Daily Archives: March 23, 2011

My Grandmother and I took road trips together. Our first was when she took me to NYC in 1969 to see The Rockettes perform at Radio City Music Hall. I was four years old. This was the trip where we discovered that I couldn’t tolerate heights.

After the 11am show, we had several hours to kill before our bus back to Syracuse would leave. Nonnie had planned to take me to the Empire State Building, which was three years away from being eclipsed by Tower One of the World Trade Center as the tallest building in the world. I had never been higher than a hayloft. It was a relatively quiet day in NYC; there was no wait for the elevator to the observation deck on the 102nd floor. She picked me up and held me up to the window to see NY and beyond. Nonnie shortly found herself holding an unconscious four year old that had wet herself.

I’ve experienced a repeat of this several times since and can tell you exactly what happened even though I have no memory of that specific incident. My perception shifted, shooting out and increasing the distance between the ground and myself exponentially. (This phenomenon strikes me as unnecessary.) My head started spinning, my bones turned to water, and I passed out. Thankfully, the wetting myself part has never reoccurred in subsequent episodes of vertigo.

As Nonnie told it, there was an emergency phone next to the elevators and she called for help. I came to, still on the observation deck, while someone, (a medic? an elevator operator?) was explaining to my grandmother that it was probably a reaction to the height. I made a run for the elevator. It was apparently quite a race to see if they could beat me to the ground floor. After getting me cleaned up the remainder of the outing was uneventful.

I am actually writing about another trip. It seemed important that I remember that my trips with my Nonnie were rarely unmarked by bizarre occurrences.

In the late summer of 1979 my Grandmother and I took a road trip to Connecticut to visit her brother. I don’t recall what we spent most of the weekend doing, probably drinking coffee and playing pinochle. Uncle Fran and his family wanted to show the area off and on Sunday took us to Essex in the afternoon to have brunch at the Griswold Inn.

Essex is your typical coastal New England town; it looks rich in the summer and poor in the winter. There is also no place to park on a busy day. We found a spot or lot a few blocks from the inn. We walked along the waterfront shops, peeking through the storefront windows and catching an occasional glimpse of the sound and the shrimpers between buildings.

We passed a teahouse only a block or two from our destination. I looked past the lace curtains and saw her. I almost fell down. My legs refused to move and were undecided as to whether they would continue to bear my weight. Nonnie asked me what was wrong. I told her in a stage whisper, as I was ducking underneath the window, “It’s Katharine Hepburn!” She told me that it was not and to hurry, we were already late for our reservation and Uncle Fran was afraid we’d lose our table. I peeked over the edge of the window once more, expecting my eyes to tell me that it was not Katharine Hepburn that my imagination had run away with me. Well it was her. There was no mistaking that profile. I had seen every movie she had ever done many times over. She was (is) my hero and, damn it, it was her. I allowed myself to be pulled along to the Griswold. We were to wait a few minutes for our table. (‘Late’ to my uncle was fifteen minutes early. He was a quirky pessimist. I wish I had a written copy of his eulogy, written and delivered by his daughter, it would rival any comedic stand up routine in hilarity.) My mind was racing and the urge to run back to the teahouse was almost overwhelming.

We were seated and our bloody marys were ordered. Everyone stood to take their place in the extremely long buffet line. I excused myself saying that I needed to visit the ladies room and would then go through the buffet, meeting them back at the table. As soon as I was out of sight of the table, I ran out the door and up the street.

I peeked through the window to see if she was still there. She was. I took a deep breath and walked through the door into the teahouse. I was asked how I could be helped and managed to croak, “Tea, please.” My seat was two tables away and I was sitting roughly parallel and facing in the same direction as Miss Hepburn. It was not my intention to impose or presume. I simply wanted to be in her presence. I sat there facing resolutely forward while my eyes were shifted as far to the left as they would go, a posture that anyone who has shaved their armpits can attest to as being extremely uncomfortable. I’m sure I was visibly shaking, just as I’m sure the tea-lady knew what I was up to as she set a cup of tea in front of me that I didn’t seem to order.

I listened to Miss Hepburn’s low rumble as she spoke to her tablemate, the individual words were lost, but I could hear that peculiar tremble in her voice. In casting my eyes her way, I was looking almost directly, if obliquely, at her companion. This did not go unnoticed and I can only assume it was brought to Miss Hepburn’s attention given that she abruptly turned her head and looked directly at me. I dropped my eyes to the cup of tea in front of me.

I looked up when the woman from her table touched my arm and said “Miss Hepburn and I can’t help but notice you looking at her.” I nodded, horrified that I had been discovered. “Would you care to join us?” She picked up my teacup and turned back to her table without waiting for my response. I sat between them, Miss Hepburn on my left and her secretary, (explained during the introduction), on my right. I shook Miss Hepburn’s hand. She asked me questions;

KH: “How old are you?”
Me: “14, ma’am”
KH: “What grade are you in?”
Me: “9th ma’am”
KH: “Do you get good grades?”
Me: “Yes ma’am”

I eventually regained some control over my brain and began answering in complete sentences. She asked how I came to be at the teahouse. I explained about the road trip and visiting family. I told her that they were all down the street at brunch. She gently advised me that perhaps I should get back to them before they missed me and began to worry. She shook my hand again, telling me that I had a good firm handshake, and that it was a pleasure to meet me.

I left and returned to The Griswold. I was very pleased with my conduct. I did not gush. I did not impose. I did not spill anything. Not that I ever touched my cup of tea, things just seemed to tip over in my presence. My grandmother had always felt that I was a precocious, (read mouthy), tomboy. She spent years and not a little money making sure that I had ‘manners’ and would not embarrass her in public. She would have been so proud.

I filled my plate in the buffet line and took my seat with my family. They did not question my absence. I estimate that the entire escapade was less than twenty minutes. The only remark made was on my uncharacteristic silence. I admit now that I was being selfish and spiteful. I was unwilling to share it with anyone. If I had opened my mouth to speak at all, I would not have been able to contain it.

Katharine Hepburn was, and remains, my idol. She was the epitome of self-sufficient womanhood, living life on her own terms. She could easily have ignored me at my table until my family came looking for me or I decided to feel foolish and leave. Miss Hepburn exhibited charm and grace far beyond the experience of my backwoods upbringing. She is the sole reason I gave in when my grandmother decided to send me to ‘finishing school’ later that year to grind off my rough edges. I wanted to learn how to be a ladylike tomboy who doesn’t compromise her principles. I’m still learning.

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This memoir was first publish in my mostly hidden, now defunct and inaccessible, Livejournal in 2002. I have made some minor edits. Full disclosure: I have no idea what show my grandmother took me to in 1969. My Nonnie is long gone and my Mother does not recall.