I am personally saddened to hear of the death of Paul Newman. I met him once, and he was a kind and true gentleman.

 Back in another life, before kids, before Donald, when I lived on the mean streets of NYC, I used to usher at plays when I could. There was a benefit performance of “Burn This” by Lanford Wilson; the the tickets were no less than $1000 a piece, well worth it for a great cast of a great show: John Malkevich, Joan Allen, Lou Libertore, Jonathan Hogan.

 There were other celebrities at the show that evening: Norman Mailer, Carol Channing, all very New York, nobody making a fuss. Then a couple approached to give me their tickets and get a program, both of them handsome, comfortably dressed, a little more than middle-aged. I thought….but I wasn’t sure.  Paul Newman said good evening to me. 

“Good evening,” I said, now quite sure.

 He stood directly in front of me, and we were nearly eye to eye – I had heels; he wasn’t so tall.  Joanne Woodward was right behind him, staying quiet, a smile at her lips. 

 “What beautiful blue eyes you have,” Paul Newman said to me with an earnest look and a charming smile.  Paul Newman’s eyes were that blue, more than blue, like my Uncle John’s eyes, that stand out in a person’s face.  My eyes, not so blue, blue-gray, really. 

 What a wonderful way to say, “I know you know who I am, but aren’t sure what to say and don’t want to make a fuss.”  And to make contact, and to pay a compliment.

 “Thank you,” I said, grinning back. “I hope you enjoy the show.”

 “We certainly will. Come on, Joanne,” he said politely, extending his arm to his wife.

 Nice man.  Nice, nice man.