Uncle Colonel the Tap Dancer

So, I grew up, Catholic ... meaning, in a family with more than the average number of siblings ... as did my Catholic cousins ...

When we got together - which I think we did frequently enough - we were a massive bunch.

Oh, while visiting, we'd drive carelessly through the streets, and hills of West Point, sans those pesky seat belts, ten in a car - with an adult at the wheel (I think, or was it my cousin, Patrick, age 9 at the time? Hmmm, hard to say.)

Ah, the '60s ... while the country was fighting in a foreign land, or fighting in our land because there was fighting in a foreign land … we were young and free ...

Free to go jutting forward into the dashboard when the car stopped just a little too abruptly. I think we all have THOSE scars ... I do, still do, on my right eye.

I digress ... again.

I recently came across a picture of one particular summer spent in the company of my cousins at West Point. We are a happy, very rumpled familial group starring intently on my Uncle, the Major's hands - he is frozen in time, gesturing, I think, the universal symbol for "small word." I'm sure we never got it ... I'm sure it was "the" or "an" or "a" ...

But the picture reveals so much ... ah, the commitment from my Uncle ... the "in the moment" need to perform the "small word" with such clarity, urgency ... it's on his face, it's on our faces ...

I also came across another picture of my Uncle, the Colonel, who for reasons I can't recall, is wearing silver tap shoes in my mother's backyard. He was good, as I recall ... or maybe not ... all I know, he was wearing tap shoes, and looked again ... "in the moment" with precision toe-heel movements.

That's my Uncle, the General.

And I think that reveals so much about my relations.

"Ah, children, children ... "

This is for Jerry, the man with the child in his eyes ...

It has come up before ... and has come up recently ...

I do not have offspring, children ...

Well, it wasn't for lack of trying.

In fact, I went through many years (yes, freaking years!) of fertility treatments that left me altered hormonally, physically, and produced nothing other than a fruitful inclination to question everything.

Nothing says love like your husband sticking your backside with a very long and burning painful needle full of some hideous hormone concoction ... perhaps taking out his frustrations with his own questioning manhood, jabbing that needle just a little too much like he was playing a not-so-friendly game of darts, working out the seemingly inadequacy of his manhood. Who am I to question that? I wouldn't. I didn't ... it was me ...

It was my fault.

I questioned G-d, yes, I questioned my faith, I questioned my purpose, while standing full of toxic hormones that inflated everything - my body, and my emotional well-being ... if I couldn't make children, like EVERY single person I know ... including family members who were told they could never do so ... what good was I?

So, I struggled with that ... for a long time.

My marriage failed ... for many reasons, owing to this? Maybe. But probably not ... that's another blog.

But there's a universal truth that, as a woman, one's purpose is tied into her ability to reproduce. I couldn't. My parts don't work.

There are medical reasons ... owed to my uterus and my colon and the battle they fight, being so close together ...

Too much information ... sorry.

Where was I?

Yes, present day.

I stand here ... well, sit here ... recognizing the significant and profound strides I have made as a human being since those desperate days of very painful injections and hormones and those feelings, back then, that I failed at the one thing that I, as a member of the female species, have been programmed to do ... and I get it.

I understand why.

I'm lovely and complicated. I'm selfish and well, actually, probably more than a little narcissistic.

I've been married ... been in relationships, well, more "situations," a plenty, and it wasn't until recently that I understood WHY (big picture "why") I wasn't able to reproduce.

I teach. I'm a teacher. In a way, I'm adviser and parent to more than 200 teenagers ... who are like my own children.

But, it's not just that.

I've had to work on myself, and I can't even imagine bringing a child into this world given my personality and tendency for the dramatic, traumatic and hysterical ...

And it wasn't until recently that I realized ...

I'm OK. I don't have children, and I'm alright.

More than alright ...

But ... fast forward to my present performance in a play (merely in the rehearsal process incidentally) in which I play a woman who is in a long-term marriage, troubled, albeit British and colored in the Edwardian era ...

There's a moment ... when the husband to my character says, "if only we'd had children ..." and during this rehearsal, I instantly stopped in my tracks, understanding completely what that would mean to a woman who is unable to produce ... it was about as real as I think I've ever been in my acting endeavors.

And I didn't feel resentful. I felt grateful that I understood what this woman felt ... I was her.

I am her, and I'm lovely.

I Left My Heart in the Theatre ...

No, now, I mean it literally.

