The Lost Week (October 12-16)

An actual vacation: what a blessing. And in New York, no less. Good thing I've been there quite a lot. Good thing I spent a semester there in college. Good thing my only agenda was to visit family.

Day 1: To avoid an early morning drive to the airport (i.e. 3:15 am), I took the shuttle from Monteagle to Nashville to spend the night. The hotel puzzled me and other guests, as I discovered when four other people and I couldn't figure out how to operate the elevator. (Insert key card, then select floor, finally elevator moves.)

Day 2: Flight to New York. Uneventful in the best way: sleep. Once there, I had great difficulty understanding the fellow driving the hire car. His Indian accent was so thick and the noise at the airport so great that I couldn't understand a word he said. Not only that, but the woman I originally contacted told me to cross two islands (only one was correct), but fortunately, I finally located the driver, a traffic lane away.

Even my brother, whom I visited, was a bit impatient, given the driver's reluctance to stop in front of his building and his poor choice of a traffic route (an hour to get from LaGuardia to midtown). 

But.

I had arrived.

A lovely afternoon of clear skies, Japanese ramen, chatting, a niece-kitty cuddle, settling in at the Airbnb, napping, and Netflix splurging.

Day 3: A morning stroll along Fifth Avenue and into Central Park, a happy sit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art fountain, where I saw more people in one hour than live in Sewanee. Then a lovely luncheon and an even more spectacular stroll (my choice, said my art historian brother) through American art, the rooftop garden, and modern art, culminating in long contemplation of a beautiful new installation of an important Thomas Hart Benton mural.

A lovely Indian dinner downtown with new friends, one of whom gave me a first-edition E. B. White Here Is New York capped off a full day of pleasure.

Day 4: A short walk to Hale & Hearty on Lexington for a satisfying sandwich, followed by another ramble through Central Park, including a black squirrel, a mouse, beautiful gardens, and the model sailing pond (where photogenic ducks swam). All before I headed to the Duke mansion, home of NYU's Institute of Fine Arts for my brother's class (he teaches PhD students). On the way to his apartment, I couldn't resist a visit to Lady M, a high-style pastry shop. If only I could have brought home an endless supply of Caramel Miroir, a delicious way to celebrate a day much enjoyed.  

Day 5: Departure at 9:45 am in another hire car, this one driven by a competent immigrant (15 minutes to La Guardia), a long stand in the TSA line (in front of a companionable chat with a father and daughter and her husband), and, an hour later, immediate boarding. One of my seatmates took this photograph of NYC on the prettiest day of my visit and was kind enough to email it to me. 

At home, Friday evening on my weekly movie "date," I described my visit to my elderly friend Boo, who said, "You're the only person I have ever known [keep in mind that she is 93] who ever had a relaxing holiday in New York."

Yes, I did.

And I enjoyed every minute.

A Small Conversation

In today's New York Times, one of my brothers published an OpEd essay with content as surprising to his family as it has been to his students, colleagues, and many friends. Someone on Twitter recommended the article, writing, "Moving. Eloquent. And, unexpected."

OP-ED CONTRIBUTOR

My Dinner With Dr. King

By WILLIAM HOOD

Published: April 3, 2013

FORTY-FIVE years ago, the Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Martin Luther King Jr. went to a small dinner party in Atlanta, not far from the campus of Emory University. It was a quiet January night in 1968. I was one of the guests.

Our hostess, Wanda White, was a young public-school teacher. In the fall of 1967, she worked with Mrs. King, helping with her schedule, as well as other personal and professional responsibilities. During a conversation, Wanda asked the Kings over for a low-key dinner. They accepted, and Wanda invited some of her close friends. (All of us were white.)

My best friend, Larry Shaw, and I were invited to the dinner. He came from a long line of salt-of-the-earth skilled tradesmen anchored in Appalachian South Carolina and the red clay fields of Georgia. My father was a successful industrialist in Birmingham, Ala. We anticipated the approaching dinner with the empty-headed excitement of young people who rarely think beyond their own self-interest.

For us, in fact, the thrill was primarily in meeting a real-life celebrity. Wanda’s corgi heard the Kings’ car before we did. He rushed to the door and flipped over to offer his belly in greeting as the Kings stepped in. As Mrs. King bent down to give him a scratch, Dr. King asked to use the telephone. I took drink orders. Knowing that the Kings were Baptists and most Baptists — white Southern Baptists anyway — didn’t drink, I made sure to tell Mrs. King that we had nonalcoholic beverages.

“I’ll have a Coke, thanks.” She seemed shy and a little nervous. I was, too.

Dr. King was neither shy nor nervous. When he came back, I asked him the same question. “Any Baptists here?” he asked with a smile. “No, sir,” I said. “We’re all Episcopalians.”

The grin blossomed into a smile. “Good! I’ll have Scotch on the rocks.”

Mrs. King blurted, “Well, I’ll have cream sherry.” Everyone laughed, and the early stiffness relaxed.

At the table Wanda, Larry and I regaled the Kings with tales of our common avocation, breeding and showing purebred dogs. (For days afterward we wondered whether the Kings were more bemused than amused, but they were good sports for all that.) Larry told them about the boarding kennel he ran to support his show dogs, and I talked about my graduate studies in art history.

Gradually the conversation moved to more serious topics, and Dr. King himself talked about the blight of poverty on our national life, as well as his feelings against the Vietnam War. Of the three of us, only Wanda had turned her moral attention to issues beyond race, which seemed to be one of the only things that preoccupied Southern liberals in those years. Self-absorbed as I was, only later that year did I begin to realize how prophetic his words were.

After dinner Dr. King asked Wanda if he could use the telephone again. When he came back, he settled onto the sofa next to me. I tried to think of something clever to say, but before I could speak, he asked why I was studying for a Ph.D. in art history. He asked what I thought art could accomplish that other forms of communication could not. I remember that he said that he’d rarely discussed art, or even thought much about it. As I stammered an answer I cannot recall, he listened with the concentration of someone who genuinely wanted to understand. Never before, and rarely since, had I witnessed such authentic humility. It was so simple, so powerful a form of energy that for a few moments it freed me from bondage to myself.

A conversation that cannot have lasted more than 10 minutes ended up changing the way I thought about my life. When I got back to New York, my viewpoint toward earning a doctorate shifted. The determination to use my education to become a famous scholar gradually made room for a half-baked resolution to become a useful art historian. I began to consider the moral or religious content of Renaissance art; and once I got a job teaching art history at an institution whose values encouraged me to develop that ambition, teaching became a means for me to help students identify and examine their own values. That remains my goal. The short conversation I had with Dr. King had a lasting effect.

The next morning Mrs. King called Wanda. We learned that after dinner he’d called to tell the person who would pick them up to come at 11:30, rather than 10:30, as planned. She thanked Wanda for a pleasant evening. She also told Wanda that she and Dr. King were looking forward to inviting us to their home, perhaps when I returned from New York.

Of course, there was no next time. A few minutes before 8 p.m. on April 4, 1968, I arrived at the Institute of Fine Arts at New York University to give my first seminar report. As soon as we walked out of class at 10, we learned that Dr. King was dead.

William Hood is a professor emeritus of art history at Oberlin College and a visiting professor at the Institute of Fine Arts, New York University.