REMIX : as we approach Thanksgiving

As rain pelts off the tin edges of the roof, causing the songbirds to huddle, causing me to wake up, shivering in the dark, again forgetting exactly where I am, I feel the weight of the dry covers and realize: for now, I am safe.

As traffic honks and speeds up on both sides, swerving in the ice-storm, peripatetic in the race to the grocery store the mini-mall the drive-thru, I breathe once in, then out, then in, again; thankful I have a car which works; a car with gas; a car at all.

As I drive to the high school to drop off my very sparse "time sheets" for my side job of tutoring, dodging rain and, once inside, the lowered glances of full-time educators, as they sign-out from their assigned classroom positions, asking me "how's it going, Karen ?", then smiling before I even answer: I am thankful for a place to drop off my time sheets; for a student who needs my work and actually depends on me arriving at his home, ready to assist, ready to listen; a family who respects the professional I am and prays to retain me.

As I pull into the driveway at 88 Maple Street, moving my aging car off the road and escaping a "snow days ticket": I am thankful for someplace to park my vehicle and not have to pay. I am thankful the unrelenting rain is soaking into the ground and will sustain us from drought, in the spring and summer months, and is not piling up, waiting for me to fight with  my parents about staying off the ice outside, nor forcing me to scrape the driveway to its black bones.

As I come inside 88 Maple Street, hearing my Mother setting the table and smelling the mixture of steam-heat from the radiators and stove and the scents of cooking food: I am thankful for the longevity of my parental units and the miracle of another meal, hot and healthful, freely prepared and given to sustain us all, as a family.

As I open the door, Maeve, the still-happy-still- exuberant-dog, greets me with a yip and a dog kiss; my veritable fur-person: there is always someone here, glad I've come home.

Amen.  

ASSASSINATION AND SECOND GRADE

Fifty years ago, I woke up on Saturday morning, early.

As usual, I crept out of bed, and into the living-room. The oil heater blazed, adding the only warmth to the apartment. The sun was not yet out. It was a cold, November morning. (It would get colder, still.) From my parents' bedroom ( directly off the kitchen), I could hear Dad's Saturday morning snores. (He would rise late, as usual, after his Friday night "at the Club". Then, he'd take a quick shower and be off to one of his three jobs. Weekends were spent at the gas station in South Gardner. Sometimes back to Winchendon, and the furniture factory. We would see him later, after the sun went down and his "real weekend" began.)

Mom and my siblings were also asleep. I wasn't allowed to so much as pour a bowl of cereal until an adult got up. Already dressed in jeans, sneakers and a red-striped turtleneck, I scavenged last night's bowl of popcorn, still on the coffee table in front of the t.v. (Friday nights, Mom would pop corn and allow us each a can of soda--a big treat. My favorite was root-beer.) Sometimes, there would be an inch or two of cold kernels,  stuck at the bottom of the bowl. This Saturday, no such luck: unpopped corn and grease were the only remainders. I'd have to wait till Mom woke up to appease the rumbling in my stomach.

Moving carefully, so as to not make any noise, I slid over to the black and white television. I turned the dial and waited for the slow warm-up. It took several seconds for the picture to begin flickering and the sound to catch up.(In those days, the cabinet--fake rosewood--dwarfed the actual screen.) All the controls for sharpness, brightness, volume and channel selection were along the bottom panel.

Only four stations could be relied on to "come in" regularly: channels four, five, seven and the "educational channel", channel 2, out of Boston. (Occasionally, if the weather was right, we'd get Channel 13, broadcasting up in Maine or Vermont, somewhere. They played very old movies--mostly monsters or gangsters--off-limits if there were no adults around. Of course, the ONLY time we got to watch was when there were no adults to see what we had tuned in...) The "rabbit ears" on the back of the set were auxiliary antennae. They had to be manually "adjusted" if there was any hope of bringing in Channel 13. I reached around the cabinet and pushed the "ears" to the left.

News!
(News, on "Channel 13"!)
No "King Kong"; no "Wolfman"; no "Godzilla"!
(Up early, on Saturday morning, meant I got to choose the first set of Saturday cartoons...strong incentive for a night-owl like me...but this Saturday, I was being cheated!)
I adjusted the rabbit ears again. Forget Channel 13 ...back to regular "Looney Tunes" or "Woody Woodpecker".
Again: news!
No "Major Mudd", no "Rex Trailer", not even a re-run of "Romper Room"!

Every station was the same: talking heads. Flickering black and white footage of a long parade of motorcars and police and crying people. Then, back to the newscasters. (Even some of them were crying.)

"You aren't going to get any cartoons today, Kiddo," my Father stood in the doorway, pulling on a woolen jacket.
"How come?!" I demanded, startled at his sudden appearance.
"It's gonna be like this all day--get used to it, Kid," Dad jangled his car-keys.

