When I Figured Out Humidity

My mother always wanted me to play tennis. "Dinah Shore still plays tennis and look how fabulous she looks at her age."

I was eight. I really didn't care how a singer over thirty years my senior looked. Citing Sandra Dee might have worked.

My mother bought me tennis clothes and tennis shoes, but oddly enough not a new racket. I am pretty sure I used hers. Well, used might not be the correct verb. I carried her old racket out of the house into the heat and humidity of a Philadelphia summer (notice she wasn't using it) and then found something else, anything else, to do. Indoor tennis wasn't big in the fifties or even the sixties--at least in our area--and I wasn't about to run around in direct sunlight swinging at and missing white tennis balls. (As I recollect that was the only color available back then.)

But I digress.

My point is that, even as a child, I hated heat and humidity.  Not only did I not want to play tennis, I didn't want to do much of anything that involved exertion in the sun. That is why it was an unusual summer morning that I hopped out of bed raring to go--although still not to the tennis court. I remember feeling like a new person, knowing there was so much to do--but not until I ran an errand for my mother.

I am sure my mother sent me to Blob's, a corner store that was not actually on our corner, fairly often. However, I would not even recall the store existed, except for that one day when the air was cool, the breeze was brisk and the sun was bright. I noticed houses, gardens and trees that I had never paid attention to be before. On the walk, everything I saw looked better, clearer, than it had on previous trips. Especially the trees. A light breeze made the leaves rustle and sparkle as they danced in the sun.

I remember only a tiny portion of that morning, a sliver really: me, standing at the entrance to Blob's looking down tree-lined Walnut Lane. This was what life is supposed to be. I felt all was right with the world, like a character in a 1950s Walt Disney television series. I don't know how I found out what made that day so different was humidity--or rather lack thereof. There were other warm, sunny days but that day was the best.

I remember another day like that and recall saying to myself, "If every day was like today, I could live forever." September 10, 2001 was one of those days. I remember because the following day was too.

Where Have You Gone, Joe DiMaggio?

Someone just mentioned Joe DiMaggio.

I ran into Joltin' Joe several times during his Mr. Coffee years, always at the Sheraton Center Hotel in New York City. My memory must be fallible in at least one way. He had to be taller than I recall. Even though he was older, he could not have shrunk from the six-foot-two height listed in his stats to the height I would have estimated at around five-nine. I guess the point is he was no longer the young, strapping Yankee. But that didn't matter to the people I noticed observing him. And that was the fun.

Anyway, here's the story. It is almost interesting.

One morning I was waiting for the elevator, the only person in the elevator lobby on, let's say, the thirty-third floor when a gray-haired man in a tan trench coat came around the corner. It is an indication of his fame that I recognized him immediately-albeit with a reaction that men of a certain age might deem a sacrilege.  That man slept with Marilyn Monroe.  Okay, I know he did a lot of other things, but that was my honest reaction. He nodded or something and I reacted in a polite manner, giving no indication I had the slightest idea who he was.

Then another man, maybe ten years older than I, just the right age to feel the full impact of DiMaggio on baseball, turned the corner. I could feel the electricity the moment he spotted Joe. He too pretended not to recognize the baseball legend. His face didn't give him away as much as a palpable excitement did. I couldn't help but feel it. I don't know if Joe felt it or not. We had not grown close during our four-minute wait (anyone who stayed at the Sheraton Center in the eighties knows that is probably a conservative time estimate).

When the elevator bell finally dinged, and the door opened, Joe stood back so that I, as the sole woman, could board first. (I bet he did the same for Marilyn, making that the only thing beyond gender that I have in common with that legendary figure.) The three men on the elevator, like the man in the hallway, were the perfect demographic to appreciate the appearance of the baseball legend. I always believed my face said to them, Wait until you see what I've got with me. And then Joe followed me into the car. You could have cut the electric current with whatever you use to break a charge. No one dared speak. Joe just stood facing the door with his eyes downcast until one of the men said, "Mr. DiMaggio, may I remove this piece of lint from your coat?" Joe thanked him and turned his way to acknowledge his gesture. He said something, everyone chuckled and the elevator reached the lobby. And that was it.

I know there are stories about Joe, that he was not the nicest guy, but that didn’t seem to bother the men who stood silently surrounding a boyhood hero.  It was the 1980s so there were no cell phones whipped out for surreptitious photos of the man. No one requested a selfie. We rode in silence. One legend, one woman, and four ten-year-old boys--all dressed to do business in New York.

I bet those four men now heading towards eighty remember that elevator ride and tell the story of their ride with greatness. Any one of those versions is probably more interesting than mine. But whenever anyone mentions Joe DiMaggio, this elevator ride pops into my mind.

NOTE TO OLD ME: You always wondered if the man kept that piece of lint. Perhaps he had it framed.