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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Survival / Success
- Subject: Biography / Autobiography
- Published: 04/11/2014
Adventures in the Spotlight
Born 1969, M, from Herten, NRW, Germany.jpg)
Adventures in the Spotlight
A Father Remembered
By His Son Charles E.J. Moulton
The 8-year-old boy borrowed his Irish mother Nell’s blue silk handkerchief and used it as a theatrical curtain, rolling it up and down in front of his face. Once the makeshift show started, the classroom at St. Cuthbert’s Catholic School in Lombard, Illinois turned into a proverbial showroom. The boy used all comic tricks known to man in order to entertain his schoolmates. After all, he had seen the professionals use these tricks at the movies and on the professional stage. His mother was a born entertainer and his father’s ancestry was, to say the least, a fascinating bunch of people. Among them, one could find people like Betsy Ross, who sewed the first flag for George Washington, and Baron Giles Eyre, who could be described as “an aristocratic gourmand, if there ever was one”.
In the little boy’s classroom shows, there was an intellectual wit far beyond his age, there were funny faces, Stephen Foster tunes, vocal imitations, fart jokes and a musical sneak peeks from the operas he had heard performed at the Chicago Lyric the previous evening.
The result of these regular early morning escapades were full classrooms even before lessons commenced. The thunderous applause, however, was abruptly interrupted once the towering figure of Sister Gaudeamus entered the room in a cloud of clandestine fury.
“This court of miracles will cease at once,” she sing-songed, angrily.
Herbert Eyre Moulton didn’t care. He corrected the teacher when she pronounced the names of theatrical characters wrong. Even when she walked up to his desk and pulled out a scrap of paper from his overloaded desk, with a subsequent tumbling of schoolbooks and gumwrappers as a result, Herbie remained steadfast in his pride and intellectual wit.
The nuns could expell him from the lunchroom, all right, but he would still not give in. As a result, he brought along a tablecloth, cutlery, napkins and a lunchbox from home. He set the hallway table, smiled at passers-by and hummed and waved at the teachers as they wandered out of the canteen. Their chuckles behind raised fingers were unmistakable signs of victory on Herb’s part.
After that, he became what he remained for the rest of his life: a true advocate of creative thinking with an insatiable appetite for profound knowledge. In short, a Renaissance Man with a whole lot of courage and more than a handful of naughty wit.
Of course, the plump 12-year-old he turned into got the leading male role as The Wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood”. He was a success, of course, but still could not understand why the audience fell about laughing when he sang: “For three days I have had no food, no meat no cake, no pie. If I do not just get some soon, I think that I shall die.”
His mother delicious home cooking had given him some extra pounds.
Still, Herbie became a slim and glamorous twenty-something, dubbed “Air-Bear” by a French girlfriend and compared to Hollywood’s Hot-Shot Tyrone Power. He worked as Herbert Moore for MCA Records, sang leading roles in Gilbert & Sullivan operettas at Summer Festivals and produced his own plays Off-Broadway.
Getting there was half the fun, though.
As a chorister in the Opera House of Chicago, he made sure to stay close to the stars. Accordingly, he handed famous Swedish tenor Jussi Björling his after-show-beer, fetched Set Svanholm pears in between arias and sat in Ferruccio Tagliavini’s dressing room after the show, speaking about Baroque artworks.
His greatest anecdote from those years, though, was telling about how he held the curtain for the legendary Maria Callas at the final curtain calls.
“Go out and meet your audience, Miss Callas,” he demanded. “They’re waiting for you.”
“No,” Callas contradicted. “Let them wait. Let them wait.”
Her timing was as impeccable as her vocal brilliance. She slowly reached out one diamond-studded ring finger in front of the curtain, held it there in the spotlight, milking the crowds for applause, crowds that were waiting just for her to appear. When she did appear, she just stood there, nodding, accepting the ovations. She sank to the floor, remaining there for another minute, the audience by now on their feet, clapping in rhythm. Slowly getting back on her feet, she smiled gracefully and sailed out, throwing kisses.
The whole extravaganza lasted for ten minutes.
Herb’s jaw opened and wouldn’t close for he remainder of the evening, even when Callas granted him a playful pat on his shoulder.
