Postcards from a Cooler Generation PART ONE

  I kinda dig old men.
 I like to say it's been going on the last few years, but when I stop and think about it, I've always had a thing  about old guys.
    I love their stories.
    My High School Theatre teacher qualified as an "old guy" ---HE WAS OLD TO ME--and was a Vietnam Vet.
    My grandpa was from the  WWII Silent Generation. Those guys are awesome, because they don't want to talk about it. I cannot fathom going through something so traumatic that I won't talk about it. I had to travel to Hawaii, boat to the Pearl Harbor memorial, see my family name on the memorial, come back home, and trap my grandpa in a corner in order to learn that "RL Wyckoff" on the Arizona was his cousin.

  I HAD TO ASK! THAT'S KINDA BIG NEWS FOR OUR FAMILY, GRANDPA, DON'T YOU THINK? He shrugged "He was my cousin, I didn't know him that well."  And with that, he was done talking about it.
 
     The last few years I have found myself milking stories out of my dad, my uncle Bob, and randomly crossing paths with Delightful Old Gentlemen! Some I get their names, some I do not. Some just offer me a seat, or comment on my coffee choice;" Ha, you have to wait, you gotta fancy one, didntcha? I got mine fast and I can leave: just coffee." They are all pretty much in their 80's, except for dad and uncle Bob, who are 70's Kinda Guys.

        My dad, uncle Bob and uncle Leroy all drive to Frederick together to get their hair cut by my barber brother in law. It's beyond cute. Todd's shop is barely big enough for the four of them, yet I can imagine them all sitting along the wall, catching up on gossip and mishearing every other word.  Todd is ex Army, my dad was Navy and I don't know if Bob or Leroy have military affiliations, but I am sure they do have opinions. When I sit with Bob, I just listen to whatever story he has in the moment, or ask him about being raised in Denver. I've never asked about military. Bob is the source of The Best Racist Stories Ever in my family.  It was at his wedding (Bob is Hispanic, by the way. We are not)  that an Aunt stood up and loudly asked "Who let in all these Mexicans?"I LOVE THAT STORY! I have no memory of that particular Aunt, and I think I was present at that wedding, albeit very young. However, if I was there I have no doubt that moment imprinted on my brain. He helped the stereotype along by threatening to cut off my ears and make tacos out of them, and wielding kitchen knives while saying "Mexican Credit Cards". I didn't get it. My cousin had to explain it to me. "He's saying he robs people with knives."
"Why would you rob people with knives? He has his own knives." Even at a young age I appreciated commas.
"HE ROBS PEOPLE. HE USES KNIVES TO DO IT."
"No he doesn't, he's in the kitchen,"
"He means Mexicans. Use knives. To rob people."
"Why?"
At that point I'm pretty sure I was punched, or tripped, or walked away from.

_________

One night at the pub, my dad told me stories of being a kid on the farm in Genoa. None of it had I heard before.

He told me my grandpa left home  when he was a kid by hopping a freight. There were too many kids in the house during the depression, so he hopped a freight. Rode it to California. With a guy who died.
...."dad?''.....
"Ya, he wouldn't talk about it. Fella died on the trip I guess."
How John Steinbeck.
___________
  They also lost an entire herd of sheep one winter. Before he had cows, my grandpa had sheep.  A Lot of sheep. The number escapes me, hundreds. A storm blew in, and out there in Genoa there is no cover. It's all flat, a few ravines, which in my memory are just ditches. Sheep, it turns out, aren't the brightest of God's creatures. They all crammed themselves into a ditch, right up against one another, to stay warm or get out of the storm. They crammed so close they suffocated. Every last one of them.
  An entire herd of dead sheep.
  Dad said it was several trailer truckloads of sheep. They had to be removed.
So by the time I came along, grandpa had cows, and chickens, and  a dog and no sheep.
_____
When grandma and grandpa got married, they had the plot of land in Genoa. No money to build a house, just enough for the land. So they dug a hole in the ground and set up housekeeping under a piece of plywood (dad says it may have been tar). Like prairie dogs. Until they could afford the house, which they bought and had transported to the land ---which is so cool to me---and had it placed over the hole in the ground. Which became their cellar, and is the place I remember going down into to explore as a kid. I still have weird dreams about that cellar, mostly about being trapped. They lived in the house for 30 ish years, and no tornado ever touched the house. Considering how dearly tornadoes love that corridor of eastern Colorado, I think it was God's way of giving them a break.



