Spring/Summer 1991: Steven Tyler, yes, THAT Steven Tyler, and his Aerosmith bandmates, along with their families and assorted entourage-types are spending several weeks at Long View Farm. Gil and I are under a restraining order of some sort, due to the ongoing battle over ownership of the place. We’re living in “the Flat” where Mr. Kitty and his dog, Timba, also live. We’re told we’re not allowed to step foot in the Farmhouse, and we’re not to interact with the band under any circumstances. We are to keep within so many feet of the band, their families, the entourage. We are not to speak to the band members, their families, the entourage. We’re not allowed to park our cars in the front of the barn, but must park in the back parking lot, and walk down a flight of precarious railroad-tie steps that were built into the sod in the side yard decades before, underneath a grape arbor. These steps can be difficult to maneuver, even in the best of times. I’m told, in no uncertain terms, that Timba must be leashed at all times while the band is living at the Farm.
We all know by now that Timba was not accustomed to being “on-leash” shall we say. And I was not accustomed to walking her with a leash.
Oh, and let’s not forget that we haven’t opened Passports, the student travel company yet – it’s just a glimmer in our minds at this point. That means, we’re both unemployed, and confined to three rooms (not allowed to use the upstairs room “Abby’s Room” because it has access to Studio C which is off-limits in accordance with the court ruling).
We all managed to live by these torturous rules, and to our surprise, the band was not made aware of the situation. This meant that they must have found us incredibly insensitive as we did our utmost to avoid them at all costs, taking the long route around to our cars, avoiding going anywhere near the Farmhouse, skulking around in the night and the wee hours of dawn to avoid being seen or having the dreaded interaction that could land us in a courtroom quicker than you can say Joe Perry.
Fast-forward a couple of weeks. I’m returning from running errands, including buying groceries. Every time I go anywhere, I have to take Timba with me, because we don’t want to risk having her bark, get loose, or otherwise cause any disturbance. Timba has to be on a leash. I park my car in the back parking lot, and as is my usual modus operandi, I like to make just one trip from car to barn. I pick up the two bags of groceries (paper, not plastic); grab the dog (on-leash); close up the car; and head down the deadly grape-arbor steps. I make it all the way down the steps, and am walking around the rear of the barn to the entrance to the Flat. Walking at the rear of the barn, after reaching the bottom of the steps, I can no longer see the driveway nor the entrance to the barn for a few moments. I round the corner and walk headlong into none other than Steven Tyler. Neither of us was really looking where we were going, and both are startled, along with the dog who is very excited to greet someone new.
One bag of groceries topples over as I try to control the dog with the leash looped around my wrist. Some groceries pour out of the top of the brown paper bag and onto the ground.
Tyler picks the groceries up, pats the dog, and says, “Hi, I’m Steven, what’s your name?” Now, let us remember that I’m under a court order preventing me from speaking to this man who has just helped me pick up my tomatoes, potatoes and fizzling tonic water. Split-seconds to make a decision. What do I do? Do I just keep walking, like I’ve been ordered to do? Then, he may complain about that rude woman with the dog. The client is the most important thing, right? To hell with the court order, I MUST talk to the guy or he’ll be insulted!
“Kathy,” I reply, “Thanks,” as he’s handing me tomatoes and things.
“Nice dog!” Exclaims Tyler.
“Thanks,” I repeat, smile on my face.
We exchange a few more pleasantries, “Have a nice day” something like that, and go our separate ways. Phew! That went well!
And there it was, my opportunity to say something profound to a superstar. My brush with fame. Zero degrees of separation. The story I will tell for the rest of my life. And all I said was my name, and “thanks.”