While Herb’s fearlessness had him conversing with the elite all of his life, his passion for creativity had him writing, singing, acting and conducting himself through his army years at Camp Gordon in Georgia. The Camp Gordon Chapel Choir blossomed under his musical direction with weekly radio broadcasts as a result. Herbie even worked part-time as a cantor in a synagogue, in spit of the fact that he was not Jewish. I bet he was one of the few Irish-American working cantors, who later studied to become a Catholic priest.
It was because of work like this that he later claimed to have “prayed himself out of being sent to Korea during the Korean War”. Had he been sent there, maybe he would’ve died in combat in 1951. His beloved cousin Frank died in the Second World War and he never got over that. A guardian angel helped him use his talents in order to avoid a repetition of such a sad event.
In any case, Camp Gordon provided musical oppurtunities to get away from the hell of that Asian war. But provoking him a little bit was the Seargent’s duty. They called him Seargent Hog Jaw, because his temper was as lousy as his grammar.
“Moulton Honey,” Hog Jaw once spat. “What become of your ass? It’s flat as an ironing board.”
“Well, Searge,” Herbie mused. “You’ve been chewin’ it off now for so long, there ain’t nothin’ left of it.”
“Moulton honey, you silly Irish comedian,” Hog Jaw cackled and continued in a fractured English and continued in a broad Atlanta dialect: “It don’t belong to be did that-a-way. I’ll make you an offer to make amends, boy. How would you like to spend a week sorting out trash in our eatable garbage section below the lunchroom?”
Once out of the army, Herbie made sure he tell everyone that story and I am sure he used Hog Jaw once or twice in the portrayal of a character he had to play on stage in a play.
Even the later extensive thesis-writing tests he had to complete while studying at the priest-seminar turned into an off-campus-creativity of sorts. His in-class-assignment to write a piece named “What is God?”, followed by a chirpy “Have fun!” from the professor, ended up as a scene in one of his performed plays.
The death of his parents and his girlfriend at the time in 1958, however, lead him astray, making his world tumble. He ended up in Ireland, a two-week vacation turning into a seven-year-stay. As so often, my father landed on his feet. He worked on all of the Dublin stages, performing Shaw, Shakespeare, Ibsen and a pieces by a variety of Irish playwrights. Meeting composer James Wilson became a prosperous experience, as well: for him he wrote many librettos, including the acclaimed “The Hunting of the Snark”.
Besides starring in an obscure motion picture epic name “Attack Squadron” at Ardmore Studios in 1961, Herbie became a commercial actor. His rugged portrayal of a pipe-smoking fisherman had him trying to pretend to know the trade, the consensus being trying to sell tobacco. I.e.: “Fishermen love smoking pipes!” The camera team were astonished, though, at the fact that Herbert Eyre Moulton accidentally caught a shark while filming. Again, his face graced the billboards. This time, by mistake. The press loved it and so did Herbie.
Hawling a fish on board also became a stage scene on tour in the production of “Moby Dick”. Stage veterans know how daunting it is to play for a small crowd of bored spectators. After the Irish countryside had been alcoholically ravaged by a Hollywood film company, creating a film with the same name, the name “Moby Dick” had lost credibility. In one village, though, the crowd only consisted of two farmers. While the ten actors on stage worked like crazy to give the impression of fighting to capture the whale, the farmers shook their heads and exclaimed: “Arrah, what in the name of Jayzuz are they at? Sure, there’s fook-all there!” With that, they arose, put on their caps, and left.
The years in Ireland prepared him for a new chapter of his life. Lady Mayer-Moulton, his eccentric sponsor and distant British relative, was famous for comments such as “All lawyers and architects ought to be shot!”, “The trouble with Chile is that they have no coastline!” and “As I said to Mr. Bartok, Bela ...”. Her artistic intuition and timing in who to promote, though, was impeccable. And so, it was she who sent Herb to Hannover to pursue his singing career.
In Hannover, Herb worked as a guest at the opera, performing “Der Rosenkavalier” by Richard Strauss, and studied voice for Maestro Köhler. This introduced him to his famous operatic colleague Gun Kronzell. She found him fascinating, not the least because he took off his shoes before he sang. She chatted him up at the post-office and asked him if he would speak English with her. My father’s joke was that he, after that, never shut up.
After marrying in 1966, Gun and Herb started touring almost immediately as “The Singing Couple”. Ireland was an obvious concert destination. So, they toured the countryside, meeting Nicolai Gedda on one of those trips and becoming good friends with the man. “The Singing Couple” even performed in a city, where Herb’s ancestors had burned down their own hotel. Herb started that concert by excusing himself for the evil deed.
