Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

This past weekend my dear friend JoAnn (a.k.a. Josie/Jo-Jo) visited us here in upstate New York. I always adore our time together, and whenever she leaves things are a bit quieter and sadder for several days in her absence. Luckily, we made the most of the weekend, which took us by surprise in its coolness -the sudden descent of Fall into what had been a hot and sultry summer.

It still feels a little early to let go of the summer, but the break in heat was actually a welcome relief from the stifling high temps of late, and the signs of Fall are all around. JoAnn said she had seen a few trees already changing colors on her drive here.

Pumpkins, gourds, everlastings, asters, and chrysanthemums are already out as well. We stopped at Faddegon’s to greet the season in its infancy. The avalanche of apples is about to begin. One of the solaces of impending cold is the promise of cozy oven treats (provided our new oven gets delivered soon).

After Faddegon’s, we stopped at the Wit’s End Giftique, another cozy oasis in the face of cool wind, and a harbinger of Fall. I picked up a few cards, and JoAnn found several gifts. From there we headed over to the new Fresh Market to find provisions for dinner.

JoAnn was in tow for my first visit to the new Fresh Market that just opened in Latham. Both Andy and I had been putting it off in the hopes that the curious crowds would soon dissipate, but Jo Jo and I took the plunge and headed in prepared for battle.

It certainly is a pretty store, but the walkways are a bit small for the amount of people currently milling about in the place, and I can’t imagine how we would have made our way through the place with a cart if we’d had one.

As it was, there seemed to be a long line of carts slinking slowly around the store, but it looked impossible for one to pass another, and that would have driven me crazy. We managed to do all right, seeing most of the place in good time, and finding everything we needed (though the fresh pasta was elusive enough to warrant some help from one of the employees – all of whom were courteous, professional, and generous with the smiles).

The prices were as high as anticipated, but there’s a lot that you can’t get at Price Chopper or Hannaford, so for those items a once-a-month stop here seems the ideal plan. Andy would still need for there to be a lot less people inside to enjoy it, but I’m guessing weekday mornings/early afternoons are a lot quieter than a holiday weekend.

JoAnn and I made quick work of our trip, grabbing Coconut water, peach soda, grapefruit juice, tortellini, lime/chili chips, brie, crackers, and salad greens. (Somehow it would all come together…)

Somehow we resisted the temptation of sweets and chocolates and candy all around us, making our way to the registers and escaping largely unscathed. Though the lines looked a little long, and the register space miniscule, it went surprisingly fast, and the staff was overwhelmingly friendly and helpful. All in all it was a pretty good first-time experience at the Fresh Market. Cocktails and dinner were up next – along with some silly FaceBooking and a phone call from an old friend we haven’t seen in a dozen years…

Back home, we began the preparations for dinner, which naturally started with a  cocktail and some crackers and cheese. Somehow we managed to warm the brie without a fully-functioning oven, and the martini of the evening was a sparkling peach concoction – about one part each citrus vodka, peach schnapps, and Izze sparkling peach soda.

Usually something like that would prove too sweet for a dry-loving palette, but this one was just tart enough to take away the sweetness. Andy made a killer bolognese sauce that had reduced to a thick, chunky mass of tomatoes, basil and tender meat – atop the fresh tortellini it was a little taste of glory.

After a few more cocktails, Jo Jo and I attempted to begin planning a Boston reunion of our John Hancock co-workers. We tried FaceBook with little success – the lone person we cound find has not yet accepted my request (ouch). We did, however, find the number of our friend Kira, who was at JH with us all those years ago, and after leaving a message with whomever had answered, Kira called us back.

Alas, Kira remembered even less than we did – so we don’t know anyone’s last name to even begin a proper search and find quest. However, we remain undaunted, and will try to do some sleuthing. Somewhere I have a notebook that I had everyone sign on my last day working there – that may hold the key.

After dinner, JoAnn and I stepped onto the back patio and had another lengthy discussion about family and friends. Things have shifted quite a bit for both of us, so it was good to be a sounding board for one another. The night closed in, darkly shading our tete-a-tete, and the long weekend was drawing to its close. The next morning she would depart, returning to Boston.

On JoAnn’s last morning in upstate, I awoke and made some scrambled eggs with herbs and truffle oil, along with a batch of homefires. JoAnn is the one who taught me how to make these, way back over in the North Beach house by the pond, so in some ways we have come full circle. It felt good to do something for her, since she always does things like this for everyone else.

We had a loaf of zucchini bread that my Mom had made, filled with the shredded summer vegetable and supplemented with some coconut and chocolate chips. Outside on the backyard patio we ate and made plans for our next rendezvous in Boston or Cape Cod. I am on Tour, after all, and the Fall season is about to begin… Many thanks to Jo Jo for a wonderful end-of-the-summer weekend.

It must have been late July or early August of 2001 when I finally got around to responding to Lee Bailey’s invitation to his home in New York. It had been a loose invitation to come and see him when the roses bloomed, so I called a few weeks in advance to let him know I would be in town (and to scope out whether the invite was genuine). He was kind and insisted I stop by to see him.

When I was a kid, his book ‘Country Flowers’ was my Bible (a somewhat strange thing for a boy to be so interested in flowers and gardening, but I sensed a kinship and inspiration in Mr. Bailey – in the way he appreciated beauty, in the way he nurtured a garden, in the way he conveyed eloquence and elegance in words and pictures). When I was about twelve I wrote him a fan letter, hand-written on lined notebook paper, and I called information (555-1212) from our rotary-dial phone to find out his address, which they gave without question or concern.