"Why?" I didn't even glance over as he opened the front door. Hastily, I clicked the dial from station to station--praying he was wrong.
"Hey! Don't be so impatient--you'll break the knob and then there will be NO t.v. !" Dad stopped his morning retreat.
He came back into the living-room, watching the ghost images on the screen.
"Turn that up a little--"

Dutifully, I increased the volume.

"In Washington, crowds continue to gather as ..." the broadcaster's voice became yet another "old  man talking" for me. (Where were "Heckle and Jeckle" ? What planet had the "Jetsons" flown to?)

"They're just going to keep showing the President's assassination all day..." Dad cleared his throat.

(Suddenly, I remembered: we'd been let out of school, early, because of John F. Kennedy being shot in the head...oh yeah...But weren't kids Americans? Didn't our regular lives count for anything? What about our traditions? Like Saturday morning cartoons?)

"I gotta get on the road.Don't bug your Mother or your brother and sisters. I'll see you tonight..." Then, he was off, closing the door behind him.

Outside, the streetlights were still blazing.  Traffic was slow, but steady, on Main Street.

I heard my mother stirring in the bathroom. (She'd be asking me what I wanted for breakfast in a minute: oatmeal or cornflakes ?  Toast or an English muffin? Orange or grape juice? ) Ann and the twins would be up, soon, too. On  t.v., a long line of cars drove up a bigger street in a faraway city where grown-ups were screaming.

(At Sacred Heart School, when the announcement came over the intercom about President John F. Kennedy being shot in the head, the nuns had run out into the hallway, screaming...) We were all told to "say a prayer..."
But, it hadn't worked.

I flicked from station to station.
Exactly as before: talking white men and pictures of  people with microphones stuck in front of their faces. (Didn't they know that kids, everywhere, lived for Saturday morning cartoons? It was the benchmark of our lives!) It wasn't fair!

"K.K., what do you want to eat?" Mom called from the cold kitchen.

It just wasn't fair. 

Remembering The Fool

Laura Collins-Hughes, in this Sunday's New York TIMES, interviews various actors appearing on Broadway, in Shakespearean roles. The crux of the article is that performing Shakespeare, for anyone, can be a daunting trek.

Big surprise, eh?

It isn't just about being "on Broadway", either. It is about stepping out, that first time, when you are doing Shakespeare. The role may be something as simple as a guard on the palace parapet or a soldier on the battlefield. Or, it may be Romeo, or MacBeth or Juliette's Nurse...playing any character, from the tragedies to the comedies and back, requires a toolbox of multiple compartments. Playing Shakespeare, in any form, also marks the moment when you know: I am an actor.

I know.
Back in 1977, I was King Lear's "Fool". (I've never been the same, since...)

It was an all female production at an all-female college in a time when females were struggling to define new roles for themselves. Of course we understood the irony: in Shakespeare's day, NO FEMALES were allowed--even playing the very-feminine roles. (How many snide giggles rendered in High School English classes, across the world, at this historic revelation?) But, we were all fired up, and ready to take on the Bard's Ghost, himself, if need be, in hand-to-mouth combat atop the proscenium stage at Wells College.

Luckily, it never came to that.

An African American Senior, who we were all positive would become the first female president of the United States, was cast as King Lear. She was tall. She was talented. She could spit syllables like a classically trained actor. More importantly, she could memorize the Bible, if need be. (I was sure she was related to Maya Angelou and Teena Turner...such was her stage presence and vocal range...) She towered over me, putting the fear of Zeus into me, as I cowered at her slippered feet. Only a Junior at the time, I had longed to be cast next to her, after we played in "Godspell". (She was the controversial "Judas" character and I, a mere "Apostle"-who-juggles...) Perhaps that pairing opened the Director's imagination. A year later, I found myself walking, slightly hunchbacked, and carrying a rat's skull rattle, behind the raging "Lear".

Our biggest scene together was on the moors--in a thunderstorm. (It was also my most intimidating.) In previous Acts, I get to come across as mouthy, but wise. (Perhaps the only member of the household who gets to tell Lear the truth of his life without losing my own.) Not so in this dramatic turning point of the play. Lear has gone, truly mad. The elements conspire (elementally) to give him a wet wake-up call. (I am, it seems, no longer really needed.) All I can do is try to lead him out of the storm and towards some kind of shelter--our height difference, as well as our gravitas--cruelly outlined against the raging lightning bolts. My wit serves neither of us. Not only do I lose all "power" to the storm, the greatest help I can muster is a trembling voice and a silly "Hey Nonny No"  as we disappear into the night.

For me, learning the Bard's poetry via dialogue was not so difficult.( Like "Lear", herself, my mind was still bright and well-tuned to such diversions.) However, unlike "Lear"s trained alto, my own singing voice had been compared to Chinese half-tones. (Sounds seldom heard on English speaking stages. Even far less in American college theatre.) I was terrified!