Needless to say, the concert was a success.
Subsequently, nothing could go wrong.
Well, almost nothing. When Queen Elizabeth came to Ireland, parading through the country, my parents were delayed on their way to a concert. Arriving at the concert location, they realized that, although the accompanist was there, the piano had not arrived. An untuned bar piano was found. It was a few decades old, but had to suffice. Again, my parents’ determination prevailed. The concert was a success.
The piano? It arrived promptly directly after the concert.
However, there was compensation for the punishment. An Irish TV show hired them as musical show stars and let them perform their duets in between the interview with a Russian spy and the presenting of a prizewinning cow. Typically Irish, that. That was what my father, Irish in all his mannerisms, said, anyway.
I was conceived during that tour.
At least, that is what I was told.
It could even be that I was conceived on the night after that curious TV-show. It would fit, actually, knowing how much I have learned to love versatility.
Superbly active years followed. For both of my parents. What really made me proud was that my parents were full-fledged professionals when I was born. They sang and performed all over the continent, together and alone, but still managed to have to time for me. I filled in at rehearsals, watched them teach, recited poems at concerts, went to premieres, worked as an extra in my dad’s movies, mingled with stars such as David Warner, Alan Rickman and Audrey Landers, listened to my father record radio broadcasts and joined them in singing at events. We kept this tradition alive for as long as they lived. Our Christmas appearances at the Swedish Church in Vienna, Austria, for instance, became the subject of a regular festive pilgrimage.
When I joined the music academy as a vocal student, I was already an educated, experienced professional with years of experience, thanks to my folks.
My father became a veritable icon at his old age, coaching people like Zsa-Zsa Gabor how to speak proper English in film such as “Johann Strauss”. He was so adamant in his stern methods of teaching her the proper pronounciation that she finally exclaimed: “My God, get this awful American man away from me!”
These were stories he loved telling. He told them, all right, right up until the day he died. But there were other stories, as well. Commercials had been a good financial source both back in Ireland and in the U.S. In Austria, this public tradition continued. He became the “friendly Austrian grandfather” of television, appearing in Länderbank advertisements, Milka chocolate commercials and as Uncle Fritz for the Schärdinger cheese brand.
The old men in the building we lived in thought he was just doing it for fun, although they still admired his determination. What they failed to understand, and what many non-artists fail to comprehend, is that being an artist is a way of life, a soul dedicating his existance to the power of creativity. These commercials were the last chapter of a long resumé of fabulous anecdotes. In fact, my father never really retired. No real artist ever does. After all, being an artist is not just a job. It is part of the artist’s soul to create. The job just goes along with the territory.
A few years before he died, he performed the duet “Panis Angelicus” by Cesar Franck in concert, sitting in his wheelchair, singing with his wife Gun, bringing tears to everyone’s eyes. That was a true artist, creative to the last. Just like my mom, who practiced her Wagnerian arias in the cellar down in the old people’s home.
I remember the last Christmas with my father in Vienna, back in 2004. We had just enjoyed a performance of Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” in the International Theatre, where he had played a three dozen roles over the years. “A Christmas Carol” had become a true Christmas tradition and the original 1984 cast was almost complete on that evening. Our glasses were filled with redwine, we remembered, we laughed, we sang and we mused, our minds were filled with culture and music was in the air.
My dad was in a wheelchair, yes, but otherwise he could’ve been thirty years younger. He told stories that would’ve driven the nuns crazy, back in 1935. We could almost see that silk handkerchief being pulled out and his firey wit sparkling like an evening of fireworks on New Year’s Eve.
When he was gone, a few months later, we remembered how his wit and brilliance had prospered one last time before his soul left his body. In retrospect, we saw his life for what it was: brilliant. My father was a Renaissance Man with an insatiable thirst for knowledge. His inborn bravery and willingness to speak his mind and treat everyone as his equal was sometimes daunting, but always admirable.
This became very obvious during the parties after the premieres Vienna’s English Theatre. He walked up to celebrities like David Carradine, Princess Alexandra of Kent, Hillary Clinton, Rue MacLanahan, Larry Hagman and Linda Gray and greeted them with a natural self sufficiency that always had them smile. Without exception.
As his old friend Nicolai Gedda told him when they reaquainted in Vienna in 1987: “Herbie, we are older, but we are still beautiful!”
In heaven, my role model parents are both still beautiful.
