Someone posted an article recently about the latest Young Adult in Hollywood Behaving Badly, and a friend of mine commented with a sentiment that I've heard many times before - "There aren't enough adults in (his/her) life saying no."
We all know this - we recognize it to be true. Give a young person fame, money and few boundaries, and chances are, it will turn out badly. Very few people can handle that kind of constant indulgence without turning into a self involved jerk with no reasonable decision making skills.
Sometimes, though, we seem to feel that it's about the money and fame more than it is about the lack of boundaries. "You've got to support your kids," people say, when what they mean is, "I'm afraid to tell my kid 'no.'" We worry so much about our kids' self esteem, and obsess that we might hurt their feelings or squash their dreams, that we find ourselves unable to set boundaries.
I know people who are just terrified to think that their children will ever be upset, hurt or disappointed in any way. While I adore my kids, and it pains me when they hurt, I have never thought that they are, or should be, exempt from the human condition. It is not my job to tell them that everything they think and do is amazing, or even correct.
My mother, and any parent of her generation or before, would have laughed herself silly if someone told her that her that her job, as a parent, was to make her kids happy. My mother was not perfect, believe me, but you criticize her parenting at your peril.
Mom was a very sensible, logical person. She was not stingy with praise, but it was always earned and matter of fact. If she said, "You worked hard on that project; you deserved an A," she said it the same way she said, "It's time for dinner," or, "You have a dentist's appointment on Tuesday." It was simply a fact.
That was also how she delivered criticism. "You can do better," "You made a mess; now clean it up" or "That's not going to work" were also delivered as a fact, not a value judgment. She knew when I'd thrown an assignment together, even if I got an A on it. Then, she neither praised or discounted the result, just observed, correctly, "Well, (that subject) has always been easy for you." Sometimes, I was annoying, disrespectful, lazy, unorganized, neglectful, hostile or any number of other "negative" things. She never hesitated to call me (or my siblings) on it, but I never, ever felt that she didn't love me because she was angry or disappointed. I also never felt that she loved me more when I was easy to parent - obedient, helpful, focused on my schoolwork. Her response to any action on my part depended on the action. Her love for me - for anyone - was entirely separate from behavior.
She did not gush over my every effort, no matter how tiny, assuring me that I was so much smarter, more talented, more worthy than other people. She also never put me down and made me believe that I'd never be good enough, no matter what I did.
At church, they told us that we were all children of God, and therefore, special. So, I felt special; but, I recognized that everyone else was special, too.
I never really thought that the balance of praise to criticism, "yes" to "no," was that hard. For one thing, Mom made everything she did look effortless. For another thing, the fact of the matter was what was important. If she'd told me that my crayon scribble was better than Picasso and it deserved to hang in a museum, that didn't mean that someone was going to come pay me millions for it and put it on display. If she'd told me that my "A" schoolwork was worthless, and that a chimpanzee could do better, it wouldn't suddenly change my correct answers to incorrect ones. Luckily, I never had to look for hidden meaning. If she pointed out that my room was a mess, it was a mess. If she said that my grandmother really appreciated the letter I'd sent, then Grandma was glad to get the letter. Simple.
Watching other people, though, it doesn't appear to be that simple. I see parents who feel that their child is never in the wrong, ever. Did the child get a citation for fighting at school? The other child involved is clearly in the wrong, and their angel was only trying to avoid being a victim. Did the child fail a test? The teacher didn't teach the material correctly. They didn't get the position they wanted on the sports team, or the solo they wanted in the chorus? It's because the coach or director doesn't like them, and favors another kid. These parents never ask their child to sit down and be still, to say please or thank you, to have a bedtime or to wait their turn, because the child doesn't like to. It causes the child to be unhappy, and that must be avoided at all costs!
Then there's the other end of the spectrum. I know (otherwise reasonable) people who believe that any praise is bad. It will cause the child to "get a big head." Compliments of any kind are also bad. They also believe that pointing out strengths, or things the child does well, are immaterial, and will prevent any improvement. In order to improve, the child must focus exclusively on what they do wrong. If you do ever pry a compliment out of them, it always has a "but" attached - "That was good, but it could be better." This is being "helpful," they're sure.
