Wonderful lunch with my twin yesterday. We both had a grilled shrimp and fresh fruit salad, dressed with balsamic and oil--oh, so yummy--and good sisterly talk. She gave me the portrait of Norman Schwartzkopf's father, which I'll show Jim H., our stage manager, one of these days, in case it can be used in "Hedda Gabler."
Story of the portrait as I understand it: It had been painted by the artist mother of Betty's friend, Dottie (the one whose hair style I copied). Betty acquired it years ago after she borrowed it from Dottie (don't ask why) and Dottie later gave it to her. It looks remarkably like a sturdier Hitler and shows Swartzkopf, who was in both world wars, in full military regalia. He was the first commander of the New Jersey State Police, and was closely involved with the Lindbergh kidnapping.
Unfortunately, a lot of the paint on one side is flaking off, but maybe Jim and crew can repair it. Anyway, I'll show it to him and if it can be used, fine; otherwise, I'll just cart it back.