Grandpa Joe, The Rockettes and Me - A Love Story

In early September, 1964, my Grandpa Joe came to take me to his home in Williamsburg. The next day, he and my Grandma Fanny were taking me to this place called Radio City Music Hall. Joe and my mom raved. I couldn't comprehend why everybody was making such a big deal, but I was excited.

I couldn't sleep a wink. The hum of the Frigidaire (that's what Grandma called it. I think it was a Norge), the tick-tick-tocking of the stove clock and my excitement conspired to keep me awake. I stared at the clock most of the night thinking, "Is it time yet?" After what seemed like less than an hour of sleep, it was time. I wondered, "Why are we getting up at 5AM to go to the movies?"

All dressed up in jacket, shirt and tie (Joe wouldn't have it any other way), we left the house at dawn. At four years old, I could not get my mind around all the happenings in Williamsburg as we were on our way. I certainly had no clue of how going out at dawn would inform me later on in life.

I lived on a quiet cul-de-sac. Williamsburg, what can be described as the proverbial melting pot of New York City, is something else. It’s loud and lively, with people of every persuasion. My excitement is palpable..

I love walking through the neighborhood, As we ride the subway over the Williamsburg Bridge; the Empire State Building looks so close I could reach out it. I had no clue of what was to happen.

I wish I could put into words what comes after excitement. It's what I felt the moment Grandpa pointed out the Music Hall from the corner of 50th Street and Seventh Avenue. With each step up the street the marquee got bigger and bigger, as did my eyes.

We were among the first 50 people on line with about an hour before the doors opened. Every time the 50th Street door opened, I hoped this was the moment. Joe gave me some money and sent me across the street to Whelan Drugs for a hot chocolate. And he let me go by myself. Here I was, four years old in New York City, walking around in this Art Deco paradise. This was my first definition of "cool".

9:30 AM and at last, the doors opened. We walked into the beautiful ticket lobby with its sleek brass railings and recessed lights reflected off a gold leaf ceiling, my second definition of "cool". A short walk to the ticket taker stood between me and my first ever mind-blowing experience.

What comes after excitement is a combination of love, joy and "bugging out", much in the same way Daffy Duck's eyes bulge outward like saucers. This is what it feels like to be in the block-long wide Grand Foyer, standing on carpet so plush I could sink into it. We had just waked through the doors. How could there possibly be more?

I couldn't fathom how amazed I was at my first sight of the auditorium. By that time, I had left amazed out on 50th Street. We reached the top of Aisle E in the orchestra. Grandpa said, "Quick, run down to the front." There I went running down an aisle so wide it could fit five of me across. I must be in heaven. I reach the front to find three seats to the side of what I learned was the lighting console, two in the second row and a lone seat in the first. My grandparents sat behind me. Joe said the lone seat was "my seat". It became the only seat I occupied at the Hall for the next thirty years.

Everything afterwards floored me even more than the thing preceding it. My diaphragm rattled as I jumped out of my seat. This upon hearing the Grand Wurlitzer Organ, which magically appeared from behind a curtain. Then came the stage curtains, three including a fire curtain, rising and parting majestically.

The movie is The Unsinkable Molly Brown, starring Debbie Reynolds (she of the MGM musical) and Harve Presnell (he of the tight white pants in almost every scene). And I'll tell you something, hindsight being 20/20. Seeing Harve Presnell in those pants on a 50-foot wide screen was like a giant billboard containing the message, "Get used to it, kid. YOU'RE GAY!" And the gaieties continued.

From where there was a pit in front of me, a 75-piece Symphony Orchestra rose. The orchestra was so big and I was so small. The illusion of seeing the orchestra come up to stage level was such that I did not know if they were rising or the world was sinking. It was my first exposure to classical music (Strauss' Nights in Vienna). I looked back to Joe who told me the stage show was starting. "There's more? What's a stage show?" I asked.

"Follies '64" is the name of the show. The same space that held a movie screen just a moment ago is now filled with a cast of singers, a Ballet Company dancing to Ravel's Bolero, another ballet company from Spain, a troupe of puppeteers from France. A huge golden curtain with a cherry blossom tree filled the stage. And there were these 36 tap dancers.  I sat there mesmerized at hearing 72 tap dancing feet, seeing their precision.  Their eye-high kick line blew me away.

The Rockettes on a Music Hall program cover in 1954.

I have been in love with the Rockettes ever since.

I float through the rest of the day, including my first visit to the Horn and Hardart Automat, a show itself. I could not get my mind around how food magically appears in a window. Could you? How is it that one turn of a handle makes a brass dolphin spout coffee? I know I saw it. 

This experience became a big part of my life over the next four years. Fanny never joined us after that first day. From then on it was just Joe and me. We were best buddies until his death in 1968. Every moment we spent together was special. The 11 days we went to Radio City Music Hall transcended special.

The Music Hall is one of my spiritual homes. Whenever I walk into the place, I am both humbled and awed.  I have a smile on my face with eyes as wide today as they were in 1964.  I'm forever grateful to the man with whom I share this amazement and wonder.  Joe is always with me.

And this is how I want and continue to want my life to be. A big and beautiful, mind-blowing experience, musical and special, filled with people I love... and dancing girls.