"Practice in the shower, in bed, when you are running between buildings!" our esteemed Director had directed me.

Dorm-mates rushed into the shower-room, sure I was being attacked, at my first "rehearsal".  My entire floor began a petition: to have Minns- silent- by- ten p.m.- each night, and got the Resident Advisor to post it on the main floor. I scared grounds- crewmen (as well as small animals) if I sang between the buildings, on my way to various classes. So, it was only, in the wee hours when everyone else was asleep, that I could sneak into the theatre, via a cracked basement window, and crawl through the boiler room, to the stage, above, to practice. The building, itself, was not so old as some on the very old campus, but it was old enough. And, it was a theatre. Legit. Filled with haunted dreams, if nothing else.  My voice cracked, at the slightest weird sounds in the shadowed hall. There were many...

Even though I'd done well in "Godspell", the year before, it was more or less based on my juggling ability and my recorder solo in the show, not on my vocalizations. Not being a dancer of any sort, even my dancing exceeded my singing ability.

"Some of us can sing; others can dance; still others find their way onstage because of their 'presence' in a production. Let's leave it at that, shall we, Minns?" our Director had announced to the entire company.

So, I did. (Never questioning the "how" of my theatre career--only now, questioning the "why"?)

The self-same Director had suddenly cast me as "Lear's Fool".

"She knows you can act. It IS funny: you and Lear are so physically...mismatched..." my best friend, herself a dance major at the time, assured me.  "Look, I'm only cast as this "male suitor" that gets killed, stupidly...and she wants me to play him as a gay guy!  Clearly, she isn't casting for looks!"

(My quick intake of breath alerted my friend to her faux pas.)

"Oh come on, I didn't mean it like that! You know what I mean!  You can act. That's what she wants!
And you get to be one of the big roles--the Fool! I'd give ...something...to have landed the part; it's classic; it's, it's SHAKESPEARE, Minns!"

Seeing as we had both been in the cast of "Godspell", I forgave her. She was right: it WAS Shakespeare!

(She was also the person that gave me a shot of Jack Daniels, each night, about an hour before we hit the stage.)

It loosened me up for the first scene, and lubricated my throat for the storm.

I threw up after each performance.

(Sometimes, I threw up before.)

Lear, herself, as "King",  was magnificent. (While still not president, she is, however, doing something "very big" in Washington, D.C.)

My friend, the dance major, continues to sing, dance and act, to this day, even as her full-time occupation is as a psychologist. She never again played a gay, male character, though.

And I made it through "King Lear" with decent reviews.

(Years later, I even had some lead roles on-stage, in southern California--though never singing, and never in Hollywood.)

Reading the actor interviews, today, in the Sunday TIMES, I am thrown backwards. Yes. Yes. I, too, was "there":
all the acrobatic warm-ups: the sit ups; the stair running and yoga positions; the vocalized animal sounds; all of it that  the Broadway Shakespearean actors utilize, I did make use of, back in my day.
I was similarly terrified.
(Worked just as hard.)
And waited, with bated breath, for what the audience would remember.

For me: not a single line of the play sticks in my brain. (However, the bite of the whiskey, the roar of the thunder sheet, and the flop-sweat of the King, remain lodged, as if it were yesterday.)

Some things remain priceless.
 

ANN'S BIRDS

When I first arrived back in Massachusetts, the major change to our family yard was the installation of two large posts and five or six bird-feeders. They, along with the chain-link fence and huge sugar maple on the  yard's edge, insured the yard was always filled with wild-life. (Not including our familia...) Squirrels from the entire neighborhood also joined the fun--announcing to the chipmunks, skunks, possums and raccoons that there was a free lunch at the Minns' house.

Daily, upon arriving back from the hospital, Ann, in her scrubs, would refill the feeders, making sure to scatter the seed on the ground so no one was left hungry. Maeve would dutifully follow her "Mother's" footsteps, only pausing to pull a sunflower seed or two from her paws.  The birds knew when Ann's jeep would arrive. They would mass, ala Alfred Hitchcock, and begin edgily dive bombing each other. Even the squirrels would shoot "chattergrams" up and down the street, vying, with their feathered friends, for new grub.

This cost Ann literally hundreds of dollars a month, but, as with other sides of her character, she was unrelenting. "Everybody's got to eat..." she'd mutter, cigarette hanging from her bottom lip.

The birds still wait for her, though, now, she spends half her time at her new house, just on the town line. The two big bird feeding posts were rotting, so , when she moved, Kevin took them down. Dad tamped the earth to a more flat line--almost falling, yet again--in the process.
"It's mostly bird seed!" he announces, amazed at the spongey pile.

