Mike had often performed songs with lyrics by Yip Harburg and, in doing so, became intrigued by the man and his works. This prolific lyricist was mostly unknown to the general public. Mike would tell audiences that whether or not they knew his name, most of them were certainly familiar with dozens of Yip Harburg’s songs. Besides having written the lyrics to all of the “Wizard of Oz” songs, he was also the lyricist for “Paper Moon,” “April in Paris,” “Happiness Is Just a Thing Called Joe,” “How Are Things in Glocca Morra,” “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime,” and hundreds more.
Once free of his UUSS music director responsibilities, Mike started work on a show that would focus solely on the music and life of Yip Harburg. He delved more and more deeply into Harburg’s music and history with a zeal befitting a potential biographer. He told friends, fellow musicians, family, neighbors, and the clerk at our local dry cleaners how Yip Harburg had grown up on New York’s Lower East Side, a community made up mostly of Russian Jewish immigrants. Yip had sat next to Ira Gershwin in school, and they discovered a shared interest in Gilbert and Sullivan. Gershwin took him home to his “swank” apartment and played “H.M.S. Pinafore” for him on the Victrola. This was around 1911 when Yip was only 15 years old. He later wrote that from that time forward he was tied to Ira Gershwin.
Mike also often told of Harburg’s social activism, much of which came through in his lyrics. His “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime” had become a touchstone for the downtrodden during the Depression. Besides his music, Harburg was also active in progressive political organizations—active enough to be blacklisted during the McCarthy era.
As much as I, too, loved the work of Yip Harburg, I sometimes felt that Mike was monopolizing too much of the conversation when we were with friends. But he was a good storyteller and brought plenty of energy to whatever he was saying. I hoped it was only my imagination that eyes sometimes became glazed with yet one more story, or one more repetition of a Yip Harburg story. I was aware that it was not only me with whom he was listening less and talking more.
At first Mike’s plan was for a one man show in which he would portray Harburg. Then he thought it might be good to bring in a soprano to add vocal interest. Soon he was collaborating with a director, pianist, eight or more singers and a few local actors.
Although I was working to meet a deadline for my book No More Sad Goodbyes, I offered to help Mike and the director come up with a script for the show. Over our many years together, Mike and I had collaborated easily in a number of ways. I always sought Mike’s take on any writing project in process. He was an astute and insightful reader, able to point out what more was needed and what was redundant, to note the strengths in a manuscript and see what needed clarification. He might say, “I’m not sure Lynn would give in so easily here,” or simply, “I don’t know what’s going on here.” My books were better than they might have been because of Mike’s close readings.
Conversely, Mike had consistently sought my take on choices of music and how things fit together in a program. Did it make more sense for the third song to be last? Did there need to be a more lively number between the two ballads? Did his introduction say what he wanted it to say?
So we started on a script. Mike and I listed aspects of Harburg’s life that we wanted to be sure to include and songs Mike particularly wanted to feature. I wrote a rough draft of how that might work. The director met with us and quickly envisioned ways in which the show might be staged. Mike talked with other singers about joining in. Mike and the director decided to include a quartet of singers that would function as a kind of Greek chorus. We revised the script. The project kept growing and, to me, it seemed to grow more unwieldy with each passing day. We revised again. When we finally got what seemed to be close to a last draft, I hightailed it back to my office to finish No More Sad Goodbyes. But I took hope from the positive interactions Mike and I had during our script writing process.
There were changes in the cast—who would sing which part, who would stand where. Rehearsal times were always in flux, trying to accommodate musicians with other commitments. Rehearsals with the whole group were in evenings, but a few of the key players, Mike, the pianist, and the director, were often able to work in the afternoons at our home. Music, talk of programming, possible clothing, lighting, staging, all seeped through the doors of my office as I struggled to finish my manuscript on time. I began taking my laptop to the library, Starbucks, a park. These were not particularly quiet places, but the noise was not my noise and, although I loved “How Are Things in Glocca Morra,” I found it to be much more distracting than whatever might be playing at Starbucks.
Although Mike was enthusiastic and upbeat during Harburg rehearsals and related meetings, he was either distant and uninvolved with me, or using me as a sounding board to express whatever anger he was feeling—maybe anger at a neighbor, or the treatment of gays and lesbians. His continued rants against George Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld were frequent and vitriolic. I didn’t disagree with the content of Mike’s tirades, but the heat of his rage began to seem less about the Bush administration and more about Mike’s need to rant. One evening, in a crowded restaurant, Mike’s loud and heated Bush-critique ended with, “If I had a gun, I’d shoot George Bush!”