Both philosophies are well intentioned, but I believe that both are wrong. Balance is necessary.
The best Little League coach that my son ever had was the one who recognized each player's strengths and weaknesses, and tailored his praise and correction accordingly.
I try to do the same with the speech and debate team that I coach. I would never say to the kids who compete in the impromptu and extemporaneous events, "That's just lazy. You could memorize a piece if you wanted to. Why don't you do one of the events that takes actual preparation instead of taking the easy way out?" I would also never say to the kids who do events that require writing a piece, memorizing a piece, or both, "Anyone can do a decent job if half the work is done for them, and the piece is already written. Anybody can remember something they wrote themselves. Why don't you do something that's actually a challenge, and makes you use your brain on the spot? Are you too stupid to speak off the top of your head?" Each kid needs to figure out what they, personally, are good at, then do that thing. That may be the same thing their teammates are good at, or something vastly different.
I praise them when they do a good job, or even make an effort, and let them face the consequences when they don't do a good job. I've let my own kids walk into competition unprepared, knowing that they'll score badly (or completely crash and burn), because it's not my job to make sure that they never fail. It's my job to provide them with information and opportunity, and then let them learn. What cause equals what effect?
I have always tried to follow my mom's example and keep the same balance with my kids. I try to keep it very factual. Sometimes, they do a great job. Sometimes, they don't. I let them know that sometimes they'll win, and sometimes they'll lose. That's not a reflection on them, personally; it's how life works.
Anyone who's a parent, though, knows that children are not miniature adults, with fully formed reasoning capacity. They are irrational beings. They have no sense of scale - how big or small a problem is - and have undeveloped coping skills. Their brains are not done forming, even if they're intelligent.
My middle daughter has loved her persecution complex for her entire life. She clings to it like a life preserver in a stormy sea. When she was a child, good heavens, she spent most of her time simultaneously angry and depressed. In other words, she was a stereotypical adolescent.
She was about 14 when she informed me, sulkily, "You're always telling the baby, 'Good job!' You never say 'Good job' to me."
This was not the time to point out that when I did praise her - and it happened frequently - she would tell me, vehemently, why I was wrong. After a band concert, for instance, I'd tell her what a good job she did, and she'd snort in derision. "I screwed up the (musical term I don't understand)! I played the wrong note at least six times!"
I would say, "A performance is not measured by whether or not it's perfect. Professional musicians still make mistakes. A performance is measured by whether or not the audience enjoyed it, and they did."
"No, they didn't!" (Her knee-jerk response, the entire time she was growing up, was to disagree.) "Nobody liked it! They're only here because they have to be. Their kids are playing." She "corrected" me if I complimented her appearance ("I look stupid!"), schoolwork ("I didn't even try hard"), attitude ("Big deal"), helpfulness ("You make me do this stuff") or anything else. This is the child who informed me (repeatedly), "I'm obviously not as smart as you think I am."
Instead of pointing out how often I complimented her and was told that I'm wrong, I pointed out another obvious truth. "Just today, I said to the baby, 'You put your shirt on all by yourself! That's great!' The days when I would say that to you are long gone. No one will ever again say such a thing to you until you're 90 years old and in a nursing home. If you want me to say 'Good job,' you have to actually do a good job at something."
This is why humans do not have magical powers. If she could have reduced me to a pile of ashes right there on the spot, she would have.
When they were younger, my older two children complained bitterly when we made them clean up after themselves at fast food restaurants. They had to pick up anything they dropped, throw away their trash, wipe up spills and put away the tray. They both found this to be victimization of the highest order, and a clear violation of child labor laws. The complaints were loud and frequent. "Why do we have to clean up? Everybody else gets to just leave their stuff. It's not fair. They pay people to do this. This takes forever (a perennial favorite, no matter the job or how long it actually took). Why don't other people have to clean up their own mess, but we do?"
(Answer: "Because it's the right thing to do." This was not met with enthusiasm.) The caterwauling reached a crescendo if we ever had them pick up a stray piece of trash along with their own.
When she was 16, my oldest went to work at a fast food restaurant. Almost from the first day, she came home complaining about people who didn't pick up their own messes. "People are pigs!" She resented having to do her regular duties and clean up after sloppy and lazy patrons. (I don't blame her.) She was especially scathing about parents who watched their kid(s) make a mess, then just got up and walked out.
