MILLBROOK — When Orvis Sandanona Manager Peggy Long announced that the kitchen would be closed from Monday, June 20, through Friday, July 17, it was with mixed feelings. Long-time and legendary Orvis chef, Jerry Greenland, had just announced he was retiring, and while everyone was happy for the man behind the iron grill, they were also mourning the loss of someone in their kitchen they’ve worked with year in and year out. Not only was Chef Jerry a great chef, but he was a really good friend as well. Long said he had been there since before Sandanona bought the property in 1995.
Asked about his signature dish, most agreed it was his chili — beanless, but meaty — perfect for a shooting club where hungry hunters and fishermen dine, with a nice little kick. Those who still have room left in their bellies like to finish it off with a chunky chocolate chip cookie that melts in their mouth.
There are so many dishes that Chef Jerry is famous for, so many favorites that Orvis diners will miss, that folks are already mourning his retirement. Mostly because they’re missing the man himself, and the cheerful smile and kind word he always seemed to have for everyone.
Chef Jerry said he will miss Orvis, too, and the many friends he made there, but he’s looking forward to all the things he hasn’t had time to enjoy during the past 20 or so years. He said it’s been about 23 years that he worked at Orvis, but Long thought it was more like 25.
Chef Jerry originally wanted to go into the world of women’s fashion, but it wasn’t feasible as he didn’t want to live and work in NYC and preferred the more rural countryside of the Hudson Valley.
He got his first restaurant job at the age of 16, when he was still in high school in Yorktown, just south of Dutchess County in nearby Westchester County. He attended Dutchess Community College in Poughkeepsie and worked at various jobs, but when he was offered a job cooking at Loyola Seminary in Chicago he accepted, and he worked there for a few years.
When that institution closed, he transferred to a job at Mt. Saint Mary High School in Newburgh, back in Dutchess County. From there he went to the University of Vermont, when it opened the Living Learning Center. There he remained for about seven years.
At that point, Chef Jerry decided to open his own restaurant in Shelburne, Vt. He spent about 30 years in Vermont, and only moved back to New York when his mother became ill.
He worked at Slammin’ Salmon in Millbrook for a time and then went to work at Lola’s Café in Poughkeepsie, which is what led him to chef at Orvis.
Making the roughly hour-long commute from his home in Fishkill to Orvis every day could be tough at times, but he acknowledged that he never tired of the beautiful country drive.
In fact, he loves the rural country landscape so much that right after his last day at Orvis on Sunday, June 27, Chef Jerry headed back to Vermont to spend time with friends. It was something he said he was very much looking forward to.
Other things he looked forward to upon his retirement included gardening, not that he’s had much luck with it lately, thanks to the out-of-control deer population in Fishkill.
An animal lover, he might now have time to get another dog. He’s mourning the loss of his 12-year-old collie, “Taurus,” whom he got as a puppy of 8 months; he does have a cat named “Kitty Man.” When he lived in Vermont he also raised geese and chickens.
Chef Jerry said he also wants to spend some time enjoying another hobby now that he lives a life of leisure, restoring classic cars. First, however, he wants to relax and enjoy that time with his friends in Vermont.
Everyone at Orvis was disappointed that he had refused a going away party; he’s low-key and humble, they said, that’s just his way.
Two colleagues at Orvis, Laura Santiago and Patty Esposito, are among those who said they are already missing him.
“We’ve worked with him for a number of years, and there will never be another chef like Jerry,” they agreed.
Those who remain in the kitchen can’t help but notice the hole Chef Jerry left — now they’re just hoping he left something to help fill it — his classic recipes.
Nathan Miller
Crews finish renovations at Veterans Park by spraying dirt off the new pavers and sidewalk in downtown Millerton on Thursday, May 7.
MILLERTON — Landscaping crews put the finishing touches on upgrades to Veterans Park in downtown Millerton on Thursday, May 7.
Workers had removed the temporary fencing and were spraying dirt off the brand new pavement Thursday afternoon. Scape-Tech Landscaping Technologies began the work on Monday, April 20, and predicted the work would be completed within two to three weeks.
Millerton Mayor Jenn Najdek praised the work, saying Scape-Tech's crews previously renovated Millerton's sidewalks.
"They're fast, efficient and easy to work with," Najdek said.
