“On With The Show!” ... Late Bloomers

Esmeralda, doyenne of the Havenburg mansion in the town that bore her family name, sipped champagne from her glass and considered why in the world she had agreed to the interview. After all, she reasoned, he was just another reporter looking for a story, different enough to pique the curiosity of jaded readers who had seen it all ... and who could imagine nothing more. "What do you think, my friend?" she asked the horse who had been part of her life for twenty years. "Shall we talk to the reporter? Hmmm? Shall we tell him what he wants to know?"

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The adoring horse studied her face. The sound of her voice soothed him like water for a thirsty vine; much as the bloodline of champions from the stable she had started so many years before. Since his birth, her touch was his thrill, her every wish his command ... her every desire, his own. In the sacred bond between the one who plans a birth and the one it brings forth, there was no life for him without her. "Masquerade," she said, running her hands through the horse's thick hair and petting his smooth face. "You are the love of my life." Strange to be saying such things to an animal after so many years ... after so many loving opportunities. "He wants to know my story," she said. "He wants to know how anyone could be so busy at my age." Why was the one he adored so glum and despondent, the horse wondered? Why were her thoughts so far away? "You're no ordinary woman," he seemed to whisper. "You're bigger than life." "To you, perhaps," she smiled gently. "To the rest of the world, I'm just a character ... a character they've forgotten ... from the pages of a paperback novel they can no longer find." Pressing a button on the arm of her gold-plated wheelchair, Esmeralda purred her way to the phone and dialed Paris. "Oui?" came the husky voice of a black-haired Coco Chanel puffing a cigarette, manicuring her red nails, and splashing herself with Perfume Number 5. "Darling, it's Esmeralda." "What do you want?" the designer demanded gruffly. "Why are you bothering me when you know I'm working on my new collection!" "Masquerade wants to say hello to Viva." "Mademoiselle Viva is in her stall, thinking about her bad ways. I'm not speaking to her. She jumped over the fence last night and ran off! The third time this week!" "No!" Silence ... (famous Chanel silence) ... and a few irritated puffs. "Then! This morning, she comes home and has the gall to look to ME for her breakfast! I say to her, Viva, this is too much! You must decide if it's a family you want or a career on the runway!" "It sounds like she has already found her runway." "Don't take her side! Adversity makes one stronger! She'll see things my way. She always does. Of course I'll have to make her a new blanket with diamonds, most likely! Why are you calling me - really?" "I'm being interviewed by a reporter, and he wants to know how someone starts a business at my age." "How rude!" Coco spat. "Does he think we should just disappear into our chalets and twiddle our thumbs while we sit in our rocking chairs?" Accustomed to Chanel's bitter edge, designed to protect a romantic heart, Esmeralda shooshed her friend silent. "Don't shoosh me!" Coco snapped, like the alligator whose crinkly skin graced her Gucci purse. "How brazen! Believe me, I know his kind. I wear the scars from the claws of quite a few!" "If you're referring to the critics always at your door, be glad they still find you fascinating. At our age!" "At our age, darling, I'm glad to be alive!" came the retort, sparkling with French laughter. "Every hair on my head was earned!" "Why Coco," Esmeralda purred. "I thought your black was natural." "The black is to match my dresses!" Chanel countered quickly. "Speaking of that, I don't see Viva (I can see her stall from my window)." Placing a hand over the phone, she called out, "Viva? Viva?" Returning to Esmeralda, lowering her voice, she said, "If you want hair, call Marlene!" "Dietrich?" Esmeralda asked. "Now there's a woman whose hair hasn't moved in fifty years! She's in town you know." The wink in Coco's voice as she hung up the phone was deafening. Dietrich didn't have much to say when Esmeralda called. Unless they wore pants, animals were not her thing. "Dogs? Cats? I leave that to Rudi," she said, referring to a long-forgotten husband in Nevada who raised chickens. "My advice? Make sure the lighting is correct and tell the photographer No close-ups! Picasso is