Can It Really Be Senior Year Already?

We really aren’t quite ready for it. I mean, it all seems to have arrived so quickly, in such a rush. There we were, in the City, packing bags with the vacuum (Space bags are pretty amazing – they become like amazing sculptures as the collapse of air creates nooks and crannies you can’t have imagined.) Then into the Caddie, set auto pilot for Boston, and watch the Caddie slink its way across town, onto the Hutch, north on the Wilbur Cross, and eventually to the Pike. Then, there we were, four hours later, disgorging the sculpted bags o’ clothes, walking the four flights (54 steps to be exact) and helping Jordan settle into her apartment in Boston for the, gulp, last time.

Jords, Iris, new roomate Sabrina and her mom

Senior year starts today. Senior year of College. Amazingly, she may even BE a four-year student, in an age when almost no one gets out in four years anymore. She has three new roomies, and the wonderful space in Brookline, home for another year, was settled into in just a couple of hours. Jords even called last-year-roomate David to come by and give Iris and I a trim:

Chez David, the salon in Brookline





no matter what happens to David in the world of theater, he will always be able to find work in a hair salon – he knows how to cut!



Evidence of the Burnetts
Because it was Labor Day weekend, every college kid in the northeast (Emerson, Suffolk,Boston Univ, Boston College, Harvard, MIT, BoCo, and a host of others) was moving in, and that meant finding a hotel room under three hundred bucks was unlikely.

In the Algonquin Reading room - we forgot to read.

So, I tried my fall back – being a member of the Cosmos Club in DC, I made a few calls to some “Reciprocal” clubs in Boston, and found a little ‘suite’ on the 6th floor of the Algonquin Club (“founded in 1887 by a dozen Boston gentlemen…”) and we ended up on Commonwealth Avenue, just a few blocks from our usual Back Bay haunts.

Suite # 66, the Algonquin Club

Driving from Brookline to the Club to check in, we passed by Fenway, where the Sox where entertaining the Orioles just a half hour later – skads of fans streaming towards the park – and who would have known, but the young starter for the Sox, Clay Bucholz, threw a no-hitter. We didn’t see the game, but we kept hearing snippets from valet parkers and café staff into the night.

Cocktails in the bar: No Cell Phones, Please

In the Club room, we had to unpack and get ourselves settled for the last of what would be our “Grand Canyon Style” accommodations. No sofa bed, just a king with all three of us laid out like lox. You can’t really do it in anything but a king since Jordan flails about like a LIVE salmon (don’t let this angelic picture fool you).



We had a cocktail in the Algonquin bar, nearly empty, save for one guy who, totally in contravention of club rules, was cupping a cell fone to his ear and mouth, pretending he was only scarfing down the peanuts and cheese.

JK ready for dinner


Once at the Cosmos Club, I thought I’d actually found a safe spot near the lobby to speak on my cell fone, trying to find the people we were to meet for lunch. The staff lady, who could have happily worked for Mr. Drysdale, the banker, in the Beverly Hillbillies, tore into me with a viscious, lighting swift fusillade of Shakespearen English. When you have been thus reminded not to use your cell fone, you remain reminded for a long, long time.

The Beatles, er ah, Jordan and Iris on Abbey Road

I’m sure we will eventually find other ways, places, where we’ll be helping deliver Jordan to a living venue, but after 8 years of Stage Door (theater camp age 10-17), and four years at Emerson, it has become one of those little family activities which, for all its craziness (forgetting a bag = craziness!) is the kind that binds you together. Nothing special ever happens, but the little moments of forced togetherness have their dividends. We love em.

So, Jords is a Senior. What the hell does that make her parents? Not that we FEEL like Seniors, but now and then, buying a movie ticket for 30% off, yeah, we’ll take it. The past few weeks have been pretty much taken up with getting her to school, and trying to make arrangements for Nana in Jersey. We must have missed some of the briefings about how we will have to deal with the situations of our parents. I think we’re in new territory.

I love the morning light when it hits the reflective glass of the skyscrapers. No Colin Powell, no Charlize Theron, so I'll take a snap of myself.

Sunday night, after we got back to Boonton (just tell the Caddie.. “take us to Boonton” and the auto pilot takes over), we made our way over to the annual Boonton Firemen’s Fair, an annual money raising midway complete with a half dozen rides, kewpie dolls won by tossing dimes, the ‘beer’ tent, the pulled-pork tent, and of course the sausage and peppers tent.

Pulled Pork Sandwich 2, Pammie 1 (overtime)

Well, its not really a tent, but more like a booth. But it nearly feels like a tent. Mud underfoot, it all seems to taste better that way. We went with Pam (Iris’ kindergarten pal) and her mom Clare (who hosts Xmas eve every year) and after a little wandering through the midway,

Clare, Pam & Iris at the Boonton Fair

we retreated to the house to watch, for a small town, a quite spectacular 25 minute fireworks display (who better than the Firemen to run it!) The starbursts, the fiery candles, it was all good. And then, after a flourish of rapid fire explosions, it was over, and a quiet settled back upon Boonton. And we walked back into the house that Iris has lived in for seven decades. We’re just sayin…David