Tuesday, August 20, 2013

A Twist of TRIST

The year was 1977. I was two years out of high school and somewhat at loose ends in my life. I was working at a job that I disliked, just to pay the bills, you understand, and living with my sister in Cranston, Rhode Island. Just another young man looking for a purpose, some meaning to make the days seem fuller and less aimless.

I had, a few months before, acted the role of Conjur Man in a production of "Dark of the Moon" at a small community theater in East Greenwich. I had discovered my love of acting in high school under the tutelage of a forward thinking teacher and director and was anxious to continue in that vein. A friend suggested that I call Bob Colonna, the artistic director of what was once called The Young Rhode Island Shakespeare Theater, now with the word "young" dropped from the name and known popularly as TRIST. I hesitated at first. I had seen Mr. Colonna in a few productions at Trinity Rep, the nationally known theater in the center of Providence, and I was somewhat cowed by his reputation as an actor. My friend insisted, however, and I made the phone call.

Bob couldn't have been nicer and more welcoming. He suggested that I find my way to the CIC Building outside of the city proper to watch his latest production, a charming and youthful version of Shakespeare's Richard II. I was instructed to meet him backstage after the performance. When the applause faded and the audience filed out I hesitantly crossed the stage and peeked through the curtains that hid the dressing rooms from the spectator's eye. I saw a small group of young women, each in various stages of undress. When I retold this story many years later I gave myself more bravado than I actually felt at that moment, telling my listeners, "And, right then, seeing those half naked women, I knew I was home." If truth be told, I blushed and dropped my eyes, stammering, "I'm sorry. I'm supposed to meet Bob ... Bob Colonna?" One of the ladies was kind enough to lead me to the man himself.

Bob shook my hand and fixed me with a friendly grin. I returned his smile, almost instantly feeling a bond with this big bear of a man. We talked for several minutes, not an interview or an audition by any means, but an easy conversation that ended with him inviting me to a first read-through of his next offering, an outdoor production of  A Midsummer Night's Dream. I read Demetrius but was cast as Peter Quince.

And so began the next fifteen years of my life. I was cast in the next three productions; Andrew Aguecheek in Twelfth Night, Enobarbus in Antony and Cleopatra and Epicure Mammon in The Alchemist. We traveled a bit with these shows, having lost the space in the CIC warehouse. The next summer we were invited by The Newport Historical Society to take up residence in an old carriage house behind  Swanhurst Mansion on Bellevue Avenue. We traveled, a somewhat motley but very excited crew of actors, from the mainland to Aquidneck Island.

We repeated our last season for a new audience, each of us very comfortable in our roles and becoming more and more comfortable in the tiny 83 seat theater as each week passed. We were invited to stay on past that first summer and the offer was accepted gladly. As the years passed our little troupe grew as more local actors joined us. We did about four shows each season, mostly Shakespeare but with the occasional anomaly thrown in; Shaw, Kaufman and Hart, Moliere. I was, quite honestly, in my true element. I got the chance, in my twenties and thirties, to play some of the greatest roles ever written for the stage; Cassius, Angelo, King John, Touchstone, Buckingham and others to numerous to mention. I made life long friendships, fell in and out of love many times, lost a few very close dear friends to  Shakespeare's  "undiscovered country" and, generally, led an artistic life most actors would envy.

We lost the lease to The Swanhurst eventually. In unintentional irony, the last scheduled production of our last season there was a musical version of  The Outcasts of Poker Flats. We continued to perform in any venue we could find, Romeo and Juliet in a local private school, Moliere's The Miser in the shell of The Friend's Meeting House. The die was cast, however, and The Rhode Island Shakespeare Theater folded under the weight of no funds and no permanent home. I moved to Ohio and continued performing sporadically. It never felt the same, though. The pure comradeship and love that we shared was something I never found again.

It does please me to state that Bob Colonna, the same man I met and fell in love with back in 1977, has reformed his theater and it has risen, phoenix like, to delight the citizens of Providence in outdoor venues throughout the city. My only request of these new younger actors is this; respect the man who has given you this gift, respect the gift, respect the exciting history of the theater you are part of and respect the future entrusted unto you.

Music In The Summer Air

I took a little walk tonight, just to get out of the house and stretch some. While strolling along the main street near my home I heard a very familiar sound; the soft rhythmic slap, slap, slap of  baseball cards hitting the spokes of a bicycle. I turned around and, sure enough, there was a boy about ten years old on his bike, sturdy legs pumping the pedals, the cardboard cards hitting the spokes and making music in the summer air.

I was immediately transported to the summer of 1967 and I was the boy on his bike, riding hell bent for leather up and down Baker Street, followed closely by my friends. All of us had baseball cards on our bikes, all of us imagining we were on great loud motorcycles terrorizing the streets of Providence. The older folks sat out on their porches watching over us, perhaps dreaming of their own youth, their own gangs of kids, their own baseball cards slap, slap, slapping on the silver spokes, making music in the summer air.

Monday, August 19, 2013

My Daughter

My daughter will often appear on these pages. As a divorced dad I have only a few days each week to spend with her and I treasure each hour. Below are a few quick stories, both from the past and the present day. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.