   

audition at 50

GUESS WHAT I DID TODAY TO AVOID PANIC ATTACKS? I auditioned for a community theatre show. First "real" audition in...18 years?

 I did a thing that used to cause me grave anxiety to avoid anxiety. 

 I can train a kid to nail this, but I cannot locate a decent photo of myself,a working printer or remember enough shows to build a resume. I sit in my office at school on my desk top, talking to myself  after ransacking my  sample resumes that I keep to teach kids, and realize none of them are mine.  I have old headshots, but no resumes. I cannot remember anything I did 20 years ago. Was I in theatre? Did I do things?

 I am also lazy, so I had to find a song I already knew in Farrell's stash. Eric tried to help by getting on his phone and looking up songs an old fat woman can sing, and I said "I can't do that" and he said "You pay $3 and hit print" and I said "No, I don't want to learn a whole new song, it's not Broadway, I'm just filling time." He replied with his usual "UGH"  and I said "Yes, this is exhausting. This is why I quit."

 I cannot dress like my type because it's changed and I dunno what it is. I dig out my culottes and a floppy shirt to ensure I look 30 pounds heavier than I am. I kind of look for some mascara but Harper has it all, so I leave the house without makeup. I did take a shower, I'm not an animal. I even wore my cheetah pointy toed flats that make me think I'm being fashionable. They are 15 years old, have gaff tape holding the edges together and clop when I walk. I don't dance so there is no reason to wear jazz shoes. Back In The Day I was a "mover" and I  could execute dance moves taught to me. But arthritis is a bitch so I don't. AND YES ERIC WE ALL KNOW ABOUT CHITA RIVERA, SIT DOWN, I'M NOT CHITA RIVERA.  

 I arrive at the audition location 30 minutes early because I have too much anxiety to sit at home. I figure I'll get a Starbucks while I wait. Anxiety loves coffee. However, the audition location is in an old, sad, saggy strip mall with no Starbucks. No Mom and Pop Coffee. No Fro Yo. All dance studios and regular businesses. Best choice is to sit in the car and stalk the auditioners.

 And text Eric.

Let the Snark Begin! 

So many girls hoping to snag the lead, everyone watched the movie and they want to be Anne Margaret. I did this show in high school, and I wanted to be Anne Margaret but alas, even at 17 I was 80  years old and I was cast as the old mom. I watch their moms walk them in, they are clutching their binders of music, headshot and res tucked inside, short skirts bopping off their butts... I snap Eric photos for Snark Ammo. A ridiculous invasion of privacy, but I didn't invent the camera phone or Paparazzi, I'm just following the example set for me.

 The Snark Fest is lighthearted, we mean no harm. We've directed enough to be kind and gracious, and auditioned enough to know the anxiety is real. It's just a way to pass the time. There are many "Ugh's".

 Everyone auditioning is 30 years younger than I am because it's one of those 50's teeenage shows. I just wanna be a parent in the show. That's my type now, right? 'cause I am a MOM I can PLAY a mom?

 That's hilarious.

 So I'm in the waiting room, filling out my little sheet (I guarantee they cannot read my email address, and I didn't put it on my resume. See above "can't remember things to put  on resume" and "arthritis") I'm seated  next to a young lady in a very short blue dress. "Skater girl" dress, they remind me of Sally's skirt in The Catcher in the Rye every time I  see them. Her very fashionable mom is chatting with the Stage Manager. Maybe she did shows, maybe they know the same people, maybe both. I tried to block it out: " COLORADO CHORALE, DENVER SCHOOL OF THE ARTS, OH YES WELL HE IS NOW WORKING WITH BANANAFACE MCQEEN ON BROADWAY". I text Eric, "I think this woman was in Chicago  with this group, she must be auditioning for Rosie." I take in her manicured hands, her petite frame, her tight A line bob, soft 30 something wrinkles and all the crap returns from past years. Who are these people and what am I doing here? I'm on the wrong side of the door.