And I bet that my father packs out his mother’s silk handkerchief up there and gives God the show of a lifetime.
Adventures in the Spotlight(Charles E.J. Moulton)
Adventures in the Spotlight
A Father Remembered
By His Son Charles E.J. Moulton
The 8-year-old boy borrowed his Irish mother Nell’s blue silk handkerchief and used it as a theatrical curtain, rolling it up and down in front of his face. Once the makeshift show started, the classroom at St. Cuthbert’s Catholic School in Lombard, Illinois turned into a proverbial showroom. The boy used all comic tricks known to man in order to entertain his schoolmates. After all, he had seen the professionals use these tricks at the movies and on the professional stage. His mother was a born entertainer and his father’s ancestry was, to say the least, a fascinating bunch of people. Among them, one could find people like Betsy Ross, who sewed the first flag for George Washington, and Baron Giles Eyre, who could be described as “an aristocratic gourmand, if there ever was one”.
In the little boy’s classroom shows, there was an intellectual wit far beyond his age, there were funny faces, Stephen Foster tunes, vocal imitations, fart jokes and a musical sneak peeks from the operas he had heard performed at the Chicago Lyric the previous evening.
The result of these regular early morning escapades were full classrooms even before lessons commenced. The thunderous applause, however, was abruptly interrupted once the towering figure of Sister Gaudeamus entered the room in a cloud of clandestine fury.
“This court of miracles will cease at once,” she sing-songed, angrily.
Herbert Eyre Moulton didn’t care. He corrected the teacher when she pronounced the names of theatrical characters wrong. Even when she walked up to his desk and pulled out a scrap of paper from his overloaded desk, with a subsequent tumbling of schoolbooks and gumwrappers as a result, Herbie remained steadfast in his pride and intellectual wit.
The nuns could expell him from the lunchroom, all right, but he would still not give in. As a result, he brought along a tablecloth, cutlery, napkins and a lunchbox from home. He set the hallway table, smiled at passers-by and hummed and waved at the teachers as they wandered out of the canteen. Their chuckles behind raised fingers were unmistakable signs of victory on Herb’s part.
After that, he became what he remained for the rest of his life: a true advocate of creative thinking with an insatiable appetite for profound knowledge. In short, a Renaissance Man with a whole lot of courage and more than a handful of naughty wit.
Of course, the plump 12-year-old he turned into got the leading male role as The Wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood”. He was a success, of course, but still could not understand why the audience fell about laughing when he sang: “For three days I have had no food, no meat no cake, no pie. If I do not just get some soon, I think that I shall die.”
His mother delicious home cooking had given him some extra pounds.
Still, Herbie became a slim and glamorous twenty-something, dubbed “Air-Bear” by a French girlfriend and compared to Hollywood’s Hot-Shot Tyrone Power. He worked as Herbert Moore for MCA Records, sang leading roles in Gilbert & Sullivan operettas at Summer Festivals and produced his own plays Off-Broadway.
Getting there was half the fun, though.
As a chorister in the Opera House of Chicago, he made sure to stay close to the stars. Accordingly, he handed famous Swedish tenor Jussi Björling his after-show-beer, fetched Set Svanholm pears in between arias and sat in Ferruccio Tagliavini’s dressing room after the show, speaking about Baroque artworks.
His greatest anecdote from those years, though, was telling about how he held the curtain for the legendary Maria Callas at the final curtain calls.
“Go out and meet your audience, Miss Callas,” he demanded. “They’re waiting for you.”
“No,” Callas contradicted. “Let them wait. Let them wait.”
Her timing was as impeccable as her vocal brilliance. She slowly reached out one diamond-studded ring finger in front of the curtain, held it there in the spotlight, milking the crowds for applause, crowds that were waiting just for her to appear. When she did appear, she just stood there, nodding, accepting the ovations. She sank to the floor, remaining there for another minute, the audience by now on their feet, clapping in rhythm. Slowly getting back on her feet, she smiled gracefully and sailed out, throwing kisses.
The whole extravaganza lasted for ten minutes.
Herb’s jaw opened and wouldn’t close for he remainder of the evening, even when Callas granted him a playful pat on his shoulder.
While Herb’s fearlessness had him conversing with the elite all of his life, his passion for creativity had him writing, singing, acting and conducting himself through his army years at Camp Gordon in Georgia. The Camp Gordon Chapel Choir blossomed under his musical direction with weekly radio broadcasts as a result. Herbie even worked part-time as a cantor in a synagogue, in spit of the fact that he was not Jewish. I bet he was one of the few Irish-American working cantors, who later studied to become a Catholic priest.
