother Aunt Bernie…and said, “Now don’t spend it all on pizza.” My mom knows how obsessed I am with pizza. She doesn’t hesitate to remind me; and I don’t hesitate to remind HER that pepperoni pizza is the best of the best when it comes to representing the four Food Groups: meat, dairy, bread, and veggie. True?
[Editor’s Note: Please substitute the word Pizza in the above paragraph with “Beer.” But the Pizza thing is true, too.]
The Robsons joined us at our table and Jimmy and Mom (a bit out of their element with “theatre folk” as they always are) actually engaged in great conversation with them…I suppose Ingrid Robson, a darling beauty, their daughter, helped break the ice. Soon Melissa joined us (my middle finger, the “rebellious” one who just simply tells me like it is, or just tells me off), and then, Steve Bailey took the floor by taking the mic. I gathered it was now “showtime.”
Steve was sturdy as he awaited silence among the cast of characters assembled. He was endearingly gracious as he attested to my years of service at The Grand, but I was moved when he started to talk about where I was off to. “Patrick is going to a place where he can truly follow his heart and his passion for the theatre, something The Grand cannot offer him here, and he is daring to take that chance to go and follow his heart” was the general gist of it…but I was really taken with the fact that at this very moment, he truly understood me. Understood my choice, my motivation…Steve – finally – “got” me. He raised his glass, along with the rest, in an unexpected toast to my future…I was beginning to well up.
“And on with the show,” Steve continued, handing the mic to Melissa, as my dear friend Steve Weatherman took to the piano.
I was not prepared for this. I dashed to the bar for “A Slice Of Pizza.”
Melissa Joy Hart, ever the professional Cabaret Artist, began the first in a series of dedication songs. I don’t know where she found the strength…she and I have a tumultuous history…the stuff of bestsellers (and it will be)…but lo and behold, she belted out “Listen To My Heart” (our song forever) with finesse and flair and I was on the first of my series of waterworks. I had never heard such gusto come from her…it reminded me how much I am attracted to her talent…which is the understatement of the year. My best friend gave me the greatest gift of all…her heart…and I embrace it daily. “Listen to my voice, and it will tell you everything: all about the life, that’s just about to start, so if you want to know how much I love you, listen to my heart.” I’m always listening.
Not that she could be trumped, but if there was ever a gift of love coming at me, it was next: Melissa (Bernard) Dammeyer, my pioneer with City Theater. Melissa is an actress. Got that? ACTRESS. She doesn’t sing…but this night, she did…and she stepped up, singing what has become City Theater’s theme song, “Young At Heart”…quaking lyrics in hand, trembling in her voice…it didn’t matter…this Melissa was singing, actually singing…just for me…and she later said, it was ONLY because of me that she did that. It was a double whammy…freely given with love. “And here is the best part; you have a head start; if you are among the very young,…at heart.” Never were words more true.
I was surprised at the next performer…my first love, Michael Gray…we go a long way back…and we have an unending connection that defies comprehension…even ours. A creative connection, a brain drain, an understanding: he thinks something and I know how to make it into words – or a picture. I laughed at the intro to his song, “Anyone Can Whistle” (we’re both Stephen Sondheim whores, and this show is the one we always promised we’d do together, …cause NO ONE does it…best laid plans, ah well…story’s not over yet). He sang the title song with his sublime baritone, and all the wasted time with him (or so I’d ever thought) was worth every second. You never forget your first love. Michael and I will always be connected. “Maybe you could show me, how to let go; lower my guard; learn to be free; maybe if you whistle…whistle for me.” I definitely will.
I continued wiping tears as I hugged his rippled figure…there is not one in my life who has the strength to break my back the way Michael does…and then, adjusting the mic to her her 4’11’’ stature, stood Karen…duly dubbed “small but mighty” by me. She is the pinky. (Jury’s not out on this amongst the fingers, but I know my own hand.) The one that somehow keeps the others connected. Not an easy task…which is why she is small but mighty.
I knew the music immediately…again, “our song.” “Trust The Wind” is especially important to Karen and Me…she is a triple Air sign…it’s an astrology thing…but she and I get it, and that’s all that matters…she is in many ways, wind beneath me (differently than Melissa, my Air polarity…again, I digress) and Karen knows how important this song is to me…sometimes you just have to trust. And that’s what I was doing…it was a truly blessed gift from her to lend her voice to its message…again, I was waterworks. “I know wherever breezes blow, wherever winding rivers flow, I’m going where I need to go. I can TRUST the wind.” I have, and I do.
