memories …

When I was 21 or so, recovering from a breakup with a fellow who I thought at the time was my fiancé, I went for a weekend to a regional sci fi convention in Ohio – a resort called Beatley’s on-the-Lake, and was referred to by the sci fi people as Beastley’s on the Bayou.

I met a lot of prominent writers during that weekend, Isaac (Ike) Asimov, Robert Bloch, Algis Budrys, Poul Anderson, Jerry Bixby … and others I can’t remember now.

Martin Green, publisher of Gnome Press, and Robert Bloch, were good friends. I got their attention one night in a hotel room filled with writers – on chairs, on the floor, on the bed – telling shaggy dog stories into the wee hours. I was invited because, you know, I was 21. From that moment on we were constant companions. Bob later moved from Wayauwega, Wisconsin, leaving a very unhappy marriage, to Hollywood where his story, Psycho, was filmed by Alfred Hitchcock. Bob wrote many more stories in the horror genre, and remarried to the widow of a producer. I last saw him when he came to New York about 1988 or so. We had lunch and did several turns around a revolving door, because he couldn’t help himself.

Marty and Bob adopted me and I was part of their group during that weekend. “Eve Paige”, aka Evelyn Gold, wife of Horace Gold, editor and Publisher of Galaxy Magazine was also part of this group. She and I remained friends and saw each other socially after I married Jay. Horace was a recluse and never left their New York apartment. Everyone, including his barber, went to him. From time to time, Marty said, he would get Horace down to street level at 1 a.m. and walk him around the block as a prelude to reintroducing him to the outside world. It never went further.

Some time later, I decided to attend the national sci fi convention in San Francisco. This was rather ambitious of me, since I had not gone anywhere that far away all by myself. The convention was being held at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. I didn’t have any nice things, so I splurged on a wardrobe for the trip. The day I arrived, I got into the hotel elevator as Bob Bloch was getting off. He grabbed me, spun me around, and said, “I’m so glad you could make it. Get settled and join us in the restaurant.” That was heady stuff, particularly since I was hurting so from my break-up.

Bob and Marty and their group were my constant companions during that weekend. We went to Alioto’s the famous fish restaurant on the bay, to Muir Woods, home of centuries old giant redwood trees – the tallest in the world. We went to the opera bars, where the waiters sang (badly, I think, but the very idea of opera in a bar, in such stark contrast to the low-end bars I was used to in Chicago, was a rare treat).

My Chicago life before music college had been rather grubby – girlfriend to a beautiful, young Italian guy, who, however, was killed in a robbery. A desultory aftermath followed during which I did not function. And then, my friend Penny, from our early teens (13-14) encouraged me to rekindle my piano studies and join her at Chicago Musical College where she was already studying. And I did. That was my first taste of a life with culture shared. My other friends acquired haphazardly from the neighborhood and from a Greek girl I met at church, were not classical music lovers, nor interested in fine art, nor able to discuss much beyond the mundane and would often make fun of me and my interests. I did not enjoy their jibes, but I was also totally firm about what I loved and thought they were ignorant. But, at the time, it seemed they were the only game in town.

Penny and I hung out with other musicians, went to restaurants and bars in “Old Town” on Chicago’s near north side, went to concerts at Orchesta Hall on Michigan Blvd., and would walk in Grant Park afterward to see the fabulous Buckingham fountain light display that went on around 9 p.m. You can Google some images/videos of the fountain if you are interested. I would have included a link but we all know I am technically challenged.

I made no lasting friends from CMC. I tried to keep up with their lives since some went on to greater things, notably, Donald Gramm, then 25 or so, who had a major career as a bass baritone at the Met. Youtube has audios of his voice, no video. He died at 56 from a heart attack. Also, most of the guys I knew there were gay. They lived a different life and, in keeping with the times, were very self-protective and reclusive. So maintaining contact was not a given. One straight guy dated me one time. It was a so-so date and we didn't do it again. About 30 years later I noticed an item in the paper that he was giving a recital in Carnegie Recital Hall. I debated going, meeting him in the artist’s room afterwards and saying, “Harold, you never called. Was it something I said?” But I didn’t do it.**

Once in a while, I look someone up. Still no success. And, of course, all these years later, I am guessing many are gone.

Robert MacDowell (sp?) was a Midwest pianist that Penny and I hung with but I can find no trace of him now. Strange. I would have loved to find him on YouTube.

Penny and I maintained our friendship through the years. I moved to New York. She stayed in Chicago and married a fellow Greek who she did not love, in order to please her mother. I never understood why she did not have the courage to strike out on her own. We stayed in touch by phone and she and Stephanie, her daughter, came down the Christmas of 2004 and that was the last time I saw her.

Bob Bloch was a great friend, a wonderful wit, warm and compassionate. He died in 1994. One of his most often quoted sayings: “Despite my ghoulish reputation, I really have the heart of a small boy. I keep it in a jar on my desk.”

He said, of his life in Wayauwega, that the place was so dull that the residents used to go down to the rail yards to watch the cars couple.

xx Teal

I miss them all.


**This post triggered an effort to locate Harold and I found this obit from The New York Times. Now I'll never get to tease him.

Harold Zabrack, 66, Composer, Is Dead
Published: February 25, 1995

Harold Allen Zabrack, a composer, pianist and former professor at Westminster Choir College of Rider University in Lawrenceville, N.J., died on Feb. 2 at his home in Creve Coeur, Mo. He was 66.

The cause was peritonitis, said a spokeswoman for the college.

Mr. Zabrack was the composer of dozens of works for the piano, many of which he performed in concert. He was the soloist in the premieres of his First Piano Concerto with the St. Louis Symphony and of his Symphonic Variations with the Milwaukee Symphony.

He was born in St. Louis and received degrees in music from Chicago Musical College.