It was because of work like this that he later claimed to have “prayed himself out of being sent to Korea during the Korean War”. Had he been sent there, maybe he would’ve died in combat in 1951. His beloved cousin Frank died in the Second World War and he never got over that. A guardian angel helped him use his talents in order to avoid a repetition of such a sad event.
In any case, Camp Gordon provided musical oppurtunities to get away from the hell of that Asian war. But provoking him a little bit was the Seargent’s duty. They called him Seargent Hog Jaw, because his temper was as lousy as his grammar.
“Moulton Honey,” Hog Jaw once spat. “What become of your ass? It’s flat as an ironing board.”
“Well, Searge,” Herbie mused. “You’ve been chewin’ it off now for so long, there ain’t nothin’ left of it.”
“Moulton honey, you silly Irish comedian,” Hog Jaw cackled and continued in a fractured English and continued in a broad Atlanta dialect: “It don’t belong to be did that-a-way. I’ll make you an offer to make amends, boy. How would you like to spend a week sorting out trash in our eatable garbage section below the lunchroom?”
Once out of the army, Herbie made sure he tell everyone that story and I am sure he used Hog Jaw once or twice in the portrayal of a character he had to play on stage in a play.
Even the later extensive thesis-writing tests he had to complete while studying at the priest-seminar turned into an off-campus-creativity of sorts. His in-class-assignment to write a piece named “What is God?”, followed by a chirpy “Have fun!” from the professor, ended up as a scene in one of his performed plays.
The death of his parents and his girlfriend at the time in 1958, however, lead him astray, making his world tumble. He ended up in Ireland, a two-week vacation turning into a seven-year-stay. As so often, my father landed on his feet. He worked on all of the Dublin stages, performing Shaw, Shakespeare, Ibsen and a pieces by a variety of Irish playwrights. Meeting composer James Wilson became a prosperous experience, as well: for him he wrote many librettos, including the acclaimed “The Hunting of the Snark”.
Besides starring in an obscure motion picture epic name “Attack Squadron” at Ardmore Studios in 1961, Herbie became a commercial actor. His rugged portrayal of a pipe-smoking fisherman had him trying to pretend to know the trade, the consensus being trying to sell tobacco. I.e.: “Fishermen love smoking pipes!” The camera team were astonished, though, at the fact that Herbert Eyre Moulton accidentally caught a shark while filming. Again, his face graced the billboards. This time, by mistake. The press loved it and so did Herbie.
Hawling a fish on board also became a stage scene on tour in the production of “Moby Dick”. Stage veterans know how daunting it is to play for a small crowd of bored spectators. After the Irish countryside had been alcoholically ravaged by a Hollywood film company, creating a film with the same name, the name “Moby Dick” had lost credibility. In one village, though, the crowd only consisted of two farmers. While the ten actors on stage worked like crazy to give the impression of fighting to capture the whale, the farmers shook their heads and exclaimed: “Arrah, what in the name of Jayzuz are they at? Sure, there’s fook-all there!” With that, they arose, put on their caps, and left.
The years in Ireland prepared him for a new chapter of his life. Lady Mayer-Moulton, his eccentric sponsor and distant British relative, was famous for comments such as “All lawyers and architects ought to be shot!”, “The trouble with Chile is that they have no coastline!” and “As I said to Mr. Bartok, Bela ...”. Her artistic intuition and timing in who to promote, though, was impeccable. And so, it was she who sent Herb to Hannover to pursue his singing career.
In Hannover, Herb worked as a guest at the opera, performing “Der Rosenkavalier” by Richard Strauss, and studied voice for Maestro Köhler. This introduced him to his famous operatic colleague Gun Kronzell. She found him fascinating, not the least because he took off his shoes before he sang. She chatted him up at the post-office and asked him if he would speak English with her. My father’s joke was that he, after that, never shut up.
After marrying in 1966, Gun and Herb started touring almost immediately as “The Singing Couple”. Ireland was an obvious concert destination. So, they toured the countryside, meeting Nicolai Gedda on one of those trips and becoming good friends with the man. “The Singing Couple” even performed in a city, where Herb’s ancestors had burned down their own hotel. Herb started that concert by excusing himself for the evil deed.
Needless to say, the concert was a success.
