"An Actor's Life for Me"

mad hatter art by henry hobbs

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The first movie I remember seeing was Lassie Come Home. I became an instant fan of the movies and, of course, Lassie. The year before, my family had a cocker spaniel but since I was very small, she sufficed as a big dog. Subsequent to Lassie, favorite actors and actresses included James Mason, Juliet Binoche, Jeremy Irons, Julie Harris, Harrison Ford, Theresa Wright, Jane Wymark, Susan Wooldridge, and Jennifer Jones. I gravitated to movies about spies and couldn't resist a good romance. A remaking of a Victorian era novel was a true happening for me. I was intrigued by an interview on the Dianne Rehm show with Simon Tolkien, the grandson of J.R.R. Tolkien. Simon has stepped into the writing field with a "courtroom drama" which begins in WWII in Normandy. My cup of tea and if a movie is made, I hope one of my favorites is in it. Alas, it probably won't be Johnny Depp who is one terrific actor but turns down standard parts. The first time I saw him was in a movie where he was bagging groceries. The next had him making a grilled cheese sandwich by using a steam iron and ironing board. Quirky is also my cup of tea. As a teen I bought two movie magazines in hopes of seeing Jean Simmons or Richard Burton. It was not the gossip I looked for. It was the photos of roles they played. I begged my uncle to draw a sketch of Jean Simmons as Young Bess. It was as good as Hans Holbein any day. My high school days were full of art from the silver screen adorning my room. I also was keen on finding out about the stars' childhoods. How did they get to where they were? So when I read an article last week about Johnny Depp in Boom! (a Piedmont publication) I thought, "I need to put him in a blob and I need to quote this paragraph. It may explain why Johnny Depp has a fund of joy in his acting." I asked permission from the writer of the article, Barbara Perry, and her reply was, "... if you footnote the quote and say something about 'reprinted from the Internet - unverified' it should be ok." So here is the Unverified You Didn't See It Here First choice paragraph:

"'At my house dinner easily could have consisted of a bologna sandwich, and then you'd split. You might come back later and grab a few peanuts, and you'd split again. I would go to my buddy Sal's house for dinner. I couldn't understand what was going on with everyone sitting down together.There was salad and appetizers and soup. I had no idea about that.'" Perhaps he and I have a quixotic childhood in common. Perhaps a quixotic childhood is the training ground for superior acting. My mother thought so. She said I had the makings of a fine actress. I said excitedly, "You mean I could play the legendary tragic heroines--Anna Karenina, Juliet, or Camille?" My mother did the arching the eyebrow thing and replied, "I was thinking comedy."

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...may days of theater magic bring you blessings...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYmtN8aG3zQ&feature=player_embedded#!