I wear two hearts around my neck. Chained, silver. One is hollow and intricately detailed, the other tiny and slightly hollow.

I left one in the dressing room Sunday after my recent performance.

I fell in love this weekend.

I bought that heart in North Carolina. I know, it sounds like a song cue … but it isn’t. My niece, Eliza, picked it out. It was purchased at a time in my life in which I needed comfort, needed definition, needed to wear my heart on the outside.

I have always more or less done that in life. I’m very emotionally based and, you know, from my previous blogs … I cry easily.

(Funny that I can cry pretty easily on stage. One production I asked the director if he wanted me to cry during this one moment in a scene. “Well, if you can,” he said. “How much?” I asked. “What?” he said. “How much crying?” I said. “Enough to make me want to hug you, but not so much that I see snot running down your face.” “Got it. Done.” And it was … )

But that necklace … my heart … isn’t on the outside anymore.

Somebody has it. I thought you should know.

The Hum of Gnats

I think I've lived my life, mostly, in a state of perpetual desire.

Desire for happiness in love, happiness in vocation ...

Desire?

No … anticipation …

No … expectation ...

My vocation nearly completes me.

I love my job, love what I do, love the meaning and purposefulness behind what I do.

But in love … well, my choices have led me to some pretty dark moments.

And in my darkest moments … the expectation for happiness in love was only a little gnat in my ear, and in my heart.

Annoyingly present ... keeping me aware ... keeping me reminded of it ... keeping me ...

Ironically, last night while closing my window to the glorious and wonderful cool breezes of the expectation of fall, I noticed about 40-50 dead gnats on the window frame … it occurred to me … are these the gnats of expectation that have been humming in my ear?

Are these the manifestations of the many times in my life of late that I’ve held on because of that little humming in my ear … keeping me present, keeping me hopeful … keeping me?

And … now they show themselves.

As if fully actualized ... as if to show me the physical manifestations of their presence in my life?

As if to show me that they were there all along ... the little humming presence of expectation and ... well, hope ...

That thought moved me. And I still feel the full impact of THAT moment in THIS moment.

“We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aid, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn.” –Henry David Thoreau

I Never Wanted to Be Anywhere Else

My first audition - was embarrASSing!

I recall opening my mouth to sing "Raindrops keep falling on my head ..." but what came out was a squeakish, squakish, alien sound ... Oh, sure, I sang the words, but, oh, my G-DASH-d, I don't know WHAT that was ... fear perhaps? Demonic possession? Singing in tongues? Was I feverish?

Lila Lloyd, the director, took great pity upon me and cast me anyway as an ensemble member, townsperson of River City, Iowa.

Rehearsals for The Music Man introduced a strange, wonderful new world to me. After meeting the shining stars of the theatre … 10, 11, 12 year olds who'd each been performing for 25 years, I wanted to be just like them, dress like, talk like them, smoke like them …

How do you teach a 10 year old to act? How did I learn to act? Did I learn to act?

Well, I pretty much copied everyone else around me. During rehearsals, if the young theatre star next to me covered her mouth in shock with her right hand when 11 year old Harold Hill went into kiss 14 year old Marion, the librarian, then I used my left hand to feign shock. If the 14 year-old seasoned professional stamped her right foot in impetuous defiance … I pounded my right fist into my hand … I evolved … Now THAT’S acting …

The day I stepped foot on the Montgomery Theatre stage – my life forever changed.

Oh, sure, sure … I had performed before this moment … I was the Big Bad Wolf in Girl Scout Camp’s production of Little Red Riding Hood, there’s a picture of me – I’m holding up my hands like paws … interesting. And I have a picture of me at 8 wearing a wreath of real ivy with a sheet wrapped around me, no doubt for some Greek comedy production … it had spiders (the wreath, not the toga) … lots and lots of spiders.

The Montgomery Theatre ...

The stage was dimly lit. We took our places. Someone turned on the lights and instantly the stage was washed in beautiful, warm, glowing light. I looked up and was almost blinded … it was incredible.

The light was on me … the light was on ME … the LIGHT was on ME. It went through me, warmed me, held me …

At at that moment I knew, I would always be happy in the light and ...

I never wanted to be anywhere else.

Talks Too Much, Cries Too Easily ...

It goes like this ...

It seems that during my grade school girlhood, report cards from parent/teacher conferences all reported the same news:

"Leslie talks too much, and cries too easily."

Also, I always got C's in penmanship, and frankly, my penmanship still is poor ...

