farewells

My great uncle died. And a couple of weeks earlier, my friend Gary died.

It is, in part, a function of my age. I have passed the half-century mark. I know more people in the latter half of their lives.

My husband says: "ad 120"- to 120! to which I add, please God, in good health mentally and physically-- but even by that measure, he has started the second half of his life.

So farewells and goodbyes become more important to me.

Goodbye.

I heard, or read, once that "goodbye" is "God-be-with-ye".

I say I love you more often. I am making time to be with those I love.

God-be-with-you.

May you be well, and you be well. May we each fare well- until we meet again.

contact info

I used to carry many phone numbers in my head. Now there are very few.

I don't know my four children's phone numbers. They are on my contacts list in my phone!

I have put the numbers up on a database that I can access, just in case. But-- I don't *know* them. I really ought to learn them. What if my phone wasn't working and I wasn't near a computer?

BUT-- I *do* know their email addresses!

substitute

I work as a substitute teacher from time to time. I am working now as a substitute teacher in the Resource Room, which is the special education department here.

I have a kindergartner who has arrived with his work sheet of the __ip family of words. He is supposed to write the words. He says, he can do it himself! After asking a few times about working on it together, I finally agree. Of course you can do it yourself! I say. Let's see who can get done first. I will do my work over here (I point to the desk next to his table) and you can work there (point to his table). Who will get done first?

So I begin to write some journal entries, and he gets as busy as can be. I think we didn't do it quite right-- I think I was supposed to read the words, rather than his working on copying, but whatever. He is excited to finish his work before I finish mine!

I'm done! he exclaims.

Oh, darn! I say. I was ALMOST done! Let me see.

I check his work and find some errors. You need to fix it here, here and here, I say.

No I don't! he says.

GOOD! I say, then I can still beat you! -- and I turn away and he makes the corrections.

I'm done! he exclaims.

Let me look, I say. Oh! I say, you fixed it all! But I see you didn't put your name on it! I still have a chance!

And I turn back to my work, and he puts his name on his paper, and

I'm done! he says.

I look at his paper.

You won! I say.

I think to myself:

We won.

a binge personality

With me, it's all or nothin'
It's all or nothin with me!

The verse from Oklahoma! seems to sum up not my love life but my activity life. Today, I am heading off for a six hour rehearsal; squeezing in grading papers this morning and tonight; tomorrow, grading papers, taking my mom to the doctor's, writing the final, teaching the last Monday night class; Tuesday working 7:30-3:30 and rehearsing 4:00-10:00... and the rest of the next two weeks is basically like that.

I am hoping that I have a day or two of nothin' after that. Just to rest.

serious as a heart attack

I have recently been reminded how every experience in our lives can impact our lives as artists.

I am reaching the mid-point of directing Ibsen's Ghosts.

And, suddenly, I learn that my mother is being rushed to the hospital with a heart attack.

Drop everything and rush to the hospital. Cancel rehearsal for that night, and the next. As it happens, a 3 day break has been scheduled after that, so we will see...

At the hospital, helping my mom fill out paperwork-- although do we call it paperwork any more? It's all on the computer.

We are asked about her durable power of attorney for health care. Which she has prepared; of course it's not with her.

We weren't expecting this.

Mom tells me where the paperwork is. I fetch the durable power of attorney (POA) the next day and bring it to the hospital.

The first person named to hold the POA is my mom's significant other, now deceased. The nurse asks me to cross out his name, write "deceased," and initial.

I do.

I am the next named person to hold the POA.

The nurse takes the POA and adds it to my mom's chart.

A few minutes later, while my mom is trying to nap, the nurse calls me into the hall.

She points out the section dealing with "DNR"-- Do Not Resuscitate. Under certain conditions, carefully spelled out conditions, it is my mom's wish that she be allowed to die. And, in those circumstances in which she is unable to speak for herself, I am the one who is to speak for her.

The good news, in this episode, is that my mom is home, recuperating.