I kept waiting for the mental light bulb to go on, and for her to make the connection, but it didn't seem to be happening. After 2 or 3 weeks, she was still complaining when we made her clean her own mess, as well as complaining about people who didn't pick up after themselves. All she had internalized at that point was, "I have to clean up whether I'm the customer or the employee. It's not fair!"
Then one day, she came home especially furious. A frequent customer had come in with his child, whom she described as "obnoxious" and "a filthy pig." Apparently he made considerable messes, and just walked away from it every time. "No one's ever going to want to be around that kid! No one's ever going to want to date him, or even be his friend."
Time to point out the obvious. "Now do you see why your dad and I always make you clean up your own mess? We don't want you to be one of those obnoxious people that nobody likes."
I swear to you, I actually watched the synapses fire in her brain while she finally connected the two thoughts, and her eyes grew wide. It was obviously the first time that this had occurred to her, yet she could see the truth of it. What decent parent wanted other people to feel that way about their child(ren)?
I don't think that we ever again heard "It's not fair!" complaints about having to pick up her own trash. My younger kids have done less complaining than the older ones because the older ones not only provide a good example, they're the first to let the younger ones know what's OK. "Pick that up! Nobody else needs to clean up your mess!"
In fact, one of the joys of this stage of my life is being around my adult children who are delightful, considerate people. "I used to be so jealous of those kids who got away with anything," my middle daughter said to me. "Then I got older and realized, those people are just obnoxious to be around. Nobody likes them."
It was never my job to have children who were happy every moment. It was my job to create functional adults. To a point, I agree with people who say, "We need to build up our kids, before the world tries to tear them down," but I sometimes disagree with the ideas others have about how that's done. I don't think that you "build up" a person by constantly telling them that everything they do is right and praiseworthy and good. You build them up by giving them the actual skills they need in order to function independently, competently and happily. You teach them how to work, how to cope with frustration, how to hear and respect the word "no," how to practice self control and how to consider the feelings of others as important. Those qualities are what will lead to them being happy. They won't be happy if they expect to always get their way and hear how amazing they are, no matter what they do. No matter who you are, those are unrealistic expectations.
I am not a perfect person or perfect parent. My kids are not perfect. Still, three out of my four kids are adults now, and if I do say so, they've turned out to be pretty great. So, yeah, I feel qualified to hold opinions on what's a good idea and what's not.
Young Hollywood: talent does not excuse rudeness. Everything you do, or consider doing, is not OK, funny, amazing or even justifiable. Sales of albums or movie tickets or mentions in the press do not equate to your worth as a human being. People around you, especially the ones telling you that you can do no wrong, are not "supporting" or helping you. Often, they're actually keeping you from reaching your potential. There's a reason for the term "spoiled rotten."
Those boring, outdated, out of touch people who tell you to knock it off, to tone it down, to dial it back - they're onto something. You might want to listen.
But only if you want to be actually happy instead of just indulged.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Handicapped Access
I had surgery on my foot, involving bone saws and screws, on November 29. "It's a 4 to 6 week recovery period," the surgeon said.
Of course, my bones didn't get the memo. They refused to regenerate bone cells at a 4 to 6 week rate, so I had gaps in the bones. I had to stay off my feet, putting no weight on the foot, until January 8. That's 7 weeks. Seven. (It would be another two weeks after that before the cast came off.)
Since "no weight" means, well, NO weight on the foot, I spent those seven weeks in a wheelchair.
I'd been optimistically hoping for 4 weeks. I think I handled it fairly well, but boy, was I ready to WALK again.
I think that everyone should have to use a wheelchair for at least a week at some point in their lives. They should have something sharp attached to the bottom of one foot, too, to make sure it doesn't touch the ground. Otherwise, the object lesson is lost, and it's like using a desk chair to scoot around.
There's so many experiences - sleeping in a cast, showering with a shower chair - that you really have to experience to appreciate, but right now, I'm going to discuss one: wheelchair accessibility in public places.