But no one could prepare me for the last presentation. Genevieve (Gen, my Anam Cara, my spiritual soul connection) was suddenly in the lineup. I didn’t see her arrive; I just saw her suddenly there. I heard the first few chords of her song and was shocked to stillness. The one I had asked her to learn so many moons ago: “Ship In A Bottle” …I thought it would be a good audition song for her soprano and her belt…an eclectic mix that she has, not unlike Melissa. I turned to one side, realizing that Steve and Maryann Bailey were right at my side, watching…watching…watching me watching her. I moved closer to them. Maryann put her arm around my waist and held me fast. The tears just didn’t stop, hearing the lyrics of “a little boy sailor…taking his chances on the wind and the sea.”
I was a fucking mess.
I was asked to approach the mic, to give a “speeeeech….speeeeech”…not exactly my thing, but I conceded.
Jack licked at my heels as I started speaking…thanking everyone (many of whom I’d not even said hello to yet, and arrived mid “Cabaret”). I didn’t have many words, except of thanks to The Board and The Staff of The Grand…to everyone who made the evening possible, my five little fingers…to friends, old and new, and with thanks for their support and encouragement this night…and I quickly closed (cause I am NOT a speech maker) with a quote from my friend Steve Weatherman, the man who had so graciously dedicated his piano talents to each song that night…he and I had had a discussion about this whole huge transition and how serendipitously all the elements fell into place: the job, the apartment, the whole new life. He had turned me on to a quote by Goethe: “Act courageously, and you will attract mighty forces.”
It was the last thing I said to everyone. I encouraged everyone to act courageously. And then…the party continued.
It was time to turn to my Ring Finger. Sue Werb. She had arrived with all of my closest professional colleagues in the Special Events Industry.
But she and I go way deeper than that. She is my mother, my sister, my friend, my coworker, my heart…my…words can’t say.
She is the Ring Finger. My commitment. To love. To know that love is possible. My protector, my maternal instinct, my provider instinct…my teacher. There really just aren’t words. She is so much of my hand all rolled into one fiery, fierce fist…(make a fist and see for yourself which finger hits the palm first)…there is just nothing else possible without love. She knows that. As do I. She totally represents that to me.
And I will miss her greatly. But if I went on about her, she’d be embarrassed…so I shall honor that.
After some time, Mother and Jimmy said goodbye, thanking me for knowing how much I was loved and how many people cared about me; Jimmy later said to my mom: “I’m sorry I never saw more of his shows…he’s done good.” I don’t begrudge this. Jimmy and I are just fine; there is always something inherently connected between the oldest and youngest of siblings.
Mom and Jimmy seemed to start the trend: the period of goodbyes.
They started to waterfall over me, and there is too much to recall; who they were, what they mean, how they impacted my life…there just aren’t words…and time is fleeting; which is why I asked them all to contribute to the “memory box.” That was the point. To remember. To take each of them with me.
There were photos, relegated to “respective theatre companies only” that I had worked with…there was my roommate, Karin, and her friend Sarah, with whom I’d spent the last year bonding with, only to have this bond severed. There was Bee and Denny and scores of friends…how lucky was I.
There were goodbyes with Ann and Dean and Damian…my best friends of all time and all years. The Robsons gave me a collective hug (including Ingrid, who gave me multiple memories in my box…having only just met her).
Things were winding down.
I was pulled aside by Steve Bailey near my memory box, and he wanted a moment alone. He didn’t want to leave things to chance when I would open his “memory”…which he promptly handed me, a slick, 10 x 1 inch neatly and tightly wrapped gift…I was befuddled at his insistence.
As I opened it, he started to speak, saying he was looking for the “right” thing to give to me…that he really didn’t quite know, but he was standing at his dresser and this came to mind…the gift of time. It was at that moment I had unwrapped the package, like Charlie from the Chocolate Factory, looking at a golden ticket. There it was: his Prized Wittnauer Watch…his favorite…black leather band and gold encrusted with diamonds…rectangular in shape…I was reminded of the ghetto “claw watch” I got from Dave & Busters with Jen and her brother Don in Irvine…which, remarkably, had just STOPPED working that night, otherwise I would have worn it. Steve is a collector of watches and I know how much this particular one means to him; for him to pass it on to me was a generational, intimate, moment…this was one of his babies. I was an unexpectant heir to his fortune.
