Eileen Hall

I have been in 43 stage shows including 5 musicals. At one point I had to go play war in Vietnam, so I took a four year break from the stage. When it was all over, I returned home, older and far more grown uo thanks to that stupid war and my main thought was, well, now what?
I dated a while and to pass the time, I got back into community theater, where I eventually met my first wife. We met at tryout rehersals in Holyoke for a play called "Seperate Tables." Now I had never heard of this show nor knew anything about it. Thought it might be about carpenters making fine furniture, and as I love to work with wood I thought this would be perfect for me. I even had my own tools.
I entered this building off Appleton Street to a large room with several chairs and was greeted by a smiling lady with salt and pepper hair. She said, "Good Evening, I'm Eileen Hall and I will be your director." WOW..guess I got the part already. Her first words to me sounded like a female version of the old Alfred Hitchcock TV show, complete with accent. A few others showed up including the woman who would be my first wife, and by the end of that evening I had the part but was not too thrilled with it as Seperate Tables is somewhat of a stuffy English play but there was nothing good on TV that month so I figured what the hell, I'll do it.
That evening was my first encounter with Mrs. Hall. That was what everyone always called her. Not Eileen..nobody would do that. It was from then on, "Meeses Hall."
We rehearsed for several weeks and did the play 5 times I believe to small audiences and that was that. I did strike up quite a friendship with this amazing woman, we parted our ways, and that was that.
A few months passed by, and one evening the phone rang. I answered and was greeted by, "Well hello George, this is Eileen Hall, and I think I need you dear." I said, " Mrs. Hall, I like you but I don't think it would work because of our age difference." Dead silence. Then rolling laughter. She said she missed me for things like that,but getting down to business, she asked if I had ever heard of the Late Christopher Bean. I said, "No, did he live in Holyoke?" Again, dead silence and then laughter, She said," No,no silly boy, it's a play. I informed her I had no idea and I think I questioned her as to where she found these odd plays. I was told I would be perfect for the show and I was to meet her at the Holyoke Soldies Home as that's where we would be putting on the show. I thought this will be curious. Doing a play for World War One soldiers who were in their eighties. We would have to talk louder I guess.
We had a guy she cast in a part that got bombed out of his skull during every rehersal. After a few weeks of this, Mrs. Hall said she will have to talk to him about this. That night she did. She kept him in the show. He stayed popped, but assured here on the performance nights, he would be sober.
We did two weekends there and he was tanked. One night they found him passed out somewhere a half hour before the performance, but the show must go on. Most of the dialogue with him was with my character and he remembered about 4% of his lines, so I found myself rewording things to fill in for him, all impromptu every night. Somehow we got through it and although I loved Mrs. Hall, I vowed I would not do another dippy play that she was directing.
Christopher Bean was in the summer of 1971 and I got involved in another theater group doing some other play in Westfield. I had not heard from Mrs. Hall for some time. In early December of that year that all changed.
I had spoken with her several times on the phone over the past year and I noticed something about her unique style. She had a veddy English dialogue, and when she wanted you to do something, she wouldn't ask, rather, would premise her request by saying, " I need you to"....whatever. This was her way and it was perfectly acceptable to me.
So the phone rings..." Well, hello there George, this is Eileen Hall." Oh, great. She wants me to be in the musical Jack The Ripper I bet. She continues."I need you to be at my home on the 17th please..terribly important"
" You need help with something that day, Mrs. Hall?'
"Well, dear, please just be here at 7 that evening, and I'll explain. Goodbye dear." What the hell is going on now?
I left my house around 6:30 on the 17th and drove to her house near Irene Street in Chicopee. There were a few cars in front of her house. I was greeted at the door, and recognized some people, actors, and a few others I didn't know. House decorated, goodies and wine on every table. Mrs. Hall appreciated a nip or 12 every now and then, but only on special occasions. Like the wind blows or a car drives by. I questioned those I knew as to what is this all about? Just a Christmas party? No one knew.
A few more show up and now there's about 12 of us. Mrs. Hall enters the living room and instructs all of us to sit. She then reaches into a bag and removes a handful of what look like scripts. Oh no...please say it ain't so Joe. She passes them out to everybody. Nobody has any idea what these things are. We look at these things. Scripts? No....no, that would be too expected. They were books of.....are you ready? Christmas carols. The whole group of us we were told, were going to go out in the neighborhood, up and down the streets, singing Christmas carols...accapella. The looks on everyone's faces were like people looked the day the twin towers went down. Christmas carols? This is a gag, right?
"And here's a small flashlight for everyone."
Why me Lord? Why me?
So we all don our gay apparel and head out into 10 degrees to sing Christmas Carols, slowly parading down the street. First song, nobody had their voice right. Sucked, but this was Mrs. Hall, and I guess she was the director. She was giving us voice lessons as mad Christmas shoppers drove around us blowing their horns.
Then something amazing happened. We sounded good...we sounded together. We were beginning to like this.
In every old Christmas movie some carolers are featured somewhere outside singing. Seems nobody ever does this any more, but we were actually singing live carols, on the street, and starting to sing our hearts out. People were actually coming out of their houses to listen. All of us were invited into two houses and fed snacks and spiked punch or eggnog or both. It was the most amazing feeling. I finally got it...the Christmas spirit. For the first time in years, something came over all of us and we started singing our hearts out.
We were out there for about two hours, we with our carol books, Mrs. Hall with the flask of something in her bra...to keep warm no doubt.
We went back to the house, sat briefly and all shared this amazing feeling that happened in a neighborhood on the side streets of a Massachusetts city.
Folks started to leave, and as I was getting ready to go, she gave me a huge hug and thanked me so much for coming.
I said, " Mrs. Hall, why didn't you tell everyone what you were planning tonight?" She responded with, " Well then dear, you wouldn't have come now would you?"
She was right and I know I would have thought it was a stupid idea. A stupid idea? Why is it then, after 40 years, not a Christmas arrives when I don't think of that warm wonderful night so long ago. The simple things in life, always free. Christmas Carols with friends, and a lifetime memory for those of us who were there.
I did one more show, The Odd Couple. She said she needed a slob type to play Oscar...so of course she cast me.
I moved out of state for a few years. Tried to contact her when I got back, but she had moved and I didn't know where she was.
One night I was watching something on PBS and they ran a promo for a program called Independant Lens. The next show they were airing was featuring a singing group from Northampton named "Forever Young" This is a group of senior citizens singing fairly new rock music, and right in the middle of this promo I see this full face of a woman singing,"Should I stay or should I go?