When you're in a chair, suddenly any change in elevation is huge. Steps look like climbing the Alps. Any incline is exhausting (going up), a hazard (going down sharply) or a relief (going down gradually). In the movie theater, after wheeling myself to the restroom, I had to grab the hand rail and use it to haul myself up the incline, hand over hand, to the seating area. Later, when my son pushed my chair up the same hill, he said, "Wow, I never noticed that it went up like this before."
Restrooms, theaters, tables at restaurants - suddenly, you can't just choose any available spot. You have to choose the spots that will allow you access.
My first week in the chair, we went out to eat with visiting relatives. The waitress took away one of the chairs at the table, and I rolled right up, with my knees tucking neatly under the table. That was nice. At home, my legs run into the table leg at our dinner table, and I had to fold the wheelchair legs and let my feet sit on the ground if I was going to use the computer desk; otherwise, I didn't fit under the homemade desk.
Then came the first real obstacle; it was a buffet restaurant. I could run the wheels on my chair or hold my plate, but not both. Hmm. It was also difficult to reach most of the food. Sigh. Still, both of those things were doable with help from my family.
Then, I had to use the restroom. At home, my downstairs bathroom is too small for the chair. I had to park it at the door, hold onto the countertop, then hop 2 or 3 steps to the toilet. From the toilet, I could swing myself into the shower and onto the shower chair. It was pretty easy (aside from the fact that I hate hopping. My balance stinks, for one thing, and I only clear the floor by an inch or so.)
It shouldn't be too big a deal to use the public restroom, I assumed. There's handicapped access stalls, right?
The restroom entrance was difficult to manage. It had a fairly sharp, narrow turn in it. I had to take it carefully, and my chair took up all the room. Nobody could have passed me. The restroom itself was roomier, and I wheeled easily on tile floors down to the single handicapped stall.
I turned and wheeled in, and encountered my first problem. I couldn't turn the chair around, and therefore couldn't close the stall door. If I went back out and wheeled in backwards, so I could close the door, I wouldn't be able to transfer from my chair to the toilet. Hmmm.
I was scrabbling over the back of my chair, trying to close and latch the door, when a woman and her daughter came in. The woman sent her daughter over to help me just as I managed to get it closed by myself. I suppose that restroom designers assume that anyone in a chair will have help, but I don't know why.
I learned to truly appreciate spacious stalls that allowed me to turn my chair around. It had a tight turning radius, but in some stalls, I had only three or so inches on either side of me, and that's not enough. More than once, I'd have to kneel on the chair in order to close a stall door.
Once, the handicapped stall wasn't even big enough for my chair. With the chair almost touching the toilet, I couldn't close the stall door because my chair protruded - a good ten or twelve inches! - out of the stall. I used the restroom anyway; I had to. I hoped no one would walk in while I was there, and they didn't, but I couldn't have done it any differently.
The worst experience was at a movie theater. The handicapped stall was deep enough for me to get my chair in and close the door, but the chair was actually against the front of the toilet by that point. There was no way to turn around and sit properly on the toilet. Even if I'd managed to turn around, I would have had to have my legs up over my chair; it wasn't going to happen. There was no room down the side of the stall to put my legs, even to stand up and turn around. Of course, I had to go too urgently to go find another restroom. I'm lucky that my clothes are stretchy, and I'm not squeamish. I had to drop my pants and underwear down below my knees, then scoot forward to straddle the toilet, facing the back of the stall. My right leg had barely enough room between the toilet and the solid wall, but the left leg, with the cast on it, had to stick under the wall shared with the next stall. I wondered what anyone would think of my straddling the toilet backwards, or my foot sticking into their space, and decided that I didn't care. My bladder was full.
I think that anyone who designs "handicapped access" for public places needs to actually use their facilities, while in a wheelchair. Just because it's ADA compliant doesn't mean that it actually works for someone in a chair.
Of course, my bones didn't get the memo. They refused to regenerate bone cells at a 4 to 6 week rate, so I had gaps in the bones. I had to stay off my feet, putting no weight on the foot, until January 8. That's 7 weeks. Seven. (It would be another two weeks after that before the cast came off.)
Since "no weight" means, well, NO weight on the foot, I spent those seven weeks in a wheelchair.
I'd been optimistically hoping for 4 weeks. I think I handled it fairly well, but boy, was I ready to WALK again.
