My Dad,

THE MAGICIAN*

The person who most influenced my life was The Magician…….

A trip to New York always makes me remember the Magician. I lived with him for most of my childhood, a time period which lasted for a longer span than usual - only because of his wondrous powers.

Tonight as I began the strange ritual of removing my gold chain, bracelet and watch and locking them into my desk drawer and then slowly transferring my wallet, cosmetic pouch and car keys from my shoulder bag into a clutch purse, I wondered what he would think of this precautionary pattern of behavior.

The Magician was a charter member of the “I Love New York” Club, long before it became popular. He taught me all about this city, spending hours every Sunday exploring all the hidden qualities and cubbyholes unknown to travel agents and many natives. We would walk from Midtown to the outermost boundaries; from the ships at pier on 11th Avenue to the 59th Street Bridge on the east side. We saw every circus, and had pictures taken in Times Square. There wasn’t a parade we missed, and we joined every ethnic group in celebration.

He never talked too much, but let me ask the questions, and the answers were always soothing, comforting and right to my young ears. Was he a dreamer or psychologist; I really am not quite certain. I only know he brought a sense of pride and security to a child that could easily have been denied to a youngster growing up in Hells Kitchen.

The strangest part of all is that by some fantastic powers of deception, I never knew I lived in Hells Kitchen until I was about 12. How well I remember running home from school that day, telling him about the terrible lie I had just heard. He listened quietly, as he always did, and explained gently that, of course, there was a Hells Kitchen, but it was four blocks away, and we lived nowhere near it. Didn’t we have Central Park and Fifth Avenue, and the river where all those beautiful ships were docked.

I smiled as I realized he was right, and the matter was forgotten.

How could he be wrong, Central Park meant ice skating with the Magician when the winter came and the pond would freeze. He had no skates, and told me not to worry; the shoes he wore were special so they didn’t get wet as we stumbled around the Lake with all the other skaters. That was the great part of being a Magician - all that special equipment he always had.

Summer meant the wonderful rides on the Subway. He always insisted I dress up - usually in a white organdy dress with white shoes - because we were traveling; I wonder how he would feel if he met me on my trip to New York tonight, unadorned in my running shoes.

The Magician didn’t really fade away, just gradually came to see me less often. I am certain it was more my fault than his. There came a time, as it does to all female mortals when Sunday afternoons meant the opportunity of holding other men’s hands when walking in the Park.

And then when I graduated from High School, the Magician came to see me and sent me to a very special school, and I learned quickly to tell all the very special girls who went there that I lived by the Park. I guess that is really when I lost contact with him.

We saw each other, of course, but his magic seemed to be gone for himself as well. There were moments when it flashed by; the day he took another young child to the Bronx Zoo and hailed a cab home. Was he getting tired then, or was it a chariot ride? Taxi trips were unheard of for his family. They were a necessity only for emergency trips to a death bed. Even his wife had taken the bus to the hospital for the delivery of her last child.

The Magician had a large audience, and they, too, drifted away. Occasionally, I hear him mentioned, and the memory is more of an eulogy than a tribute to his reality. He wasn’t a saint, and never pretended to be. His magic qualities were inherent, not studied or calculated, so I suppose it is a lost art. Maybe the stage is different, too.

Perhaps I am a bit of a dreamer, but I like to think that somewhere in the vastness of a very different New York City, other Magicians are living today and teaching other little girls there is beauty everywhere - if only you look.

That is what my Father taught me.

*William J. Donlon left New York in August, 1955.

‘The Magician” was my first published piece and appeared in THE NEW YORK TIMES on Sunday, June 20, 1982.