Hello, Juana

“Stevie, we have to go see this.”

“What is it, Mama?”

“It’s Hello, Dolly! with the real Dolly.”

“I didn’t know you had any interest in Hello, Dolly!”

“I wouldn’t, except it’s The Real Dolly.”

I was so proud of My Mam - she had a strong enough knowledge of the history of American Musical Theater to know that Carol Channing was the original Dolly Levi (born Gallagher) when the play opened on Broadway in 1964, the year I was born.  The year was now 1995 and I was living in New York City with my husband, and My Mam and Pap were living across the river in New Jersey, while commuting into Manhattan every weekday to run a company in Chelsea.  On the weekends Pat and I would take the bus into Jersey and spend time with Mama and Daddy, and every now and then there would be adventures in and around the city.  I cannot stress this enough:  I did not spend enough time with them.  Pat tells me that I did, but the truth is that I should have been in Chelsea having lunch with them every week, at least once a week.  I should have been at their house every weekend, not just some weekends.  I should have been taking them to the theater and to the clubs, to the museums and the parks.  But I didn’t.  I should have, but I wasn’t.  It is one of the major regrets of my life.

But on this occasion, there was an adventure to be had and My Mother set the terms.

I got us good seats to see the 1995 revival of Hello, Dolly! at the Lunt Fontanne Theater on 46th Street.  We were house right, just off the aisle, in seats two and four, about eight or ten rows back (it varies because some theaters don’t actually start the rows with A, some have AA, some start with B, and so on) - I made sure Mama would have a good seat to this play because her behavior over the last few weeks demanded it.  For days Mama had been saying, “We’re going to see Dolly” or “We’re going to see The Real Dolly” or “We’re seeing the Original Dolly live on Broadway.”  She was like a little kid, about to see their idol.  I had, genuinely, authentically, truly no idea that Carol Channing in Hello, Dolly! would be such a big deal to Mommy.
But a big deal, it was.

My Mother does not get excited by anything.  She is made happy by her family, she is made satisfied by shopping, and she is made ecstatic by food… but the only thing that I have ever seen My Mam get excited over is seeing her grandchildren.  When the overture for Hello, Dolly! started, Mama smiled, she clapped, she glowed.  And for that entire afternoon, the woman who had, long, been the light of my life lit up the Lunt Fontanne.  Then, in Act Two, it happened.

The title song was up.  Carol Channing and The Waiters were on the stage.  They were singing “Hello, Dolly!”.  Carol Channing came out onto the ramp and Mama clapped her hands together, and held them over her heart.  When the song was over my Mother, who gets excited over nothing, led the standing ovation.   She cheered, she clapped, she smiled… and I wept.  Then, at the end of the play, as the curtain rose on the cast, My Mother, who gets excited over nothing, was the first person on their feet, ovating the cast of the play.  When Carol Channing came out for her curtain call, My Mother, who gets excited over nothing, waved her hands in the air and cheered.  It was a most precious moment in my life, one to which I have clung, these last twenty-seven years, one that has given me comfort, many mornings, in the cool gray of the dawn.

For days, even weeks, after seeing the play Hello, Dolly! on Broadway, My Mother was singing.  I was visiting Mommy and Daddy in New Jersey and she needed to do some marketing.  I went with her and walked alongside her in the supermarket as she pushed the shopping cart up and down the aisles, singing:

“It only takes a moment….  It only takes a moment…  It only takes a moment…  It only takes a moment…”

“Mama, would you like me to teach you the words to that song?

“No, I’m fine with the words I know, thank you, honey…  It only takes a moment…”

Twenty-two years later my parents came to New York City to see me in my nightclub debut.  There was a revival of Hello, Dolly! playing on Broadway.  The star playing Dolly Levi (born Gallagher) was Bette Midler.  I asked my parents if they wanted to see Bette Midler in Hello, Dolly! and they said no, thank you.  They wanted to see the Tuesday night alternate, Donna Murphy, play the role.  Years earlier, I had taken my entire family (Mother, Father, brother, niece, husband) to see Donna in The King and I on Broadway, and my friend, Donna, had been gracious enough to entertain them all in her dressing room after the show.  Mama and Daddy were, afterward, die hard fans for life.  So I got the three of us some amazing seats for a Tuesday night performance of Hello, Dolly! on Broadway, at great expense, but I didn’t care - this would be worth every penny.  

For the performance that night, Me Father sat on the aisle, just to my right, while My Mam sat on my left.  We were in the center section, seven rows back (so close that Donna was able to spot us and wave, during the curtain call).  It was going to be a perfect night, and I would get to enjoy experiencing their experience, on either side of me - I knew I would spend more time watching them than watching the play, which is exactly what happened.

My Mother’s dementia had progressed significantly, by this point in her life.  Often, her memory would re-set itself within a single conversation.  But music transcends memory loss and she smiled, broadly, for the entire play, losing herself in the music and the pageantry.  She swayed a little in her seat, and she even hummed, softly, under her breath.  Mama didn’t quite follow along the storyline from scene to scene but the colors were pretty and the music spoke to her, and when she was in a moment, she was in it, clearly.  

Near the end of the play, Mama coughed.  My Mother is a cougher - it happens - it doesn’t mean anything, she is just a cougher.  The man seated on her left was Japanese, and wearing a facemask (this was 2017 and before the pandemic but people from Asian countries have always been ahead of us Westerners when it comes to health protection).  The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a mask and tried to enforce my Mother putting it on.  Mama, not quite able to focus her attention on the play, cough, and grasp what he was trying to tell her, grew confused and a little frustrated.  Nevertheless, the gentleman persisted as Mama grew more and more agitated.  Finally, I reached over and touched him on his forearm, and said, simply and firmly, “STOP.  Leave my Mother alone.  NOW.”  The man withdrew his hand, and peace was restored to our theatergoing experience… until the curtain call and the ovation were finished and the lights were up, as we all prepared for our departure.  People were filing out of their aisles and making their way out of the building, and the Japanese man was back at his mission to make my Mother put on a facemask.  Talking at her and holding out the paper garment, he was growing aggressive, as Mommy attempted to shut him out and get away from his forceful persistence.  I said to Me Father, “Take Mama up,” and, in a rare moment of assertion (of which I am, most certainly, able), I insinuated myself between the man and My Mother.  

“Step back.  You’re done here.”

He tried to speak to me and held the mask up to me.

“STEP.  BACK.  You’re DONE.”

There is a face that I make that could stop a hardened criminal in their motion.  I made the face.  He stopped.  He withdrew.  My family moved.  The drama had not touched Mommy and Daddy, their evening would hold no memory of stress or disappointment. 

Happy, satisfied, warmed by the gentle glow of Jerry Herman and Donna Murphy, we went Backstage at The Shubert Theater, where my friend was kind and gracious and loving to these two treasures who raised me, two treasures that went home elated and thrilled, and with the memory of a Broadway experience to last a lifetime (as well as a, sadly, out-of-focus photo with Donna Murphy, but a photo, just the same).

Juana’s Hello, Dolly! history remains happy and, If not in her own memory, at least, in mine.