I looked at him with tears in my eyes (and my eyes only, he wouldn’t have stood for otherwise)…he embraced me with a half armed hug…his style…and he too had reticent tears in his eyes as he said with a choked up voice…”you take good care of that.”
Not knowing how to respond, I said, “I will. Time’s on my side now.”
He and I, duly parted now, looked at each other one last time. He went off to wrangle Jack and Gracie.
And I was left with a series of more goodbyes. But not before a last “hello.”
Tom Shade, my longtime friend, my City Theater director, muse, and confidante, had just arrived….he’d missed the festivities, but there he stood…in line as I bid my farewells over and over again…just to say hello.
It was an exhaustive wait for him, I am now certain…the photos, the posing, the long goodbyes…Tom has always been patient. It has always been his strength…especially when dealing with me. I was enthralled by his presence…I mean…presents. His presence WAS a present.
I had one more goodbye to say as he waited, scruffy beard, tousled hair…the Tom I know and love. I was wondering where his wife and children were, but, from Towson, MD, I’m sure it would’ve been a hike.
Steve Bailey was waiting with the dogs off to one side of the lobby…I had a lovely redhead in front of me, Steve’s wife, Maryann, who, whether she realizes it or not, is the start of my “second set of fingers to give me a hand”…she is class with a capital C. And we have grown close these last two years…for a lot of reasons…none the least of which is: we both have taken care of the same School Boy lo all this time…we share the same heartache, heartburn, heartlift.
She couldn’t believe it as much as I could, that this was a last hug. She held fast to me with her Taurean stability. I couldn’t let go either. “It’s only California” we agreed…for someone who goes to Ohio, LA, Montana and Florida…it was a simple solution to wipe our tears. She did however walk away from me with her own full teary eyes…she turned her back and I watched her pull her hand to each side of her face to wipe her tears…I know Maryann has the strength within her to move past all this. She and I and Steve have been through worse.
Tom was waiting…and it was only fitting that he and I connected once again as the event breakdown occurred. Tom and I quickly caught up, but the scenario was subsiding…and there were a few guests waiting up the block at The Exchange, a local pub that has survived the Wilmington Renaissance and has actually thrived…I am optimistic for Wilmington in this regard.
I watched as the staff of GOH cleaned up…it was weird not to be part of that. I was accustomed to cleaning up after myself…this time, however, it was all taken care of. I hugged Melissa, saying I would see her later up at The Exchange.
And then Small But Mighty was reluctantly nearby for me to say farewell as she tidied up the lobby. There is something to be said about 6’1” hugging 4’1”…it’s a good fit. Karen was, I dare say, flummoxed, that “this” was “it.”
She held fast to me, and I to her…neither of us wanting to trust the wind. But we knew we must. With some strength, from God Only Knows Where, we were able to let go…nah, probably a better term is: let be.
I walked past the Almighty Grand Opera House for the very last time, up to The Exchange, where a bit of an AfterParty awaited.
I had a Relocation Pod still to pack, but each moment was now precious. Time. My new friend. Was now on my side.

FEARING A FAREWELL - time is not on my side

The day had arrived; a blustery and cold day, but sunny enough to tend to packing up “some” items in the ominous pod. It was strange to carry things down four flights of steps (my thighs would pay for it later) and, while I hoped I would’ve been further along, I just simply…was not.
I had to have an exit interview with HR, to finalize my keys, my phone, my pension, my last paycheck…oh the details. I finally handed off my keys to Christine, like a yoke lifted off my neck. She accepted them with a certain reluctance, knowing that there were a bunch more of facility keys in her newly inherited desk. There is a bit of power that comes with keys…if you can open doors, then you can do pretty much anything. It was a gift bestowed upon me that I took for granted; I hope she does not do the same.
And while I can’t quite recall all the details, because I had to say good bye to so many in the building in so many varying places, I finally walked out of The Grand…keyless…and I decided to take the main entrance, those looming 14’ doors that have been so welcoming for so long. I turned and glanced at its Parisian cast iron façade once more; the sun was starting to set, and…as I was just about to walk on and due to the setting sun, the sensors for its multicolored lights illuminated its 5 glorious stories…I was being bid farewell even by she herself; The Grand. I smiled in awe and wonder. Then turned away.
Errands to the bank, errands to the stores, I was quickly up the stairs of my four flight apartment, and finalizing a few more boxes and streamlining my thoughts: this was it. Tonight was my going away “gala” and then…off I would go, in less than 12 hours.
