A World Without Alice

Our mother Alice and her mother Anne had a lot in common: in their latter life they both had beautiful snow-white hair. Mom actually let her hair go a luxurious grey back in her thirties but just as easily could have the color changed to pink, blue or fire engine red. (My sister Erica and I would long remember the days when we wondered just what color she would be sporting when she picked us up from school.) Like Granny, Mom was theatrical to the max (which is, of course, terribly important for an actor); merely entering a room made the room seem and feel quite a bit smaller. Both were married to the loves of their lives for precisely 59 years and outlived them for nearly two decades. Both were highly literate (Granny could recite dozens upon dozens of poems by heart right up to the end of her life), terribly funny and just beneath the surface a bit naughty. They were both quite political. They were both true ladies; at the same time, they were also true broads. Of both, it was said by family and friends alike, “Ah she’ll outlive us all.” They both lived active lives of privilege and passion, and are still the topic of almost daily remembrance. They both died of what one might refer to as “terminal longevity.”

The biggest difference, of course, is that the reminiscences of Alice (a.k.a. Mom, Grandma, Grandmere, Allie, Gussy and Madame) began in earnest this past shabbat, when she passed away at 7:36 a.m., just one week before her 97th birthday. For Mom, the whole world, in Shakespeare’s lucid prose, was “a stage . . . and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.” (Spoken by the melancholy Jacque in Act II Scene VII of As You Like It.)

A Chicago native who was raised partly in Kansas City, Missouri, Mom was both a student at the Chicago Art Institute and a member of a theatre troupe called the “Chase Street Players.” She found her way out to Hollywood after a chance backstage encounter with the fabled Lillian Gish, convinced her that her future lay in the town that dreams built. There, she met our father Henry at a party given by her cousin Mitzi . . . and the rest was history. He was her Ronald Coleman to her Carole Lombard. Anything he could break (which was most everything) she could repair. Despite (or perhaps because of) their many dissimilarities, they made a spectacular couple. They traveled the world, had several beautiful homes (for which Mom did the interior decoration) and were the envy of most everyone who ever met them. Erica (Riki) and I have heard from countless friends who over the years remembered wishing that Alice and Henry could have been their parents! One thing that this family never was and never shall be is boring . . .

As a singer, Mom was what we call a “belter.” As a dancer, she was as lithe as Ginger Rogers (and at one time, like Ginger, was a platinum blond); she had a strong lower-range speaking voice and utterly perfect diction and didn’t need a microphone; as a writer, she excelled. Mom taught me all I ever needed to know with precisely three bits of advice:

“If you want to write you’ve got to read . . . everything.”
“Once you put pen to paper, keep asking yourself “What do I want to say?”
Writing is no different than speaking; just have your pen speak to the paper.”

I remember once, many years ago, when Mom volunteered to direct and produce a grand Confirmation ceremony at our synagogue. She sat in the back of a cavernous sanctuary, watching each of the 60-odd students speak their parts and learn their staging. Now mind you, the majority of these 16-year olds were “Hollywood Brats,” know more than most about how to put speak before an audience and put on a performance. It so happens that I was appointed to give the valedictory address . . . an essay entitled The Hippy in the Grey Flannel Suit. Mom was very strict with me and kept shouting out instructions and having me repeat phrases again and again until I got it to her satisfaction. Truth to tell, I felt more than a little bit of humiliation. Afterword, I asked her why she hadn’t been so fussy with any of my classmates. Her answer? “You have a gift for writing and speaking that none of the others possess. I simply want you to be a star!” Mom was always a hard act to follow.

Did she have an ego? Oh my yes! But then again, show me an actor without one and I will introduce you to an abject failure. But as with most thespians, Alice was, at root, shy. It’s only when the houselights go down and the spot light begins performing its magic that shyness gives way to performance. That was Alice . . . as it was with Granny.

Over the past couple of decades, Mom has had a wonderful, wonderful companion named Fred Kaplan. Fred (we refer to him as either “California Fwed” or “Two-Legged Fwed”) so as not to confuse anyone with our pooch, who’s name is “Fwed Astair Stone . . . some day I’ll let you in on how “Fred” became “Fwed”) is easily a dozen or more years younger than Alice. I remember when we were first about to meet. Just before he arrived, Mom told me how much younger he was than she. “And how old am I supposed to be?” I asked her. She started laughing to beat the band. “Oh, I finally told him my age just the other day.” Well, we were still laughing when Fred arrived. “What’s so funny?” he asked, beginning to chuckle himself although he knew not why. Mom explained the dido and concluded by saying “You do realize that until the other day, I never told you my age?” Fred smiled, took her hand and said “Madam, you do realize that I’ve never asked you your age!” With that I had no choice but to tell “Madam” that I thoroughly approved of her gentleman caller; we’ve been like older brother/younger brother ever since. He has been her constant companion, worrier and hand-holder for many years . . . as much a part of the family as anyone.

More than anyone in her latter life, it is my Slightly Older Sister (MSOS) Erica who must receive the greatest number of plaudits. She has been mom’s chief worrier, banker, accountant, shopper and “bestest of best friends.” And she, unlike almost anyone I’ve ever known and loved, keeps getting smarter and wiser with every passing year. How is it possible? Well, I guess its just part of being a Stone.

There is an old Jewish belief that when a person passes away on the Sabbath, it is akin to ha-Shem (G-d) placing a celestial exclamation point in the heavens declaring that the deceased was very, very special. And the kicker is that should one ask “So what was so special about Alice?” the only possible answer would be “If you need ask, you obviously didn’t know her.

And so shortly, with every hair in place, her prepossessing punim made up for a coronation (or an opening night) and a ring on every finger (though not the real ones), she shall be laid to rest next to our father Henry (“Hen”) and just down the hill from Granny Annie and Grandpa Doc. For myself and Anna, Erica and Bob, grandchildren Adam and Mariella, Julie and Jimmy, Nurit and Scott, Ilan and Amanda and Ilana, as well as great grandchildren Emily, Claire, Jacob, Mia and Lucas, we know that we have been blessed far more than most, and have a glorious heritage and tons of stories to hang on to.

The great Oscar Wilde (whom Mom first introduced me to when I was quite young), once wrote: “I regard the theatre as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being.”

He may well have had Mom in mind.

But a world without Alice? That’s impossible.

You shall always be loved.

It is time to dim the theatre lights . . .