One February, close to Valentine's Day, Jane and I found ourselves near the local candy and ice cream shop, an institution here in Cleveland known as Malley's. Unfortunately we didn't have the time that day to go inside and have a treat. As we passed the shop she looked up at me. "Daddy," she said, "will you get me chocolate from Malley's for Valentine's Day?" "Chocolate?" I said, "but, honey, you're not my girlfriend." "No," she replied, "but I am your daughter." I smiled at that. "Well, what happens if I get a girlfriend before Valentine's Day?"  She pursed her lips together and answered, "Now, Dad, you and I both know that's not gonna happen."

I was sitting at my computer one afternoon. Jane was out in the living room watching TV.  I found something online I thought she might like and I called her. "Jane! Come look at this. It's fun." She scampered in the computer room, anxious to see. Then she stopped and frowned. "Wait a minute," she said, "Is this real fun or old man fun?"

When Jane was very young one of her most favorite trips was to the local McDonald's where, after eating her Happy Meal, she would run to the climbing tubes. In that special way that only young children have she quickly made friends with at least one of the other kids. Of course, she never learned her new companion's name and, if she lost sight of the other child, I could hear her calling out, "Friend? Friend? Where are you, new friend?"

For the longest time, her favorite toy to play with was her large collection of Polly Pocket dolls and the seemingly hundreds of tiny cars and bits of furniture that were essential to the enjoyment of this particularly nasty and expensive little girl novelty. I often found myself on the living room carpet playing out each scene as she devised it. Of course, I always played the two boys in each scene while Jane played all the girls. After a while a romance developed between a doll she named Sara and one of the boys named Rob. As in most liaisons, as in life and in fantasy, this one was fraught with drama and peril. Poor Rob was hit over the head and developed a severe case of amnesia. No matter what we tried he could not remember his girlfriend Sara. In a moment of desperation Jane took the two dolls and mashed their faces together, forcing them into a passionate long kiss. She pulled them apart and said, as the lovelorn Sara, "Do you you remember me now?" I have no idea from where she pulled that particular nugget.

Fifteen Cents

Walking back from the store and I spotted him, a bedraggled somewhat seedy looking man ambling and lurching along the sidewalk headed my way. I knew what was going to happen, years of experience walking the streets of  first Providence and now Cleveland have given me a sense of street people and I made myself ready for anything from him. A simple request for money or a cigarette would be the easiest to deflect but occasionally I have been accosted in a more physical manner and I tightened my body for that possibility.

He approached me, I could smell the booze on his breath, wafting into my face and assaulting my nose from three feet away. He stopped and fixed me with his milky blue eyes. I nodded curtly and moved to his left, passing quickly around him. He put out a hand to stop me and spoke in a clear, surprisingly well modulated voice, "Excuse me," he said, "do you have fifteen cents I could have?"

The specific request stopped me and I turned back to face him. Fifteen cents? Why not spare change? Or a dollar? Our eyes met and I saw then the need and embarrassment in his before he dropped his gaze to the sidewalk. I reached into my pocket and handed him a quarter. He took it and shuffled slowly away, head bowed, shoulders slumped.

My own financial situation continues to verge on the desperate but sometimes seeing the world through the eyes of another is all that is needed to fully understand the meaning of the word "desperation".

Sunday, August 18, 2013

On Friday evening my daughter and I attended the annual ice cream social sponsored by her school. The event is held in a local park near the school and is always well attended. The weather was perfect and the grounds teamed with kids of all ages and sizes.

My daughter is twelve and, as any father of a preteen will tell you, it's no surprise I was almost immediately left to my own devices. I settled in a bench under a tree close to the swing set and indulged in my favorite pastime; people watching.

I gazed on my only child for a few moments, watching the greetings and awkward hugs as she found various friends in the throng of kids. It struck me how the unrestrained meetings of only a few years past, the giggles and excited embraces of eight years, had evolved to the more sedate salutations of twelve. It's no longer cool to hug excitedly and these kids are all about being cool.

Soon my daughter and her friends were out of my sight, probably off to find a quiet corner to talk of boys and their favorite bands, and I directed my gaze to the swing sets in front of me.

Here was a girl of about ten, all spindly arms and legs, climbing up the framework of the swings. Her face was screwed up in intense concentration as she pulled herself up, inch by inch, until she was at the very top of the bars. She hung there for a moment, swaying gently, a broad smile on her face. Then she leaped into the air with a shout, landing on her feet and immediately executed a perfect hand stand.

Here was a boy of eight, broad shouldered and a little heavy, dancing in a circle. His eyes were closed and he spread his arms wide, turning and twirling. He seemed completely unaware of the people that passed by, some pointing and grinning at his private antics. Whatever music it was that played in his head kept him happy and moving, not gracefully, but joyously and without restraint.

Here was a girl, no more than five, being pushed by her dad on the swings. She laughed and shrieked, "Higher, Daddy, higher!" Daddy complied and she soon became frightened. She cried out, "To high! To high!" and Dad slowed the swing. After a few minutes of more sedate flight she was begging him again to push her higher and higher. I smiled at her fear and her bravery, knowing that even this small moment would build the courage she would need for each stage of her life.

Here a group of young teen girls, eying every boy that passed by, trying so hard to be sophisticated but dissolving into giggles if one of the boys happened to glance their way.

Here a group of teen boys, most straddling bikes, wanting so much for the girls to look their way, the fear and excitement evident in each of their young faces.

And so it went, until my own child found her way back to me. She sat next to me on the bench and asked what I had been doing. I looked down at her, my pretty daughter, and smiled. "Not much, hon." I replied. "You know, just boring old guy stuff."