My roommate Karin arrived at the apartment, her custom, around 6 pm…we only had about an hour left to be with each other. Karin has been a true blessing; she comes from San Francisco after living in DE for most of her life; but California was where she, too, bloomed. Perhaps it was another one of those serendipitous moments that she joined me as my roommate a year ago…perhaps she was laying a foundation for me with all her glorious tales. We spent many a night out on “the moondeck” (as she Christened it with twinkle lights and candles), and had our share of spats as to who was to provide toilet paper versus paper towels. One thing I admire about Karin (among many things), is her ability to get the job done; she waits for nothing…lesson learned. I only hope my landlord, now in her hands, can oblige…if not, he’s gonna have to deal with her fiery energy, of which mine pales in comparison.
She was coming to the Farewell, and we worked out minor details of what her inheritance would be: largely, everything I had already inherited and was in the apartment…with the exception of my massage reading chair, and the bistro kitchen table set. Other than that, she got it good. I was off to a fully furnished place, and did not need much. She and I held fast with a strong hug; she knew that she would not get to spend much time with me at the Farewell.
But I later learned that she had rearranged everything she inherited in the apartment (what, less than a week later??); her call. I am glad things now suit her needs.
I put on my best Californian jeans (compliments of my excursion with Sean back over Thanksgiving), and my favorite orange oxford (a gift from my ex Steve, with whom I had recently made peace after our breakup in April…another catalyst in this process…but not THE REASON…I am not running away, I am running TO)…I added my favorite new shoes, and as I was futzing with my hair (always a challenge), Melissa called me: it was exactly 7 pm. I assured her I was on my way…and I put on my windbreaker and hood, because the cold had given way to a small rainstorm…I worried about my mother driving in this weather.
Fifteen minutes later, I had parked at the lot where I had done so for six years, climbed the hill a bit, and decided to go into the back entrance of the building…knowing full well that, without keys, the only thing “still intact” was my keycode to the pad outside its entrance.
I opened the door and shook off the rain. I stared at the long hallway which I had tread for so many mornings I simply cannot count; then a similarly cloaked figure started walking down the same hall towards me. The fluorescent lights did not reveal, and I had already taken my glasses off to wipe off the mist. The petite figure ran for me as I put on my specs and my eyes adjusted.

HOW TO NOT BE WITH YOU - packing it up once and for all...

Monday and Tuesday were largely spent boxing things up; finalizing financials; making sure “the ominous pod” arrived. I attempted to have some quality time with folks, but time really was not too kind. I did, however, get to spend a little bit of time with a former ex (is there any other kind?)…and his new partner. It was only fitting that he and I reconnect for one brief shining moment known as Camelot. Michael, or Mr. Mike, as he would become known to me, was a brief glint at understanding whom I was meant to be; we had a torrid love affair, brief and fulfilling all at once. We never lost touch, never kept each other at bay; we just simply knew from the get go that we were not meant to be.
We reunited at Baxter’s, the one and only gay bar left in Wilmington, on the cusp of Greenville…the gay contingency’s attempt at opulence…in vain, of course. Michael, and his partner Greg, whom I’d met in Rehoboth a few summers back, welcomed me heartily. Mr. Mike looked good, despite his difficulties with job problems and lawsuits he was undergoing, but it was wonderful to see him; his partner Greg and I spent some time outside having a smoke, and I encouraged Greg, a visual artist, to pursue his craft. I told him about the serendipity I had encountered by following my heart, and he was enthused. As a friend had told me, I asked him to “act courageously, and you will attract mighty forces to your aid.”
Humph. Here I was encouraging my former lover’s new partner to pursue his bliss. Oh the irony.
Still, Greg was duly moved, and I knew that God had brought us together for a reason; I have often heard Mr. Mike say how difficult it is to live with an artist.
Honey, he don’t know the half.
Our time well spent, our farewells intact, we bid each other adieu, knowing that we would remain, however oddly, connected. They say life is a journey; but what they don’t say is: it’s a crazy, bewildering mixed up one. I was grateful for the time together…and the distraction from the obvious:
FINISHING PACKING.
I had hours to go…and miles to go before I slept. I returned to the apartment, and – of course – distracted myself for hours on Facebook. Why not indulge myself one last time. Tomorrow, Tuesday, was going to be full enough…there was a Farewell party for me to attend. How pompous of me to think that I could finish packing in such short shrift…
…and yet, as determined as I was, I knew that I could do it.