Now, there is still the birdbath and scattered food for the hordes put out a few times a week, but no feeders.
"We habituated them, now we have a responsibility to feed them through the winter!" Ann grumbles.
I guess the birds are happy to hear this because none of them have left.

Ann has installed feeders in the huge pine tree next to the swimming pool at the new house. In addition, there is a koi pond and frogs and fish to feed. A butterfly bush rounds out the visitors on the side yard. The crab apple and choke cherry trees lining the border, on the edge of the woods, brings the mammals out. When Maeve comes for a visit, she has to be on a leash at all times. Too many "intruders" to chase into the road. Too much accidental "doom" circling the place.

Yesterday, four ravens strutted their stuff under the pines.
Pheasants, in full dress, paraded out of the boggy woods, seeking refuge from the hunters from the Fish and Gun club, a half-mile away.
"If Kevin shoots anything in my yard I won't forgive him!" Ann grumbles, blowing smoke over the deck railing.

I watch a wild turkey call his flock to the edge of the grass.(He doesn't realize it is already November.) Hawks skitter and fall from high above us.A titmouse lands a few feet away, puffed up and busy. Something the size of a dove, moves in the tree...

"Time to get the winter seed from the store," Ann hugs her nightgown around her middle; pads back inside, trailing blue smoke.
Maeve follows.

Everywhere, the birds tweet their good luck calls.     

APATHY

Teaching a High School English class, yesterday, I asked the students to give their honest feelings on "apathy". (A study group of teachers were interested in approaching this issue and wanted some student feedback.)

"Ms. Minns, what's 'a path ee' ?"

"I know, I know! It's like when you are late for school, right?"

"No, Stupid! It's like when you don't give--"

"Don't give? Don't give what?"

" A f-----"

"Stop, please. Let's not use all our energy in talking...write what you think the word means. Then, write what you think makes people apathetic--full of apathy. Or, write ways you think might help cure apathy--ways you've gotten yourself out of an apathetic frame of mind. This is an opinion challenge, so, please, work by yourself."  I print the word on the board, noticing how strange words can sometimes look, just floating there, alone.  I sit at the "teacher's desk", pretending to busy myself in reading papers. Really, I am listening to the not-so-quiet discussions surrounding me.

"I had apathy once. I took some vitamins..."

"It's just, like, you know, something you go through..."

"Why do they think adults can do anything about it? Shit. It's just there. Period. Hashtag. Hashtag."

"I think, it's, you know, contagious. Really. If someone in class doesn't do his homework and it bugs the teacher, then, like, you know, everyone stops doing it--"

"Except for the Nerds--"

"Or the Crackheads--"

"Shut up! What do you know, Pigman?"

"You're being apathetic!"

"Not right now, he isn't! It means you don't give a crap--he obviously does give a crap--"

"My parents put me in therapy because they say I'm apathetic.  How is therapy gonna change that? It's just who I am. It's just how I am supposed to be--like my personality."

"Yeah! Exactly. You are an apathy-type person. I know lots of people like that--"

"No, you're mixing it up with depression. She's a depressed person--"

"That's what my shrink told my parents, too!  Then they gave me medications--which didn't work--then they changed therapists--which didn't work--"

"Then they sent you here, which didn't work!"

"Hahhahahahhahahahaha!"

"Stop laughing. It isn't funny. Wait until you're apathetic AND depressed; then you'll see what it's like..."

"Depression is bad, really bad. Like, people kill themselves over being depressed. I know some people who tried to kill themselves, for reals..."

"I know some people who said they were going to kill themselves if the Red Sox lost the World Series!"

"Yeah, so, like, they're safe!  Hahahhahhaa."

"You guys aren't funny."

"We're APATHETIC!"

"Shut up! I'm trying to think...Great, now you made me pissed off and I can't write! Thanks a lot!!"

"Ms. Minns...this assignment...is it going to be collected?"

"Ms. Minns...are you gonna grade these?"

"What about spelling?  Does it count?"

"What about handwriting?  I don't do cursive..."

"I print better than I write..."

"Can I do this on the computer?  I'm supposed to be allowed to use the class computer whenever I want to--"

"You are not! Don't listen to her, Ms. Minns. She's lying! "

"I am not! It's in my IEP..."

"How do you know what's in there? You aren't suppose to know!"

"How do you know what I'm supposed to know? You don't know me!"

"I have an IEP and I KNOW!
"Do we have to punctutate...like, use capitals?"

"How long does it have to be? I mean, it's too early to ask us to write an essay--"

"Yeah, it's not fair!"

"Does this count as a quiz?  I couldn't study last night cuz we went to the mall and I didn't get home till after midnight--"

"People are apathetic because they don't like learning, Ms. Minns."

"Yeah, Ms. Minns. When are teachers going to get that?"


(When, indeed?)