Renovations to the park included new brick pavers, replacement of a portion of sidewalk through the park, and replacing asphalt paving. Crews also power-washed the stone walls in the park.
Najdek said the work is mostly complete. The park now just needs grass to grow to finish its revitalization.
Funding for the renovations came from a combination of grants and cash reserves that the village maintains, meaning the village did not have to take on additional debt for the project.
Millerton News
Liane McGhee, a woman defined by her strength of will, generosity, and unwavering devotion to her family, passed away leaving a legacy of love and cherished memories.
Born Liane Victoria Conklin on May 27, 1957, in Sharon, CT, she grew up on Fish Street in Millerton, a place that remained close to her heart throughout her life. A proud graduate of the Webutuck High School Class of 1975, Liane soon began the most significant chapter of her life when she married Bill McGhee on August 7, 1976. Together, they built a life centered on family and shared values.
Liane was a woman of many passions. She found peace in the outdoors, whether she was taking scenic country rides, fishing, or walking her dog. An avid reader and a talented painter, she possessed a creative spirit and a caring heart that extended to all animals. Above all, Liane was most at home when surrounded by her family.
Liane is survived by her devoted husband of nearly 50 years, Bill McGhee. Her legacy continues through her three children: Joshua (Tanya) McGhee, Justin McGhee, and Jaclyn (Joe) Perusse. She was the proud grandmother of Connor, Calia, and Kennedy McGhee, as well as Lillian and Tillman Perusse. She is also survived by her siblings, Larry Conklin and Linda Holst-Grubbe. Liane was predeceased by her parents Martin and Lillian Conklin, and her brother, Robert “Bob” Conklin.
In keeping with Liane’s generous nature, the family requests that, in lieu of flowers, memorial donations be made to Hudson Valley Hospice (by mail to 374 Violet Ave, Poughkeepsie, NY 12601 or online at https://www.hvhospice.org/donate) or to the Millerton Fire Company at PO Box 733, Millerton, NY 12546.
A celebration of life will be held on Friday, May 8, from 4:00 to 7:00 p.m. at Conklin Funeral Home, 37 Park Avenue, Millerton, NY.
Her family will remember her as the strong-willed and caring matriarch who always put them first. She will be deeply missed.
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Natalia Zukerman
Ten New Yorker cartoonists gather around a table in a scene from “Women Laughing.”
There is something deceptively simple about a New Yorker cartoon. A few lines, a handful of words — usually fewer than a dozen — and suddenly an entire worldview has been distilled into a single panel.
There is also something delightfully subversive about watching a room full of women sit around a table drawing them. Not necessarily because it seems unusual now — thankfully — but because “Women Laughing,” screening May 9 at The Moviehouse in Millerton, reminds us that for much of The New Yorker’s history, such a gathering would have been nearly impossible to imagine.
The documentary, directed by longtime New Yorker cartoonist Liza Donnelly and filmmaker Kathleen Hughes, traces the uneven history of women cartoonists at the magazine, from their presence in its earliest issues to their near disappearance by the 1950s. But the film does something more interesting still: it lets us watch these artists at work.
“The idea was talking to these women about their process and where their ideas come from,” Donnelly said. “You get to witness these women drawing in the film, and I draw with them.”
“Women Laughing” includes intimate conversations with some of the most celebrated and groundbreaking cartoonists at The New Yorker, including Roz Chast, Emily Flake, Sarah Akinterinwa, Liana Finck, Amy Hwang and Bishakh Som. Donnelly also speaks with Emma Allen, the magazine’s first female cartoon editor. During a dynamic roundtable discussion with 10 cartoonists, viewers also meet artists Emily Sanders Hopkins, Maggie Larson, Arenza Pena-Popo and Victoria Roberts.
“I will confess that it was what I was most worried about,” Hughes said of the technical challenges presented by filming 10 artists at work. “You have 10 people. That’s 10 microphones, six or seven cameras. We didn’t even have a budget for it, but our crew donated all the gear so that we could get it done.”
Hughes was relieved that not only did it work, but it became one of the most memorable parts of the film.
“Frankly, when you put people together and have them talk on screen, it can get tiresome quickly,” Hughes said. “So I’m glad that nobody listened to me when I said I didn’t think we should do this.”