FRANCKLY - a gala

The fact that this would be my last Gala as an employee of The Grand was only further heightened by a 20 year reunion in the making. Alison Franck, a classmate from Syracuse, would be my date for the evening; in fact, the weekend. After packing up more items on Saturday morning (I was nowhere NEAR ready), I had to then pack up a suitcase for the hotel, and pick up my tux. Alison’s bus arrived around 1:45, and I dared not be late…not after 20 years.
Alison and I have been catching up for some time on Facebook, a true use of the site’s utility for staying in touch with old friends. She is a longtime fan of The Beatles, and it was a natural ask for me to see if she wanted a getaway weekend; Alison, a casting director outside of New York, was grateful for the chance to have a little holiday before the holidays…and to play dress up and see The Fab Faux, a band that authentically recreates the sound of the Beatles, was icing.
I was moments from picking her up, when she texted me to see if I was on time; I assured her I was, and just as I pulled over to park and put my hazard lights on, the bus was pulling in. I stood at the back of the bus as she disembarked. There she was, looking chic and sublime in her black overcoat and couture cap. We hugged with the strength of twenty years, and she quickly began updating me on her journey; Alison speaks as quickly as she IMs on Facebook, and soon I was caught up on her escapades in getting from New York to Wilmington.
We did the five second tour (that’s about all the time it takes) up and down Market Street, and we nestled in front of The Grand as I showed her the splendid façade of my soon to be former employer. We had to go inside, as our tickets for the Gala were in my also soon to be former office. There, the facility and technical staff were knee deep in final preparations, getting everything spit spot. Alison did not get the full splendor of The Grand, as the theatre lights were dimmed for sound check with the band; still, she got the sense that an elegant evening awaited.
Once we toured the rest of the building and picked up our tickets, we moseyed up the block to one of the few vendors open on Saturday. Lapp’s Rotisserie was a quiet respite where we had the entire place to ourselves to catch up, and Alison, a bit famished, could enjoy a buffalo chicken wrap. Alison eats well, and I honestly wonder where she puts it; her figure doesn’t give out clues. Knowing the spread that was to come that evening, I opted for a simple coffee to settle my stomach. We killed time catching up on love won and lost, of days gone by and plans to come, and, after a few errands (I needed socks, she, hosiery), soon it was time to check in.
It is often fun for me to observe another’s wonder through their eyes, and Alison’s awe at the lobby of the Hotel duPont was one of those moments. The luxurious surroundings, decked out in holiday regalia, only added to my amusement as I observed her dropped jaw and wandering eyes take in exactly where we were staying. She wanted to be certain we had rooms near each other, to which the concierge complied, and once we settled in, I encouraged her to take time to enjoy a long bath, as I planned to do the same. Little did I know what I had done.
There is nothing like a really good bath, with fluffy towels and spa finery. The Hotel duPont is such a place to lose oneself in such luxury. Each of us now pressed and dressed (and very well bathed), we descended to the lobby to meet Melissa for a drink and were soon thereafter at The Grand, awaiting the opening remarks and performance.
I had mixed feelings about schmoozing with board members for the last time; many of them kept wishing me luck and pulling me aside; I tried to laugh it off, saying there would be plenty of time for goodbyes, and we had a Gala to put on, “now get in your seats!” I especially did not want to make Alison uncomfortable with these varying accolades; I just wanted us all to have a good time.
And we did. The performance was as splendid as any I’ve seen; the tribute to the Copelands, longtime supporters of The Grand, was heartfelt and honest; the audience was clearly moved, me among them, and the band’s dedication of “All You Need Is Love” to them was, all told, the cap of the evening.
My last official duty was to hand off the overcoats of Mr. & Mrs. Chairman; a duty I’ve been performing for years. It prevents them from getting caught up in coat check lines, and eases them on their way to the after party, where they can continue to tout The Grand. Alison waited patiently as I did this last task…and then…I was officially free.
I did not expect everything to go so quickly without such pomp and circumstance, but I was actually grateful. Alison on my arm, we walked up the block to the after party, where an evening performance was letting out at the Dupont Theatre; congestion galore. But we were soon swimming with the crème de la crème, and Alison was enamored with the entire shindig. As a long time attendee, I forgot the wonder of the Gala…had taken it for granted. I lived vicariously as she enjoyed the raw bar, carving stations, breakfast foods, chocolate fountain, dance rooms and face painting. As the night wore on, I realized how few of my co-workers I had seen; Alison had kept us busy running from ballroom to ballroom…and I also wanted to be certain to spend time with a few key board members whom I knew I would not see again. As she indulged me with this gift, Alison charmed my friends and found a few of her own along the way; we took the traditional photo in front of the lobby Christmas tree, and that is where we wound up spending most of our evening – until of course, it was time for coffee and donuts in the lobby lounge.