But at that moment, Helen Alving's pain and wrenching moment of decision with her son Oswald is no longer so melodramatic to me. It is deeply serious.

As serious as a heart attack.

My Nana's hands

I keep thinking my parents are in their 50s.

Which is, of course, impossible, given that I am in my 50s. The numbers just don't add up.

Of course, although I am in my 50s, I keep thinking I am in my late 20s. Which is, of course, impossible, given that all four of my children are in their 20s.



My grandparents on my dad's side were always old. That is how I remember them. Always old. When I heard tales of the wild man my grandfather was in his youth, I always had trouble matching my ol' grandpa with the wild moonshine-running teen.



But my mother's parents didn't seem so old. My Nana's hair was red and my Grandpa Bill's hair was black-- and thick. They laughed out loud, and often.



I tend to forget the beer and cigarettes.



I do remember one moment when I really saw my Nana's hands. I was always her favorite. I think she was the only one in my family who thought of me as her favorite.

Of course, one shouldn't have favorites; still, since my brother was everyone else's favorite, I valued my Nana's special attention.

Her hands.

I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 and we were going to walk out to the hillside garden where my grandpa was planting. My Nana took my hand.

And I looked. I really looked.

My hand was small and smooth. Nana's hand was freckled, and wrinkled. Her hand was calloused and strong.

And I felt safe.

good things come in small packages

I struggled with the title for this post.

I thought of "jealousy".

I thought of "money".

I thought of "struggle," "frustration", "competition," "self-esteem," "success" and a few other words that currently escape my memory (short term memory REALLY sucks lately).

Here is the deal:

Another youth theater organization is in the running for a million dollar prize through a giving community. This organization has been very successful financially. I've only seen a few of their shows, which have been engaging. They do good work; they deserve support.

And they have gotten it. They have received several grants and awards that have helped fund their organization. They have several corporate sponsors. They currently have an annual budget of over $350K.

My youth theater organization is smaller and has had significantly less financial success. On the plus side, we have always operated in the black. We have more than twice as much money this year than we had last year.

BUT

We don't pay me, really. We haven't enough money to pay me, or any other staff (we could really use a producer and a stage manager). We haven't enough money to get a reliable rehearsal/storage/performance space.

The reasons for the differences in financial success are several that I understand: geography (we have no specific location, they have an urban location), grantable population (partly due to our origins, we are far too middle class white bread), length of time (partly- as they started about 8 or 9 years before we did) and size (hence today's title). There are probably other reasons that I am unaware of-- or I fear-- my self-esteem struggles-- are they better than we are?

I struggle with the idea of success. Is my group a success? Am I?

I struggle with community. My group grew out of family and friends and a cohort working outside the traditional educational community. Our best times, our best seasons, our best years were those times that a core group of young artists had been working with me and with each other deeply and personally for a number of shows, even years. We achieved true excellence, I believe.

I have resisted getting bigger and growing corporate when it seemed to threaten that community; and even so, that community has had to be rebuilt again and again.

Is it time to deliberately move away from this personal, family-feel artistic community to something larger?

I feel frustrated by these questions. Part of my theory of art-- theatrical or otherwise-- is that not competition, but collaboration, feeds art. Also, I believe that the more theater there is, the more we all benefit... BUT I am still jealous of this group's success.

If I'm so good why ain't I rich?

There has been good-- great good-- that has come out of my group, and the all-volunteer group that it grew out of. This great good has been highly individual, however.

One of my friends-- a founding member and partner of both the all-volunteer group and the current group-- has been urging me for a number of years to let both groups go.

You have your PhD, she says. You have gotten all you can get out of it. Now it is just more of the same.

And she is right, I suppose. I have "gotten all I can get out of it." But that sentiment feels hugely selfish to me.

But maybe I should be more selfish.

Maybe I should make my group smaller but more expensive.

Maybe I should make it bigger, more diverse and find corporate sponsors.

Or maybe I should just get a job at Tim Horton's.