For Donnelly, whose book “Very Funny Ladies” was the impetus for the film, the documentary offered dimensions the printed page could not. For Hughes, whose previous films have examined weightier subjects like economic inequality and gun violence, entering the world of cartoonists brought its own revelations.
“I really did think that the cartoonists were sort of in charge of what was in the magazine,” Hughes said, laughing. “That was probably the biggest revelation.”
What surprised her most was not just the structure of the magazine’s famously competitive submission process — cartoonists submit batches each week and face frequent rejection — but the sheer persistence required to sustain the work.
“It was inspiring to see the dedication everybody had to the craft,” Hughes said. “And how creative everybody is, not just in making the cartoons themselves, but in supporting themselves through it.”
An audience reaction that has surprised both Donnelly and Hughes is the laughter. By the time the filmmakers finished editing, they had seen each cartoon so many times that the humor had become technical material — questions of pacing, framing and sequence. The first public screening changed that.
“All the laughter really kind of blew us away,” Hughes said. “You forget.”
The audience response underscores something else the film makes clear: just how much skill lies behind the apparent simplicity of a single-panel cartoon. Donnelly noted that the form is “a lot harder than you think.” Like the cartoons it celebrates, the documentary values economy and precision. At just 37 minutes, its compact running time reflects that ethos.
“A lot of people have said it’s a great length,” Hughes said. “It’s almost like a cartoon version of a documentary.”
Donnelly appreciates the response she hears most often after screenings.
“You leave them wanting more,” she said.
Like the best New Yorker cartoons, “Women Laughing” says a great deal with remarkable economy, leaving audiences laughing and looking more closely at what appears, at first glance, deceptively simple.
“Women Laughing” will screen at the Moviehouse (48 Main St., Millerton) on May 9 at 7 p.m. followed by a conversation with Liza Donnelly, Kathleen Hughes and cartoonist Amy Hwang. Moderated by local filmmaker Pam Hogan. Tickets at themoviehouse.net
Natalia Zukerman
In “Your Friends and Neighbors,” Lena Hall’s character is also a musician.
At a certain point you stop asking who people want you to be and start figuring out who you already are.
— Lena Hall
There is a moment in conversation with actress and musician Lena Hall when the question of identity lands with unusual force.
“Well,” she said, pausing to consider it, “who am I really?”
Born Celina Consuela Gabriella Carvajal into a San Francisco family steeped in performance — her father a choreographer, her mother a prima ballerina — Hall was, by her own account, “born to be onstage.”
“Like a show pony,” she joked.
She trained first as a ballet dancer, studying in France on scholarship before abandoning that path for musical theater after seeing her sister perform in “42nd Street.”
Even then, identity was something inherited before it was chosen.
The Tony Award-winning, Grammy-nominated performer has spent much of her career moving between worlds: Broadway and television, rock clubs and film sets, musical theater precision and raw, unvarnished songwriting. Her latest solo album, “Lullabies for the End of the World,” is an intimate, autobiographical work that explores co-dependency, heartbreak and self-reckoning.
But for Hall, whose career includes a Tony-winning turn in “Hedwig and the Angry Inch,” a starring role on Apple TV+’s “Your Friends and Neighbors,” and acclaimed performances in film and television, the search for artistic identity has been unfolding for decades.
The record’s central themes — identity, authenticity, reinvention — are the same ones Hall has been sorting through for much of her adult life.
“It wasn’t until later that I started asking those questions,” she said from New York City, which she splits her time between and West Cornwall, Connecticut. “What do I want to represent? Who do I want to be? I was trying to find the authentic self instead of just going with the flow.”
The search began, in part, with an unlikely catalyst: a tonsillectomy.
When Hall was 26, surgery altered her voice just as she had joined the rock band The Deafening. “They would just play really loud and never change the key,” she said, laughing.
At the same time, Hall found herself confronting larger questions about purpose and artistic direction.
“I was going through that moment of, what do I really want out of this industry?” she said. “If I’m going to keep doing this, I need to have a purpose.”
Until then, Hall said, she had largely been defined by external expectations.
“I was always who I was told to be,” she said.
The surgery became a kind of reset, both vocally and personally. It also coincided with another form of reinvention: the decision to change her professional name.
“My real name is a lot,” she said.