As the hullaballoo of the night subsided, we found ourselves in a corner, dipping into donut holes with all the toppings and trimmings one could think of, and a few very close colleagues joined us as we brought the evening to a close. It was the perfect end to a perfect evening; I could not have asked for more.
Bidding my date adieu, I drifted off to sleep, but not after a good fight with room service (I had actually forgotten to EAT at the after party, imagine that). As I later learned, Alison had another bath…and then another the next morning…seems I’d started a trend. We departed the next morning for Philadelphia to take in a matinee of Hairspray at The Walnut, in which a few friends of mine (and hers) were performing. We continued to catch up and share our lives, past, present and future.
She is a remarkable woman.
And I owe her a great deal; whether she realizes it or not, her company that weekend gave me much needed solace…peace, away from the hustle and bustle of packing…of moving…of…leaving.
I dropped her off at Filbert Street Bus Station, hugging 20 more years into her. And then…was on I95 back to Wilmington.
For the last time.

A FOND FAREWELL - a few short weeks later...

Aside from childbirth (which I will never personally experience), I would venture to say there is probably nothing more stressful than moving. It’s a strange dynamic: you actually TOUCH everything you own. You make a decision about it, decide its value, recall what it means, give it its due…and choose if it comes with you or not. The upcoming weeks were spent with many of those confrontational moments. “Should I stay or should I go now” was a recurring musical underscore for my life as I wrestled with what was most precious to me. Sixteen bags of trash later; I realized how much of a pack rat I really am, but also, how much I have been given in life.
I was struck, too, by how equally I was able to fill up sixteen boxes to take with me. Getting them down four flights of steps to the pod was another matter, but I digress.
My office, which once was a centralized haven of sorts, my home away from home, had slowly started to become a barren, bare, butter-painted shell of what it used to be; the fluorescent lights only further enhanced its bleakness. I had not realized how much I had filled it with comfort, nor how that comfort toned down its starkness. It was now up to my successor to make it her own; she was reluctant to hang anything upon the walls while I was still there…but I know she has plans to fill it out on her own terms. As well she should.
Christine and I spent a very long two weeks with each other, offering an opportunity to drain my brain of six years of history at The Grand. It is my hope, wish and prayer that she will never try to replace me; that is not going to be her job. Her job will be to keep The Grand going strong, and to honor that commitment. She is a dependable and organized and efficient woman with tremendous social skills and strengths I don’t possess; I am wishing her the best of luck. May The Grand be as loyal to her as it has been to me. And I certainly hope she appreciates having that little bit of time together to get up to speed; it is a rare occasion that anyone gets to spend time with their predecessor “training.” I certainly am not going to have the chance; I’m going in blind.
My last day at The Grand was supposed to be uneventful; I expected to have a little bit of time off before I left, and knew that my upcoming Farewell was forthcoming. In true Grand Style, there was a last minute pizza lunch in the back hall, and I was very pleasantly surprised to see the entire staff in attendance…a “best wishes” cake with California-shaped icing was the topper, complete with little flag posted in the Ventura region. The flag itself was a picture of my trademark photo: a pix of me bussing tables at our Grand Preview Party. It looks like I’m about to down three martinis, but it was actually risotto crab dip that I was clearing from tables. The quote to the photo is essentially, “Yes. It IS my job.” Meaning, yes, folks, do whatever it takes to get the job done; the first, and most important lesson I ever learned at The Grand.
It was nice to have that special time with the staff. When Melissa thought the cake I had cut smelled funny, I was fool enough to sniff it, at which point she promptly smashed it in my face…there’s probably a photo lingering around somewhere now to replace my previous signature pix. She got me, and I suppose, it was rather well deserved; who hasn’t wanted to smash a cake in someone’s face??
I was teary-eyed as I sent my farewell letter to The Board; they are wonderful people with tremendous heart; and they care for The Grand greatly. They will be sorely missed by me.
I had finalized as many matters with Christine as humanly possible, knowing she and I will have to have a few email chats on processes we could not tend to. The Grand Gala was the next night, and remarkably, The Grand was calm. It was the quiet before the storm; this was the norm for the day before Gala. The Development Department had their best game face on. It was not a “crazy event planner” face, but one of “here we go.”
I was about to finally say farewell to The Grand in tuxedo style. Not a bad way to go, eh?