I think that everyone should have to use a wheelchair for at least a week at some point in their lives. They should have something sharp attached to the bottom of one foot, too, to make sure it doesn't touch the ground. Otherwise, the object lesson is lost, and it's like using a desk chair to scoot around.
There's so many experiences - sleeping in a cast, showering with a shower chair - that you really have to experience to appreciate, but right now, I'm going to discuss one: wheelchair accessibility in public places.
When you're in a chair, suddenly any change in elevation is huge. Steps look like climbing the Alps. Any incline is exhausting (going up), a hazard (going down sharply) or a relief (going down gradually). In the movie theater, after wheeling myself to the restroom, I had to grab the hand rail and use it to haul myself up the incline, hand over hand, to the seating area. Later, when my son pushed my chair up the same hill, he said, "Wow, I never noticed that it went up like this before."
Restrooms, theaters, tables at restaurants - suddenly, you can't just choose any available spot. You have to choose the spots that will allow you access.
My first week in the chair, we went out to eat with visiting relatives. The waitress took away one of the chairs at the table, and I rolled right up, with my knees tucking neatly under the table. That was nice. At home, my legs run into the table leg at our dinner table, and I had to fold the wheelchair legs and let my feet sit on the ground if I was going to use the computer desk; otherwise, I didn't fit under the homemade desk.
Then came the first real obstacle; it was a buffet restaurant. I could run the wheels on my chair or hold my plate, but not both. Hmm. It was also difficult to reach most of the food. Sigh. Still, both of those things were doable with help from my family.
Then, I had to use the restroom. At home, my downstairs bathroom is too small for the chair. I had to park it at the door, hold onto the countertop, then hop 2 or 3 steps to the toilet. From the toilet, I could swing myself into the shower and onto the shower chair. It was pretty easy (aside from the fact that I hate hopping. My balance stinks, for one thing, and I only clear the floor by an inch or so.)
It shouldn't be too big a deal to use the public restroom, I assumed. There's handicapped access stalls, right?
The restroom entrance was difficult to manage. It had a fairly sharp, narrow turn in it. I had to take it carefully, and my chair took up all the room. Nobody could have passed me. The restroom itself was roomier, and I wheeled easily on tile floors down to the single handicapped stall.
I turned and wheeled in, and encountered my first problem. I couldn't turn the chair around, and therefore couldn't close the stall door. If I went back out and wheeled in backwards, so I could close the door, I wouldn't be able to transfer from my chair to the toilet. Hmmm.
I was scrabbling over the back of my chair, trying to close and latch the door, when a woman and her daughter came in. The woman sent her daughter over to help me just as I managed to get it closed by myself. I suppose that restroom designers assume that anyone in a chair will have help, but I don't know why.
I learned to truly appreciate spacious stalls that allowed me to turn my chair around. It had a tight turning radius, but in some stalls, I had only three or so inches on either side of me, and that's not enough. More than once, I'd have to kneel on the chair in order to close a stall door.
Once, the handicapped stall wasn't even big enough for my chair. With the chair almost touching the toilet, I couldn't close the stall door because my chair protruded - a good ten or twelve inches! - out of the stall. I used the restroom anyway; I had to. I hoped no one would walk in while I was there, and they didn't, but I couldn't have done it any differently.
The worst experience was at a movie theater. The handicapped stall was deep enough for me to get my chair in and close the door, but the chair was actually against the front of the toilet by that point. There was no way to turn around and sit properly on the toilet. Even if I'd managed to turn around, I would have had to have my legs up over my chair; it wasn't going to happen. There was no room down the side of the stall to put my legs, even to stand up and turn around. Of course, I had to go too urgently to go find another restroom. I'm lucky that my clothes are stretchy, and I'm not squeamish. I had to drop my pants and underwear down below my knees, then scoot forward to straddle the toilet, facing the back of the stall. My right leg had barely enough room between the toilet and the solid wall, but the left leg, with the cast on it, had to stick under the wall shared with the next stall. I wondered what anyone would think of my straddling the toilet backwards, or my foot sticking into their space, and decided that I didn't care. My bladder was full.
