After a day spent dashing through the snow in my two-door Chevrolet, we deposited Terry at Union Station a few hours ago and poof, he was gone. His train was following the snowstorm eastward, so it promised to be a memorable journey. God knows Chicago is beautiful tonight, heaped with the kind of snow that piles itself high on the tree branches–the twigs, even–in shapely blobs and somehow balances there, despite very much outweighing what supports it. Every tree is a wonder right now, and I’m a little reluctant to go to bed. The morning will surely look more mundane.
Tallying the weekend’s attractions, we saw 3 plays, 1 art show, and a few Frank Lloyd Wright houses, doing slow drive-bys in Oak Park (it almost felt like we were stalking the houses, and the unfortunate “No Tourists” signs that abound around the Wright Home and Studio do nothing to dispel that impression). My personal score sheet? A Little Night Music fabulous; Rose Rage riveting (I’m still under its dark spell, and won’t shake it soon); Manet and the Sea pleasing overall, with certain highlights that were extraordinary (one Courbet, several Morisots, and a couple of smaller Manets that hailed from private collections). The play at Steppenwolf today, Man from Nebraska? Glossy, polished, and false. But I had to be happy with my batting average, especially considering that Rose Rage amounted to almost three plays. Newest New Year’s resolution: see more Chicago theater. And more Terry. Not necessarily in that order.
Happy trails, Terr…and tell us all about it tomorrow.