Boxes and Boxes

Life after the Foreign Service for my folks was very much like life before; they moved on the average of every two years. Was this out of habit or because of opportunity? The coffee reports my dad wrote morphed into a newspaper column--same wit, detail, and optimism. My mother began a oft repeated mantra, "This is my last move." She described each as, "Boxes and boxes." No wonder. The souvenirs, the books, the writings, the scraps were treasures. I'm glad to have been the family historian even though I had no sense of systematizing, archiving, labelling. Things simply ended up in boxes and boxes. However, these boxes tell the stories of my life and how I held together the evidence of other people's lives in reverent cohesion. Here is the my cross-stitching of an alphabet sampler with peacocks bowing gracefully. Over there is the budding collection of blue bottles. The poster made from a photo of Winston Graham's garden is hung with "The String of Stars," paper stars Barbara Emily and Henry made one summer in Roanoke. An antique jewelry case holds broken halves of earrings but not just any. Nothing is Just Any. A decorated shoe box with Helpers written across it contains letters from friends along the way. A scrapbook is filled with calling cards of people long dead who stopped to visit my parents when they lived in Guatemala, their first post. I have considered scanning and filing objects and drafts and art but what a project! And wouldn't it be missing the tactile thrill of touching something very old and kin? For years the realization that after "I'm gone" most would be tossed, recycled, and worst yet, ignored, has haunted me. Yes, I have been haunted by Proust and Time Passing. My possessions would be kidnapped, somebody else's project, and I worried. It has become increasingly clear to me, though, that the worry was not about me. It was about these things being cared for. A sketch meaning nothing to an outsider has been lovingly protected for decades. A tiny geode which might be overlooked has housed memories no one could replicate from viewing a photo. My connection to inanimate objects began at the age of three when I explained to my dolly that tea would be late. Letting go would be appropriate but not characteristic. The clutter proofing magazines all tell me peace would be healthful. However, my health may be better because of my "friends": the petite Eiffel Tower with its patina harboring the scents of World War II; the wooden camel with the miniature perfume bottle in its cargo, the perfume long evaporated; and what about the "Remember Who You Are" bracelet crafted in Eureka? Or the wreath of fox grape gathered behind the cabin? Must I really dispose of the mint tin filled with my grandmother's buttons? Who would know about the candleholders made in the garage opposite the beach house by the policeman who escorted me to the polling booth? Who's to note the scratched water color set (with some missing) was my mother's when the jungle was her back yard? Lucille writes, "The organizer I follow, Julie Morgenstern, objects to folks who tell you to clear out everything. She does not think that is necessary. You organize to retrieve stuff because you need to be able to find what you want when you need it. You also clear out things that YOU do not want, but not things other people say you shouldn't have. You have to be safe (can't leave the unused bear traps on the floor covered with old laundry--my example) and clean enough to be sanitary, but you do not have to be minimalist. She says that beautifully organized houses on the outside that have organized and kept the wrong stuff are not organized. Nor are houses where things have been where things have been stacked and stored to be out of sight but where no one can get to what they need."

City Song

He has 2 friends and me.

Incredible variety.

My son climbs dreams instead of trees

and leans to swing off rocking chairs

carefully angled to miss by inches

the farthest point

he calls, "Land Ho."

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...may the things that you have bring you the blessings of remembrance of things past...

A Morning Unlike Others

In 1988, while living in a cabin in North Carolina near the Blue Ridge Parkway, I came across a publication from Caldwell Community College. I was impressed with the artistry and layout and decided to submit a poem for Volume Four. This was a jewel of a poetry "magazine," printed on white cardstock style quality paper. The name appealed to me, too. Branches. I was delighted when my poem was included and even more delighted when it was accompanied by a photograph by Peter Morris whose name I knew from Boone's The Mountain Times. It was a photo of an Amish boy peeking around a barn. It captured what I liked most about the publication--clean simplicity like laundry hung on a country clothesline gently flapping in a breeze. This was not one of those pretentious modern poetry (?) concoctions where I would have to weed through a poem to find at least one image I could latch onto. Neither was it sappy in any way. For Volume Five, I decided to submit two more, one an Easter poem. Laurette LePrevost didn't give me any hints so when I saw it had been illustrated with a drawing, my delight was even greater. I didn't know if it had been especially "commissioned" for the poem or she found something she thought would fit. It's one of my regrets that I never took the time to find out or thank the artist. I did meet Laurette when my daughter took me "down the mountain" to Hudson, NC to hear Clyde Edgerton speak at CCC. I hope I remembered to thank Laurette for the sketch by Hannah Hunt. I tried Googling Hannah to see if I could have permission to use her drawing and that took me on another adventure. It's such a name in history. I was glad to discover Hannah Hunt married Thomas Grey. My mother often quoted the lines from his Elegy in a Country Churchyard. "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the summer air."

For your Easter Sunday, here is the poem:

April

Down the road, a child practices

"Rustle of Spring" on her grandmother's Chickering.

The small farmhouse windows are propped

by foot and a half split logs;

the arpeggios reach our cabin as if

a part of the night's programme.

The cats sit on the porch rail

contemplatively, a model audience

grateful for the warm companionly air

which brings a crowd--moles, robins, tree frogs.

Easter here is a sneak-up-behind kind of joy:

red leaf buds suddenly opened,

creek violets in a
"Surprise!" pose,

juncoes twittering at our

slow-to-see handicaps.

I hum along. Spring rustles in

and out of Amanda Beth's fingers

and joins the quiet roar

of the land reborn.

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...may the blessings of renewal be yours...