Subsequently, nothing could go wrong.
Well, almost nothing. When Queen Elizabeth came to Ireland, parading through the country, my parents were delayed on their way to a concert. Arriving at the concert location, they realized that, although the accompanist was there, the piano had not arrived. An untuned bar piano was found. It was a few decades old, but had to suffice. Again, my parents’ determination prevailed. The concert was a success.
The piano? It arrived promptly directly after the concert.
However, there was compensation for the punishment. An Irish TV show hired them as musical show stars and let them perform their duets in between the interview with a Russian spy and the presenting of a prizewinning cow. Typically Irish, that. That was what my father, Irish in all his mannerisms, said, anyway.
I was conceived during that tour.
At least, that is what I was told.
It could even be that I was conceived on the night after that curious TV-show. It would fit, actually, knowing how much I have learned to love versatility.
Superbly active years followed. For both of my parents. What really made me proud was that my parents were full-fledged professionals when I was born. They sang and performed all over the continent, together and alone, but still managed to have to time for me. I filled in at rehearsals, watched them teach, recited poems at concerts, went to premieres, worked as an extra in my dad’s movies, mingled with stars such as David Warner, Alan Rickman and Audrey Landers, listened to my father record radio broadcasts and joined them in singing at events. We kept this tradition alive for as long as they lived. Our Christmas appearances at the Swedish Church in Vienna, Austria, for instance, became the subject of a regular festive pilgrimage.
When I joined the music academy as a vocal student, I was already an educated, experienced professional with years of experience, thanks to my folks.
My father became a veritable icon at his old age, coaching people like Zsa-Zsa Gabor how to speak proper English in film such as “Johann Strauss”. He was so adamant in his stern methods of teaching her the proper pronounciation that she finally exclaimed: “My God, get this awful American man away from me!”
These were stories he loved telling. He told them, all right, right up until the day he died. But there were other stories, as well. Commercials had been a good financial source both back in Ireland and in the U.S. In Austria, this public tradition continued. He became the “friendly Austrian grandfather” of television, appearing in Länderbank advertisements, Milka chocolate commercials and as Uncle Fritz for the Schärdinger cheese brand.
The old men in the building we lived in thought he was just doing it for fun, although they still admired his determination. What they failed to understand, and what many non-artists fail to comprehend, is that being an artist is a way of life, a soul dedicating his existance to the power of creativity. These commercials were the last chapter of a long resumé of fabulous anecdotes. In fact, my father never really retired. No real artist ever does. After all, being an artist is not just a job. It is part of the artist’s soul to create. The job just goes along with the territory.
A few years before he died, he performed the duet “Panis Angelicus” by Cesar Franck in concert, sitting in his wheelchair, singing with his wife Gun, bringing tears to everyone’s eyes. That was a true artist, creative to the last. Just like my mom, who practiced her Wagnerian arias in the cellar down in the old people’s home.
I remember the last Christmas with my father in Vienna, back in 2004. We had just enjoyed a performance of Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” in the International Theatre, where he had played a three dozen roles over the years. “A Christmas Carol” had become a true Christmas tradition and the original 1984 cast was almost complete on that evening. Our glasses were filled with redwine, we remembered, we laughed, we sang and we mused, our minds were filled with culture and music was in the air.
My dad was in a wheelchair, yes, but otherwise he could’ve been thirty years younger. He told stories that would’ve driven the nuns crazy, back in 1935. We could almost see that silk handkerchief being pulled out and his firey wit sparkling like an evening of fireworks on New Year’s Eve.
When he was gone, a few months later, we remembered how his wit and brilliance had prospered one last time before his soul left his body. In retrospect, we saw his life for what it was: brilliant. My father was a Renaissance Man with an insatiable thirst for knowledge. His inborn bravery and willingness to speak his mind and treat everyone as his equal was sometimes daunting, but always admirable.
This became very obvious during the parties after the premieres Vienna’s English Theatre. He walked up to celebrities like David Carradine, Princess Alexandra of Kent, Hillary Clinton, Rue MacLanahan, Larry Hagman and Linda Gray and greeted them with a natural self sufficiency that always had them smile. Without exception.
As his old friend Nicolai Gedda told him when they reaquainted in Vienna in 1987: “Herbie, we are older, but we are still beautiful!”
In heaven, my role model parents are both still beautiful.
And I bet that my father packs out his mother’s silk handkerchief up there and gives God the show of a lifetime.
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