People stumbled over its pronunciation. It was harder to remember, harder to place. “Lena Hall” felt streamlined, memorable. “It also just sounds like a rock star,” she laughed.
Hall, who is one-quarter Filipino with Spanish and Swedish ancestry, later grappled with whether changing her name obscured an important part of who she is. At one point, she said, she was advised that reverting to her birth name might improve her casting prospects as representation standards shifted.
She declined.
“That didn’t feel authentic,” she said.
Instead, Hall came to see the name change as less a departure than a continuation.
After making the change, she discovered that Carvajal itself was a family alteration, adopted generations ago in the Philippines.
“I’m still honoring my family, even in the name change,” she said. “I’m continuing that tradition.”
Her Filipino heritage remains central to how she understands herself, even as some parts of that history remain difficult to trace.
“I’m very curious to keep searching,” Hall said. “That side of my family is where all the artistry came from.”
Hall’s refusal to flatten herself into a single story or cultural identity is mirrored in her journey as a multi-hyphenate artist. She is, depending on the moment, a Broadway belter, a screen actor, a rock frontwoman, a conceptual songwriter.
Her current side project, the all-female Radiohead tribute band Labiahead, gleefully complicates the picture further, reframing familiar songs through a new lens.
“When women perform something written and performed by men, it changes it completely,” she said. “Nothing even needs to be said. It just happens.”
The same could be said of Hall’s own work.
Across mediums, she is an artist interested less in performance as display than performance as revelation.
Onscreen, she said, that often means doing less.
“The camera is literally on your nose,” she said. “You just have to think, and it picks it up.”
Between Celina Carvajal and Lena Hall, between ballet and rock, Broadway and Cornwall, Hall is making peace with multiplicity.
“At a certain point,” she said, “you stop asking who people want you to be and start figuring out who you already are.”
Natalia Zukerman
“A Love Letter to Handsome John” screens at The Colonial Theatre on May 8.
Fans of the late singer-songwriter Todd Snider will have a rare opportunity to gather in celebration of his life and music when “A Love Letter to Handsome John,” a documentary by Otis Gibbs, screens for one night only at The Colonial Theatre in North Canaan on Friday, May 8.
Presented by Wilder House Berkshires and The Colonial Theatre, the 54-minute film began as a tribute to Snider’s friend and mentor, folk legend John Prine. Instead, following Snider’s death last November at age 59, it became something more intimate: a portrait of the alt-country pioneer during the final year of his life.
What began as a simple gesture of gratitude evolved into a poignant meditation on friendship, artistic influence and loss, offering viewers an unusually personal glimpse of Snider at home in his quietest moments.
For Brad Sanzenbacher of Wilder House Berkshires, bringing the film to the Northwest Corner has been deeply personal.
“I’ve been a huge fan of Todd Snider and John Prine for 20 years,” he said. “I lived in the Bay Area before I moved here, and I would see Todd live probably at least four times a year — sometimes back-to-back nights. I was that kind of super Dead Head-type fan that was on tour.”
Sanzenbacher said he had the chance to meet Snider several times and attended the musician’s Catskills retreats.
“He was just one of those people that I really connected with strongly,” he said. “Like a lot of people, when he passed away, I was really shocked and devastated.”
When he learned screenings of the film were beginning to pop up around the country, he wanted to bring that communal experience here.
“I know there are a lot of Todd Snider fans everywhere who want closure on his life and maybe a chance to feel like they’re in the room with him again,” he said. “I thought it would be a really cool experience to bring the film to the community.”
The screening is part of what Sanzenbacher calls the film’s organic, fan-driven momentum.
“I love the grassroots movement of the film,” he said. “They were going to do two screenings and that was going to be it, and now they’re showing it all over the country because fans have reached out to say, ‘How can I bring a screening to my town?’ I feel really lucky we’re able to show it.”
He hopes the evening captures some of the camaraderie that defined the Todd Snider fan experience.
“One of my favorite things about being a Todd Snider fan was when you’d go to two or three shows in a row, you’d turn into a little caravan and make friends with strangers and become this community,” he said. “That’s kind of something I’m hoping happens at the film.”
The screening begins at 7 p.m. Friday, May 8, at The Colonial Theatre, 27 Railroad St., North Canaan. Run time is 54 minutes, with time afterward for audience members to gather and connect.
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