A few people looked over at our table then, fortunately, went back to their meals.
Back home that evening I tried to impress on Mike the dangers of threatening the president with bodily harm. His only response as he turned and walked away from me was, “Well, someone should shoot him.”
I don’t know which was worse, the anger, or the depression. I remember one morning in particular. It was around 10 o’clock or so, and I had just started working on what I hoped would be final revisions for No More Sad Goodbyes. Mike came into my office and flopped down in the big, leather chair opposite my desk. He let out a long sigh.
“I’m soooo discouraged,” he said.
“What about?”
“I’m just discouraged!”
“Can I help?”
“No! I’m going back to bed!”
With that he stomped upstairs. Later, when I went up to our bedroom to ask if he wanted to come down for lunch, he said he wasn’t hungry. He just wanted to stay in bed. The only place in the world he felt safe was in his bed.
Over dinner that evening, Mike’s mood slightly better, I asked if I might call for an appointment for him to see Dr. Carlson, our primary care physician.
“Why?”
I mentioned a few recent times when he’d said he wasn’t feeling well, and other times when he’d been terribly depressed. It couldn’t hurt to get things checked out.
Because I knew the happy face he always put on for doctors, when the day of the appointment arrived, I asked if I might go with him.
“Sure.”
As was his pattern, when Dr. Carlson asked how things were going with Mike, he was all smiles. Everything was going great.
“What brings you in today?” she asked.
“Marilyn wanted me to see you.”
Dr. Carlson asked me about my concerns. I told her that several times recently, Mike had complained of not feeling well, that he sometimes went back to bed after breakfast, that he was often depressed.
Dr. Carlson ordered blood work, prescribed an antidepressant, Cymbalta, and gave Mike a referral to Dr. Bertoli, a cognitive psychologist. Maybe help was on the horizon.
Mike took the Cymbalta religiously. He saw Dr. Bertoli regularly. He remained cheerful and upbeat with friends and continued to be mostly angry, depressed, and distant with me.
May 22, 2013
Dear Mike,
Today is your birthday. 73. I visited you yesterday, though “visit” doesn’t exactly describe the activity. You were in the house when I got there, in the hallway on your way out the front door, to continue the trajectory of your seemingly compulsive loop. I say seemingly compulsive because you did pause for a moment to give me a smile and a hug, a millisecond kiss on the lips. You spotted the cookies I’d brought in a baggy. Do you expect that routine now? Look for them? I don’t know, but you were eager to get one, and I handed it to you. A great big yummy-looking chocolate chip cookie from Trader Joe’s bakery. It made my mouth water just to look at it, but I am on my seemingly eternal quest to lose 10 pounds—it’s always 10 pounds, a reachable goal—and I restrained myself from gobbling the second cookie in the baggy. You reached for that one on your next round and I handed it over. You took a bite, then set it on the hallway table, picked up the first cookie you’d taken a bite from and continued your loop.
On your next round I handed you the birthday card I’d picked up at the dollar store. I used to be so careful with your cards, picking up first one, then another, maybe making a special trip to that midtown store that has enough choices to keep one busy for hours. I looked for the perfect picture, the perfect message, then took great care in the note I added on the inside. I know you used to do that, too. Today I grabbed something colorful that said “Happy Birthday,” added a quick “Love, Marilyn,” sealed the envelope and wrote your name on the front.
On your third round I gave you an enthusiastic “happy birthday” and handed you the card. You opened half the envelope, set it on the hallway table, took another bite of your cookie and continued your incessant trajectory. Next round you picked up the card, opened the envelope the rest of the way, left it on the table, picked up the remains of one of the cookies, set it on a shelf on the way back through, etc., etc., etc. Tedious, isn’t it? Tedious to write about. Tedious to read about. How much more tedious must it be for you?
I don’t spend much time wishing, and my wishes aren’t big. But I do wish you could sit still long enough for me to sit next to you on the couch and tell you I’ve done the best I can, and that I’ll be watching out for your care and comfort for the duration.
I know these letters are fruitless, but maybe as looping is your compulsion, writing to the now nonexistent you is mine.
Remembering better birthdays,
Marilyn