Why Musicals Matter

 Last October, there was only one reason why nine overloaded, over-committed elementary school teachers joined me in taking on the giant task of producing a 50-member musical comprised of 3rd to 5th graders.

They gave up their afternoons, including tutoring opportunities, for the sole reason of exposing young hearts and minds to the wonders of story and song; the thrill of dance and dialog and the one-of-a kind joy of joining voices in that crowning anthem.

The thought of igniting a spark in one child was motivation enough. Just as it happened in the heart of Elisabeth Marbury, whose parents raised her in the New York theater and who became playwright agent for Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw, or writer Noel Coward, or composers Rogers and Hammerstein, Sondheim, Spielberg and of course the great Walt Disney, so might it happen in one of our students.

But if none of these kids ever attain such grand achievements, at the very least, they will have learned to appreciate the art form of the musical. An art form that offers relief, respite and restoration from this troubled and turbulent world.

Take the story of Jake. Jake was a shark in Finding Nemo. Sometimes he danced, most often he didn't. Sometimes he behaved, more often he didn't.  In fact, he was expelled from the show for arguing with our guest acting coach. After discussions and apology letters, he was reinstated, but didn't really deliver during the show.

His academic specialist at school was not getting a word out of him during a recent session, until she said, "I heard you want to try out for G-star, that performing arts middle school." He perked up. "I think you'd do great," she continued. "You'll be 'J-star!'" Her play on words broke his mute state; "G-Star," "J-Star."

Suddenly his thoughts tumbled out and he answered all his lesson questions from there on. 

The power of his musical experience and the genius of his tutor effected a momentous change in one boy's life.

That is why we did and do this. And why it is worth every moment.

For the Love of Cake

 I'm not a real cake fan. Except for the icing or fluffy filling.

"I've spared myself the extra calories from carbs," I console my sugar-shocked mouth after swallowing the last creamy spoonful of frosting and leaving the starch. Although, carrot cake, Tres Leches and anything soaked in coconut get my vote.

Maybe I am a fan, after all.

Wherever we look, cake comes up. At birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, most every celebration, except funerals.

We stay longer at receptions and parties to have said piece of cake. It's the grand finale. The crowning glory. The event focal point.  And we praise those who can decorate them in buttercream roses, swirls, flower petals, swags and pointlets. Others sit in graceful sophistication, tailored with fondant, ganache or glace.

My mother loved to decorate them, though wanting in many other culinary skills due to being raised with a cook and nursemaid.

On one birthday--my little girl guests fluttering in their petticoat skirts--she served a dessert in the shape of a ladybug by carving layer loaves into ovals and then icing them with dots and eyes and antennae. I must have been eight. 

These are triumphs of cakes.

But cakes also suffer their tragedies. 

Such as in the callous response of the selfish French monarch, oblivious to the starving state of her subjects. "Let them eat _ _ _ _!" certainly gave the sweet a bad name.

Like the time my mother spent hours on a cake for a friend's event. Her beloved bakery creation traveled in the "far-away" (trunk) of our powder-blue station wagon. I also rode in the back, with the food. (These were the times before seatbelt regulations). I made my five-year-old self comfortable on the trip, edging up to something soft and squishy, only to discover I'd situated my bottom on the precious pastry. 

I had sat on the cake. The cake that took so long to bake.

Although my mother never scolded me, the pall of disappointed as I emerged from the back of the car with a half-flattened cake, etched a deep ravine of eternal guilt.

Some cakes fall. Some spill. Some get sat on. Some burn. Some over-rise, as in my favorite childhood book, The Duchess Bakes a Cake. 

And some get immortalized in songs,

Melting in the dark

                                              left out in the rain

                                                                                     the sweet, green icing flowing down

Jimmy Webb's epic four-verse song--with an extended instrumental--triumphed in 1968. 

And here in 2026, the song, MacArthur Park, has enjoyed a re-bake accompanying an American gold-medal ice skater in her Winter Olympic victory.

Ms. Liu chose the heart-stopping interpretation of the late, imitable Donna Summer. 

Only Summer's soaring vocals could reverberate the transcendent joy of Liu's jubilant dance.

How appropriate. 

Another cake with which to celebrate this moment in cult history!

The songwriter, 

                            the singer,

                                                            the skater 

                                                                                            the Olympic victory   

Let's all linger at the party for a second slice of cake.      

     

Saharan Dust Moon

Tonight I saw the sand that traveled three thousand miles across the Atlantic. 

The road weary plume illuminated by the full moon 

It's beam turned from silver to gold

From milky to cafe con Latte.

The busty orb set against a grainy buff sky.

Not the clear, crisp light that our full moons bring,

But an unfocused hazy glow.

The sun had set the same way

It just looks like regular clouds, my husband said.

No, it’s an unusual haze, I countered

A fuzzy blur of rays

Such as our talks have become of late.

This isn’t California, after all, where smoggy skies are the norm.

This a wind blown tropical peninsula where air pollution retreats to the Gulf

Or the seas

Amber skies are enigmatic

Saharan dust plumes a rare phenomenon 

Whose golden spray, like an ecru pair of sheers just hung

Casts a yellow diamond hue 

Over us all

                                                           Photo credit Palm Beach Post