A few weeks later I heard back from Mr. Bailey himself, in a type-written letter wherein he expressed admiration for my love of gardening at such a young age. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to plant a seed in the head of an impressionable child, and his words of encouragement (and the simple fact that he wrote back) had an indelible effect on me. I would revisit ‘Country Flowers’ often, usually in the dead-middle of winter, when the hope of sunshine and spring was all we had.

It wasn’t until 2001 that I thought of contacting Mr. Bailey again, having been moved by one of the book’s passages, and struggling through another winter in upstate New York. In that letter, I referenced the first one I had written so many years ago, and as he did at that time, he replied again with a type-written letter, the signature betraying frailty and age, but the words still as concise and eloquent as ever. At the end of it he invited me to visit him in New York City, “when the roses bloom” and that summer I took the train into midtown to do some shopping and see Suzie.

In one of the garish celebrity-themed rooms of the Chelsea Pines Hotel, the air-conditioner was cranked on high. Summer in the city was something I usually avoided, but to meet the man who helped form and shape my lifelong love of gardening, as well as the person who wrote such wonderful words, it would be worth it. Or it would be a supreme disappointment. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

What does one wear to meet a hero? In the heat of a city summer, where the sidewalks bake and the subways broil, all fashion bets are off, and it becomes a matter of what will best stand up to sweat and sun. In this instance I chose a pair of light khakis, sandals, and a short-sleeve button-up shirt in breathable cotton, a faint abstract pattern of white clouds on the lightest of blue skies.

Mr. Bailey’s penthouse was only several blocks away on W. 23^rd Street, but well before our agreed-upon meeting time, I began a slow, leisurely walk to calm my nerves. Though not known to many of my contemporaries, Lee Bailey was a celebrity to me, and not just on a famous level: he was a personal hero, whose eye for beauty was an inspiration, and whose writing taught me the transporting power of words. On reaching the appointed building, I gave my name to the doorman, who politely directed me to the elevator, telling me to take it all the way to the top floor.

No matter how many times I see it, the sumptuous look of wealth always astounds me. The ease of it, the refinement, the quiet serenity – the world is different this high above the city. Even the air is altered – cooler on this summer day, and streaming in through the French doors that opened onto a surrounding roof deck. There is no need for crude air conditioning, and a woman greets me in the hallway, leading the way to meet my idol.

I sit on a couch in the living room, surrounded by understated elegance and finery, and I accept a glass of ice water. Lee walks in slowly, looking older than the book jacket photos, but with a twinkle in his eyes betraying a life well-lived. We share some small talk, and I manage to hold a conversation despite my awestruck status. He suggests we take a walk around the roofdeck, and apologizes that I just missed the roses. A few straggling blooms are all that remain from June’s bounty, but it doesn’t matter.

Somehow, it is enough just being there with my hero. After years of admiring him from afar, I am still the little boy who wrote this gentleman a fan letter, having no connection to him whatsoever aside from the words and photographs he assembled in his book, and yet it is not awkward. We return inside, and he shows me where he does most of his correspondence. Tall shelves of books line the walls and reach upwards to the ceiling. A printer and computer sit on a desk. He is no different from anyone else, yet he has known and created such beauty.

We part shortly after, and I feel honored to have been granted an audience with him on this peaceful summer day. Back on the street, the heat is still there. I loosen a few buttons on my shirt and walk back to the hotel. We will maintain a correspondence for a while – he will send me his latest book and invite me to several of his holiday parties (each a separate post for another time). When I don’t hear from him for a while I send another letter, and a few weeks later I receive a response in the mail with his return address.

Savoring the moment, I bring the letter into the formal living room, settling into the couch and slowly opening up the promise of a hero’s words. It is a short note written in a strange hand by someone that I don’t know, and inside its folds is a copy of Lee’s obituary, several weeks after the fact.

It is a bittersweet moment – the shock of his life being no more and the gratefulness of having been some small part of it, at the very end. Though I did not know him that well, and would consider it much too bold to call him a friend, I knew I would miss him. Without knowing it, he guided me in his own way, his words steering me and keeping me on track, always on the path to beauty, to something better.

Dear Noah & Emi ~

You won’t be old enough to understand any of this any time soon, but one day you will, and if I don’t write it down now it’s likely to be forgotten.

You have a long winding road ahead of you, and until your thirties you’re going to want to speed up the journey. Try not to do that.

You’ve got a pair of parents that absolutely adores you – never forget that. Even when you get mad at them, remember how much you are loved, and everything they have done has been because of that love. But also remember that no one is perfect, especially parents – you have to love them anyway. There is no tried and true manual for the raising of children, and mistakes will be made by all (even perfect Uncles). Be forgiving, and willing to accept others for their foibles. We do not have a hand in choosing family, but you’ve been blessed with a pretty good one.

You have an assortment of Uncles and a very special Aunt, all of whom love you dearly. Remember that we will always be here for you whenever you need us. I didn’t get to see my extended family as often as I would have liked, so don’t ever take that for granted.

Never be anything other than who you are, and never make any apologies for it. You will become the person you are destined to be no matter what. There will be good people, and some bad, to guide you on your way, but in your heart you will know what is right. It will not always be an easy decision, and no one makes the right choice every time. Own up to the mistakes and learn from them. Don’t get bogged down in shame and embarrassment.

You are about as close in age as a brother and sister can get, and that’s going to lead to a few fights. My brother and I were a year and a half apart and we fought like crazy – I can only imagine what being a twin will be like when all you want to do is be alone. But whenever you feel the slightest bit of resentment or anger toward your brother or sister, remember that not many people get to be born with an automatic best friend, and there is no one else on earth who will be able to understand absolutely everything you’re going through or who will have the exact same set of growing experiences and background. That will be a treasure when the rest of the world doesn’t always get you.

Finally, there are some things you should never skimp on: stationary and luggage. Both will reward you for life.

Love, Uncle Al