Dear Harry,

-
It was 1991. Wait, how is that possible? I was just a kid. You were just past being a kid. When Harry Met Sally had been looping on the CD player in Mom's Caravan for months and we were addicted. I'd been playing the piano for about 10 years by then and fancied myself an expert on amazing. I knew amazing, and you, Harry, were pretty amazing.

I'd seen Memphis Belle about a dozen times, too. It was a running joke in the family - someone was always bringing home the videotape from Blockbuster. Ha ha ha...hurryupandpushplay!

Once, thinking I could do what you do, Mom called "your people" to see if sheet music existed for your version of Winter Wonderland. We were told by a very nice gentleman that "No, Harry doesn't do sheet music," and I think he sent us some type of songbook instead. I cannot do what you do.

It was one of the most spontaneous things I'd seen my mom do - the paper said you were performing that night and she decided we would go, without tickets. While my friends were sneaking out to G'n'R shows, I was buying scalped Harry Connick, Jr. tickets with my mom. I've always been that girl.

We weren't so lucky with tickets - we found two, in different places. She let me have the one that was a few rows closer and I took my seat in an empty section. I'd not made myself comfortable before an usher approached me. I wasn't going to be able to see from there, she said. She wanted to take me to a place where I would be able to see better, she said. Somewhere like the front row, right behind the keyboard, no more than 10 feet from you.

So there we were, you and I. Getting to know each other - you with your band, me trying to keep the dumb smile off my face and play it cool. It was the Blue Light/Red Light tour, with songs from We are in Love, and I was, most definitely, in love. You probably don't remember.

Since then, I have sat in a few other audiences, still trying to keep the dumb smile off my face, still trying to play it cool. Never again in the front row - though my triumphant last minute crashing of the Pajama Game on Broadway landed me in about the 5th - but always, always, toe tapping & dumb grinning.


I do feel our history allows me the privilege of one little question: only 90 minutes on Saturday night? I know it was Boca, and aside from us you were the youngest person in the venue by 20 years, but please, next time, stay just a little bit longer. For me, and our 20 years together.

Sincerely,
Amy from the front row in 1991

Could this sound creepier? Harry, if you're reading, I don't still live with my mom and save my money to stalk you around the country. I promise.

Comments

Mary @ Giving Up On Perfect said…
LOVE this. I won't be surprised if you tell me it's come up before and I've already told you my story. But just in case I haven't...

My mom and I also loved Harry (because I also played, which you know, and always with the sheet music). But when we went to buy concert tickets, my mom was floored by just how expensive they were. So we didn't go.

Seeing him live and up close last year at Blissdom made up for it. But THAT concert was only about 30 minutes! So while Harry might think your post is creepy (nah!), I don't!
April 19, 2011 at 10:08 PM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Gospel According to Daddy Warbucks

-
Image
Hooooow many times have I seen Annie? It must be a number in the hundreds. Add to that the number of times I've listened to or sung the music, seen the play...and, oh, yeah - there was that time I DIRECTED THE SHOW IN HIGH SCHOOL. Well, technically that was the sequel, but still, I was immersed in the story for like 4 straight months. So imagine my surprise when tonight, I'm just sitting here, minding my own business, being mom of the year by ordering pizza, cuddling up with the girls and having an Annie-watching pajama party - singing along with every single number and... what? Tears? What the...? Tonight, I saw a completely different story. See, there's this girl. An orphan. Let's call her...Annie. She's a pretty good kid, looks out for others, sings very sweetly. She's living in hell, but it's all she's ever known. She can imagine something better - she just doesn't know how to find it. She makes a couple of attempts at escape, but finds tha
Read more

Where is Mister Rogers When You Need Him?

-
Image
It has been said that I am easily amused. Little things fascinate me. I like to know how things work. I like factory tours and behind-the-scenes stuff and those specials on Discovery Channel. I was definitely brought up this way: I remember my brother telling me about a conversation he'd recently had about "Jet Puffed Marshmallows." Topics covered were: What does "Jet-Puffed" mean? How big-a-jet are we talkin? What keeps the marshmallows from exploding when "jet puffed"? Several weeks ago, the girls and I caught an episode of the rarely aired Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. In that one episode, the inimitable Mr. R shed light on two very interesting processes when he visited a sleeping bag factory and a dollmaker's workshop. Have you ever thought about how a sleeping bag is assembled? Me neither, but now I know, and I am a better person for it. So here are a few jobs I would like to shadow for a day (or watch Mister Rogers shadow them), because ev
Read more

Block the Door

-
Image
Philip Seymour Hoffman was found dead today, and I am heartbroken. He was found, they say, in his underwear, with a needle in his arm, on the bathroom floor. It's that part that gets me the most. I believed him to be a creative genius, capable of depth and believable on-camera-grit than most, and his talent will be missed. He leaves behind a successful career, an admiring public and a family who loved him. But the hardest part to process isn't the how or the why. It's the where . The bathroom floor. The dirtiest place in the home. It is not made to comfort a resting body. The bathroom floor is cold, hard and lonely. And yet at one point today for Philip, there were no offers more appealing than stretching out on the bathroom floor and calling it a day. Philip's death made headlines. But there are so many that don't. I am privileged to know a family who has been standing between their loved one and the bathroom floor for years. They are waging an insp
Read more