" I think I jumped out of the chair. It was Mrs. Hall.
The next day I called Dave Frasier at WGBY and asked him where these people could be contacted. He called me back an hour later and told me the show was filmed over a year earlier, and that a few of the members had passed away. I asked him who they were. The first name he gave me? Eileen Hall.
I did cry..just another grand example of Murphy's Law. Think of her every year, finally find out where she is, but find out too late.
Some people never leave your heart and some people who do something that can change your life, never leave your life. So is the case with a loony English woman who loved the theater, a bawdy joke, a pint of Guiness, and a lot of laughter. I wish all who read this could have known her. She'd be in your heart always too.
Thanks, Mrs. Hall...sleep in heavenly peace.

Donald Trumps Christmas Party

People in radio seem to get a few things now and then, that they never expected from the outside world. In the early 80's I once recieved a Christmas card, sent to my home from President and Mrs. Reagan. I don't know why. The only thing I ever did was make fun of him like every other talk show host in the world, and somehow that must have garnered a holiday card. There was another incident along those lines in the mid 90's. Donald Trumphs Christmas party at the Taj Mahal in Atlantic City.
I was on the air at WMAS doing my morning show when the mail came in. Jonathan, the news/mail goober made some snide remark about this rather large envelope from the Taj Mahal. I had been there maybe three times in my life, so I figured they finally tracked me down and were sending me an itemized bill for damages or whatever. When I chisled through the weld of glue on the flap, I was greeted with an invitation to his Taj Mahal Christmas party. This card was guilded, with caligraphy like my buddy Jonathan couldn't even come close to, and the message was quite clear, informing me that my wife and I were invited to spend the weekend as The Donalds guest at the Taj Mahal and attend the yearly party in Ballroom "B" or whatever, a week from Friday night. Please call the toll free number to confirm.
OK...What's goin' on?
I get home that morning and say to herself, " Hey, herself, look at this."
She reads the thing, looks at me and says, "OK..What's goin' on?"
I had no idea, so I call the number as instructed to do. I am informed we have a room for Friday and Saturday night and all expenses incurred are comped. So I pick up the phone off the floor, tell the wife, and simultaneously we look at each other and say," OK..What's goin' on?"
For the next 10 days or so, I am doing my best to figure out how it is that me, a relatively unknown, red haired sleepy gnome gets invited to a Christmas party thrown by a guy who has more cash in his pocket at any given time than I will have amassed in my lifetime.
The day of the excursion to Atlantic City arrived, I packed my only suit, ( some things never change ),and the two of us embark on our trek to the Donalds little get together. On the way down there, the discussion turned to who might be there. The mayor of New York? Of course, Donald wouldn't forget him, nor Elizabeth Taylor, Sinatra, Steve and Edie..Letterman perhaps? Whoever was there this was going to be big.
We arrived and for the first time ever, I decided to do the valet parking thing. I don't know why, it just seemed if this was all comped, I could afford the $1.25 for the driver. If you have never been there, the front of the Taj Mahal has an enormous drive around shaped somewhat like a horseshoe. I am driving through this highly congested Friday afternoon traffic snafu looking for a place to pull over and it is mobbed. Except for one area brandishing two signs that read the following: "Mr. Trumps Christmas Party",it was the only place I could pull over. OK, what's goin' on? I pull in and the Beefeater there comes running up to the car and asks to see the invitation. I comply. He says, "Thank you Mr. Murphy," then goes to a phone, talks to someone, the car doors are open, they take my one suitcase that I wrestle away from some guy and we enter the building. Remember, this is Friday late afternoon, a week or so before Christmas, and there are lines of people at every counter...except one. Yup, the counter with the banner that reads,"Mr. Trumps Christmas Party Only." There's nobody there. We cautiously approach, and at about 5 feet from the counter, this stunning girl on the other side says, "Good Afternoon, are you the Murphy party?" Ok, What's goin' on? How could she possibly know who I ...oh, wait..that's who the Beefeater outside must have called.
As we signed in, we are told we stay there courtesy of Mr. Trump, all food for the weekend is gratis and the wet bar in the room is no charge. She gives us two plastic cards for the room and good at the restaurants or room service, and finally gives me a real key. I asked her what the key was for. She said the elevator. Now I'm wondering why the hell a place like this locks the elevator, and not wanting to sound really stupid, I just thanked her, and away we went. The elevator opened and we got in, I hit the button for the 16th floor, but it didn't work. Now, we're going up and down in the elevator trying to figure out how to get this thing to the 16th floor. The wife says we must be in the wrong elevator, we should look for one you have to unlock. I said shut up. I finally got off the thing and found a suit and told him of my plight. He said in order to get to the 16th floor, I had to put the key in, turn it, then press the 16th floor button. Oh...I knew that.