 As a director, I'm always in the other room. I had forgotten this part of auditions. I text Eric "Ugh, this is exhausting. This is why I quit."  Everyone is pretty. 

 The director emerges. He looks at me, says nothing, then turns to the fashionable mom and says "You're here for auditions?" and she demures, no no. He then gives me a sidelong glance and retreats behind the door. Awesome. I'm such a mom I can't even get cast as a mom, he thinks I'm just a mom. I'm too mom-ish to play a mom, get me? Soccer moms are moms, not mom/theatre teacher moms. There were other real moms dropping off their daughters, they looked like me. But they didn't have the audacity to audition. They know their place. They saw Fashionable Mom there with the SM and retreated back to the mini van with a book.

  I suddenly have a flash of my own past experience at 15 ( maybe 16), when my mom took me to a Lakewood Players audition for Gypsy. I knew no one and mom came in with me. Unlike this audition, it was open, we all watched each other. I was surprised at how many people seemed to know one another, and how good they all were. And all different ages. True Community Theatre. I was cast as "Electra" and one of the other strippers was the choreographer and like 30 years old (when I was 15, everyone else was 30). 

 The young lady seated next to me--ostensibly my "daughter", so thinks the director- has been called in. Her blue skirt bounces off of her bottom as intended, and again I hear Holden "She wanted to go skating so she could rent one of those skirts her butt looks good in." Ah, Holden, you are still in my head after all these years. 

 I sit and listen, she's good. Pitchy, but who isn't at 15? All the girls here are wearing short skirts that are too short and heels that are too high, giving them the look of baby deer. I am still the only woman of a certain age,  no guys at all, yet a late 20 something shows up. Same dress and heels as the 15 year olds. Dude. I'm dressed like Schleppy the Clown. Neither one of us here is dressed appropriately for our age. Well, I am. If I'm Nathan Lane. 

 That's when it hits me. That's who I look like! I should be strolling down a  sidewalk in Miami Beach yelling I have no peds, why can't we go home?

The young lady emerges from her audition and begins to tell fashionable mom how she screwed up the beginning. We can hear you, dear, we know exactly how it went. And you were fine.
smile emoticonyou were fine. Fashionable Mom and deer exit. My appointment is in five minutes, nobody else has arrived. I think the SM will take me in early, but no. I hear singing from the audition room. The directors are performing for each other. UGH. I'm too old to think that's cute. The SM opens the door and asks if they are ready. She says she thought they had someone in there.... whatever.

The SM ushers me in, and I'm suddenly Nathan Lane.

Pithy, gay, swooshy, and from New York.

My song is "Gorgeous" from Apple Tree. It's the only song from my old repertoire in Farrell's stash that I can pull off at my advanced age and weight. I haven't sung it in years. The accompanist gives me my starting note. I realize too late this song is structured in such a way that you only get the starting note,  and you are expected to sing 4 more notes with no accompaniment, and land in the right place when the piano returns. I smiled and....I nailed it. Not bad for an old lady with a blown ear drum. Once the initial moment was secure,
I relaxed.  Imagine Nathan Lane singing this song. I'll wait.

That was funny, right?

AUDITIONS ARE FUN WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE TO PAY YOUR RENT!

The audition listed "Co Directors". One of them said

"Look for an email tonight" and I nodded, but of course they can't read my writing but whatever. They were really nice people.   

 Of course I didn't get an email. I only checked once, because to check more triggers my friend Kathryn Gray's voice in my head " What are you, a rank amateur?" She was referring to my compulsive need to check voicemail for callbacks, back in the day. It's fine.

There is not a part for Nathan Lane in this show.

But I'm glad I went. It was fun to do a thing again, and not have anxiety about casting. 

And they were nice people.  I could use more nice people in my life.

Scene.