the one you should talk with," she said. "Now there's an animal! Good-bye, darling, I wish you love." Unfortunately, Picasso couldn't be reached by phone. "He's at the bull fights in Madrid," said the secretary. "Besides, he has work to do. He's a genius, and he can't be disturbed!" "Well, please tell him his friend Esmeralda called." "Esmeralda? Esmeralda Von Havenburg? The dog breeder, who started with the family-fortune-that-was-no-more, and at the age of 70, built an empire in reality TV for pet lovers?" "Yes," Esmeralda said with humility. "That's me." "I ADORE you! You must come to Spain!" Esmeralda wondered about other friends and acquaintances she had made at the dog shows, horse shows, and county fairs of her life. Was their love for animals part of the secret? Or could the love coming from the animals themselves make the difference? She dialed California. "Is Mr. Disney in?" she asked. "Certainly," came the polite reply, as her call was transferred to a special phone beside the drawing table of the man, himself. "Esmeralda?" he said, sketching a bite of cheese for Mickey Mouse. "Is that you?" "It's me, Walt. How's the movie business treating you?" "Thanks to my friend, Mickey, here, we're doing alright. And you?" ... And so it went ... Einstein, in a rumpled suit, setting down his chalk and stepping back from the blackboard. "A call for you, Albert," his wife said, handing him the phone. "It's Esmeralda." At his laboratory in New Jersey, a balding Edison, wearing a comfortable sweater, took off his glasses and closed his notebook thoughtfully. After jotting down his observations of the latest experiment, and taking Esmeralda's call, he smiled. In Hollywood, Mae West laughed as she fed bananas to her pet monkeys. "Esmeralda, honey, when it's you on the phone, me and the boys stand at attention! So what's this I hear about some reporter man thinkin' you're over the hill at 70?" "Over the hill isn't exactly over the rainbow," Esmeralda observed. "Truer words were never said. Ain't he ever heard of late bloomers? Tell him to come up and see me sometime. I can teach him a thing or two about bloomers!" "You have an interesting way of putting things." "Honey, words are my diamonds. It ain't so much how they start out, but how they're cut that makes 'em sparkle." "Chanel says to be irreplaceable, one must be different. Edison says there's a light at the end of every tunnel, Auntie Mame says Life's a banquet and most poor suckers are starving." "We're a bunch of twenty-five year olds in seventy year old bodies!" Mae laughed. Voluptuous Mae with her monkeys, silver-haired Ralph Lauren and his polo ponies, Walt with his mice, and strong-willed Chanel and her "Viva". Was love for animals the secret of youth and vitality? Was there something magical and ageless about it? She didn't know. She didn't even pretend to know. All she knew was, the horse in her life understood - or seemed to. He understood without question, believed without fear. To him, Esmeralda was not the heiress to a fortune that once was; not the last living symbol of a town carrying her name; not the "late-blooming" producer of a reality TV show for animal lovers. To him, she was the voice he had heard before he was born. Her touch was the first he could remember. Her dreams had wished him into being, and she would dream of him until Mae West became Bette Midler, and Bette gave the nod to Lady Gaga. Age could not define their lives, or what made them tick. Not even the pages of a thousand paperback novels could explain away their magic. Pet lovers burned brighter than a hundred birthday candles. They were louder than every song on the radio. For every dog, cat, horse and monkey that adored them, they were never at a loss for things to do. Age? She could think about that tomorrow, Esmeralda decided. Booking a flight to Paris and thinking of horses, she whispered ... "Masquerade, my dear. I think it's time to meet Viva!" Author/Artist RON HEVENER specializes in animals and the romantic, adventurous people who love them. An accomplished artist who started by selling handmade souvenirs and telling stories to tourists at Pennsylvania Dutch farmers’ markets, Mr. Hevener’s studio is now an official tourist attraction and his collectible figurines and the prints from his novels are bought and traded throughout the world. His original paintings and sculptures are sold in galleries, displayed in museums and can be found in many private collections.

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