But I'd like to say in my defense re: talking and crying ... I had ideas ... I needed to work them out in the elementary school yard, and, if it needed further elaboration, the classroom ...

For example, how was it that the girls of the yard were banned from wearing pants? A fall from grace, or in this case, the swing, resulted in Carter's Puss in Boots underwear exposed to the entire Broadway ES population. (Yes, Puss 'n Boots ... Yes ... I know.) Pants would have prevented the embarrassing exposure ...

Oddly enough, I suffered a similar fate while walking the streets of Ashland, Oregon this summer. I tripped on air (not metaphorically) and went shoulder first on the sidewalk - exposing my underwear to the entire population of Ashland, Oregon.

I know what you're thinking ... and No, I wasn't wearing Puss 'n Boots this time ... they were Choco Cat/Hello Kitty underwear ... which come to think of it ... might have a similar association as the aforementioned Puss 'n Boots. Oh, my GOD!

Back to my point ... no pants ...

And in winter, I mean, COME ON ... I recall a photo of myself - bundled up in a fluffy coat, but bare legs exposed to the elements ... horrible. Unjust, unfair, and it needed to be brought up, discussed ...

Further, it was grossly and patently unfair that, while in the midst of a double-dutch jump rope marathon, the dolt that was turning the rope, during my turn, lifted up just a little too high, and I tripped ... losing the chance at the title once and for all of "4th Grade Broadway ES Double Dutch Champ."

Well, there wasn't REALLY such a title, or such a contest, but I DID trip and I thought someone should have paid ...

It needed to be discussed.

And as far as crying ... I think I laughed as much as I cried ...

I FEEL passionately about things ... I cry ... I personally will never see the problem with that.

I cried over Mark Gonzales when he broke up with me in the 6th grade. Well ... to be honest his sister broke up with me in his name ... "You are no longer going around ... get used to it." Who wouldn't cry over that?

I cried when I got locked in the library closet with Alan Erickson ... of course, as it turned out he was gay, but at the time ... I mean ... gay meant "having or showing a merry, lively mood ..." back then.

AND I cried when Steve ________ (name removed for fear of embarrassment) chased me into the boys' bathroom.

To be honest, I was faking crying on that one ... it was pretty funny, and frankly, kind of flattering. We were 11 ... life was so simple then.

So, if I talked too much, and cried too easily ... so what?

I still do ...

Freaking Puppies ...

So, Frances, you think you can write ...

Well, we'll see about that ...

I remember I wrote a short story for a class in which I was enrolled in my early career as a college student ... if you recall, and if you don't, allow me to explain ... briefly ...

It took me over 15 years to graduate from college.

Why?

I don't know ... other than I just didn't see the hurry.

Of course, now ... well ... I see things differently, but that's the subject of another blog.

So, when I say career, I mean, career. I spent more time in college than I did on any job I've ever had in my life, any house I lived in, or in any marriage, for that matter.

But I digress.

The teacher of this class asked us to read our short stories aloud ... the man with the affinity for everything alliterate read his aloud, "some scenes seem so slow in step ..."

You think?

It was exhausting to listen to it, it felt like I was being spit at ... and I'm NOT just talking about the sibilance ...

The woman who wrote about the woman who had a friend who knew this woman who alphabetizes her spices was next. I kind of enjoyed that one ... but I think she was writing about herself.

Many ventures in over-writing later ... I read my short story.

It was about a woman, newly married, who has an affinity for nice (very nice) purses and expensive shoes, and takes great pride in being able to balance a purse on her shoulder, while holding the newspaper, mail, a grocery bag (or two) and successfully opening the front door with her keys.

It was really about amaryllis bulbs that are mysteriously delivered to the newlyweds ... and how no one knew where they came from. It was a metaphor ... for ... something. I just can't remember what.

Long story short (too late!) the bulbs lost their battle with fungus and died.

I thought it was funny.

The teacher said it was the best written story in the class, and that I was the best writer in the class.

Nice, huh?

Yes, well ...

Several weeks later a woman in the class wrote a story about puppies and a homeless woman who holds them close to her with her withered, scarred and dirty hands (I think she was even missing one finger) and ... I lost the title of the "best writer in the class."

Freaking puppies.

Soon after that ... the instructor of the class who had been working on the-next-greatest-novel-in-the-style-of-John-Irving-while-still-capturing-the-femininity-of-Anne-Tyler, was accused of plagiarism and fired from the university

And so it begins ... Puppies!