I think that anyone who designs "handicapped access" for public places needs to actually use their facilities, while in a wheelchair. Just because it's ADA compliant doesn't mean that it actually works for someone in a chair.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Photos With Friends
When we shoot high school senior portraits, we tell the clients, "Bring your sports equipment, musical instruments, and anything else you want." Sometimes, they bring friends. Often, they want them in the photos, like this.
Sometimes, the friends are along just for company or support or advice, or because the primary client wants them there. Hey, the client's paying for my time - I'll shoot whomever they want me to. These lovely people were all tagalongs on a friend's shoot.
Sometimes, the friends are along just for company or support or advice, or because the primary client wants them there. Hey, the client's paying for my time - I'll shoot whomever they want me to. These lovely people were all tagalongs on a friend's shoot.
Sometimes, it's more fun for everybody to shoot in a group setting. Sometimes, splitting the cost is a factor. Always, I enjoy my job.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
House Hunting
Watching television the other night, I was puzzled. I was watching people behave in ways that make no sense to me.
That shouldn't be surprising, really. I shouldn't expect everyone to be like me, and I like to think that I don't. I'm baffled, though, more often than I like to admit.
I was watching one of those real estate shows - people go shopping for a home in a certain city, and we, the audience, get to watch. We watched a couple with small children, relocating overseas, and a teacher buying her first home.
The relocating wife said, over and over, that it was important to her to "experience (the country's) lifestyle;" it seems to me that it's impossible to avoid it. You'll be living in another country. It's inevitable that you'll experience their lifestyle, even if you try to avoid it. Still, they'd look at properties, and she'd complain, "I can't experience (the country's) lifestyle here."
She'd look at bedrooms and say, "This is tiny! It's smaller than our closet back home," and be astonished that, "There's only one bathroom?"
"That's very typical of (our) houses," the agent would say. Apparently, that was not the "authentic lifestyle" that the client was hoping to experience.
One home, that I thought was darling, was below their budget. It was on a riverbank in a beautiful area that was described as being 15 minutes outside of town. It had a big yard (important to me, and fun for the kids), was across from a park, and near walking trails. The wife hated the downstairs decorating, which seems to me to be a small thing - it's relatively easy to paint and hang new art. She was very unhappy, though, that there were no stores or restaurants in easy walking distance. "I don't want to get in the car every time I want to go somewhere," she said. That, too, apparently kept her from "experiencing the lifestyle."
One home was quite a bit outside of their budget. Both husband and wife said, "Ooh," and grimaced when the agent told them the price. "That'll be quite a stretch," the husband said doubtfully. Still, the wife lit up as soon as they walked in.
"Look at the chandelier! It's gorgeous!" she said. I was thinking, "For that kind of money, the chandelier had better come to life and clean the house," but they didn't seem to be thinking the same thing. "It's so elegant!" the wife said. "And historic!"
As much as she loved the house, she loved what was outside the house even more. It was easy walking distance to the market and restaurants. The wife glowed. "Now this is the lifestyle that we came to experience!" she said.
They chose the expensive house. "We'll just travel less than we originally planned," the husband said. They were moving to a European nation, and had originally planned to use the time there to see more of Europe.
"Well, the kids are little. Maybe this just isn't the time of our lives to travel," the wife said.
I was left thinking, seriously? She'd rather have a really expensive house so that she can walk to the flower vendor and bring bouquets home to enjoy them under the elegant chandeliers than travel through Europe? I just can't imagine.
Obviously, to her, the country's lifestyle was synonymous with "urban" and "elegant." I have no problem with urban or elegant, but it irritated me immensely that she kept insisting that she wanted "authentic" when what she wanted was urban. They're not the same thing. Just be clear with the agent, and yourself, that you don't like suburban or rural areas. It'll waste less of your - and their - time.
As a newlywed, I lived in a rural area, outside of a small town. We bought a home about ten minutes from town. The only business that might have been in walking distance (and that was a stretch) was a gas station. My kids would have had to ride the bus if they'd been school age.
Many of my friends and relatives found my living circumstances to be varying degrees of undesirable, and used words like "tacky," "provincial" and "middle of nowhere" to describe it, but no one would have said, "You're not living an authentic American lifestyle." When they sang the praises of where they lived, or tried to convince me to relocate, they never said that it was more American or more authentic than where I lived.