We get in the room and two words come to mind...holy crap. This room cost more that my house. Huge canopy bed, bathroom you could bowl in..( wanted to, but didn't bring my ball )and you could see Havana from the window above the jaccuzi in the corner of the other bathroom. But, Murphy's Law kicked in. A remote, but no TV in the room. Now why have a remote, but no TV? So I press the "ON" button, and I hear odd noises and the sound of a tv as this thing rises out of a console which I thought was a bureau. The wet bar was loaded with booze..and I thought, yeah, life is good.
So now it's about 7:45 PM, and the phone rings. It is the front desk, informing me that our table is ready in the Grand Ballroom "B". This is nuts. I brought a cassette tape recorder with me, because I was going to interview the Donald and all the celebrities there.
We arrive at the "B" room. Doors like the ones that kept King Kong out of the village on Monster island. Two security guards, a little smaller than the doors. We show some other guy the invite. He welcomes us, and hands it to some other guy inside. We are escorted in, as we are now royalty, and all the while, wafting through my mind are the words, "OK, what's goin' on?"
This place was gigantic. The entire back wall was nothing but food. There was a 15 piece orchestra in the corner. Service people everywhere, and at each seat, a gift from Donald himself.
The room was filling fast, everyone escorted to their seats, and we scanned the room and the door constantly looking for those famous friends of Mr. Trumps who surely would be arriving.
When the room filled, some guy thanked us all for coming, and said the food was now being served. Oddly, it was like a smorg, but if it wasn't on that mile long table, it wasn't worth eating, and the food was spectacular. The orchestra was fabulous. There was only one thing that was a mystery. Who the hell are all these people? Not only was Trump not there, but there wasn't a soul in the room that was even remotely familiar. Ok..What's goin' on?
We had a fine meal, listened to great music, and clown that I am, I introduced my wife an I to everyone at the table, and we were having a great time doing oragami and playing with our free gift, a pair of champagne glasses emblazoned with the Taj Mahal logo.
It was around 10PM or so I just had to start asking some of these folks just how exactly they knew Donald Trumph. Most of them didn't, and a few also thought the place would be full of celebrities and Trump himself. Alas, now I have a problem. I had been hyping this trip on the air to my audience, and a lot of people were interested in hearing all these world known celebrities on my program come Monday morning. What to do, what to do? AHA! I have the solution. By this time, I had convinced everybody there I was nuts, so I told them I was going to tape a quick interview with them only they had to make believe they were someone famous. I got Sinatra, Steve and Edie, Barbara Streisand, Joan Rivers and half a dozen others. It was hilarious. None of these people had any talent, they used their real voices and all in all were terrible. I put this thing on the air on Monday and people actually called and thought they were listening to the real people. They sounded nothing like the real people, but mystery of mysteries the thing worked and to this day I am stymied how this group of people no one knew convinced my audience they were the real McCoy.
We wined and dined till after midnight and all went our separate ways, back to our fine rooms, all wondering why we were there.
The next morning, we went down to this restaurant to have breakfast, and seated next to us was Jackie Mason. People were bugging him for his autograph, and I thought that was tacky, so as we were leaving, I gave him a napkin with my autograph and told him I felt bad because everyone was bugging him, so I decided I'd sign a napkin for him. He started laughing like hell. Two years later, I had him on my show and recounted that experience, and before I could finish, he said, " I remember that, and you gave me your autograph on a napkin."
We had not much else to do the rest of that weekend but play the slots and loose, but the booze and food was all gratis.
We left early Sunday afternoon, and again pondered the reason we were invited to a party, at no cost to us, with hundreds of everyday people that nobody knows. I am sure there were important folks there that are used to attending this thing every year, and I think I have come up with the solution as to why we were invited to this thing.
I believe that year there was a very well to do Trump friend in New York City who always got invited to this party

. A very wealthy man. Somehow, because I had been there a few times before, this man, we'll even use his name. George Murphy. Somehow the man who should have recieved this invitation was snubbed, and I believe that the night of this party, that he knew about, he sat steaming mad at Trump. Alone in his high rise penthouse, I am positive he uttered the words, OK..what's going on?"