If someone had moved there from overseas, I would not have expected them to say, "It's too bad that I won't be living an authentic American lifestyle." I would not expect them to move back home saying, "Gee, I wish I could have seen what America is like."
The single woman wasn't worried about being authentic; she said that her biggest concern was safety. She said that the scariest thing that had ever happened to her was having a man stand outside her home screaming, and then throw a chair through her window.
To that end, she'd specified the part of town she wanted, a part she assumed to be safe. She wanted to adopt a dog, so in addition to safety she wanted outdoor access.
She was shown an 8th floor condo in a lovely building that she deemed very safe, but it was a bit pricey, and she thought that "coming down 8 floors in the middle of the night so the dog can go potty seems a bit much." A less expensive ground floor condo impressed her because it was gated and necessitated a security code, but the fact that the bedroom window faced the alley - basically, the complex's driveway, giving access to the garage units and dumpsters - caused her a great deal of concern.
"You can always get security screens," the agent said. (She also sniffed to the camera later that, "In her price range in that neighborhood, she's going to be on the ground floor. She's going to have to deal with that.")
The agent also took her to a small, two bedroom house. "This neighborhood makes me nervous. I notice that there's businesses mixed in with the houses," the client said. I found it very amusing that the last client had been delighted by having businesses in walking distance, but it made this client nervous. (They weren't questionable businesses - no porn shops or the like.) "And this street seems very busy."
The house had a back yard that the client loved. "It's very private. Your neighbors can't see in, and there's plenty of room for a dog." She liked the house, until she opened the blinds on the master bedroom window. She visibly recoiled and turned on the agent as if she'd just discovered machine gun toting assassins.
"I told you how important safety was to me, and look at this! It looks right out front! The street is right there!"
At that point, I'm thinking several things. Was she unclear that the room was in front of the house until she physically opened the blinds? Was she unclear about how far away the street was? She just seemed so surprised, and I don't know why. I mean, it is TV, they probably ask people to amp up their reactions, but it still seemed odd.
Then, too, I'm unclear on how this made it unsafe. There's a light on the porch, there's a street light in front of the house, and yes, it's a fairly busy street; this means that it's the least likely spot for anyone to break in. Criminals try to avoid being seen. The backyard that she, and the cousin she brought along to help her decide, swooned over was a far more likely spot for a break-in. Out of sight of the neighbors or passers by, someone could take their time jimmying a locked door or window. Going into the unused guest room is also far safer and more likely for a house breaker than going into an occupied room in plain sight of the street, the neighbors, God and everybody.
Then I thought about a conversation with my middle daughter recently. I spent a month and a half sleeping in my living room, recovering from surgery and unable to climb the stairs to my bedroom. "Doesn't that creep you out?" she wanted to know.
"No." I wondered what about my living room was creepy. I mean, my decorating isn't everyone's taste, but it's certainly mine.
"You're about three steps away from the door."
"Is anybody going to be coming and going while I'm in bed?" I can handle people seeing me in my jammies (but they'd better not wake me up if I'm sleeping).
"Probably not. But you're right there if someone breaks in."
"The front door is the least likely place for anyone to break in." Maybe we've all been watching too much TV; criminals will likely not stand on my front porch fiddling with lockpicks. We also have a porch light, a streetlight in front of our house, and clear visibility up and down the street from the front.
Seeing a person in evidence is usually a deterrent, as well. Brian Mitchell, who kidnapped Elizabeth Smart, worried that he'd come across an adult in the house. He once tried to take another girl, but abandoned the plan because someone was sleeping on the sofa in the chosen home. He couldn't risk being seen or heard.
If my house is empty, it would be worse if someone broke in, because they'll have ample, unobserved time to wreak havoc and take my stuff.
Maybe most people worry about being near the front door. Maybe I'm unaware of how most people think.
Maybe the home buyer worried that people would see or hear what was happening in her house, and that made her feel exposed, which she equated with unsafe. Close the blinds at night, and you've fixed 90% of that. No one is going to stand in your front yard, in clear view of the neighborhood, peeking in through your closed blinds. They'd be arrested. Very few people will stand on the sidewalk and listen to you. (And if you're loud enough for people driving by to hear you, well, you have other issues.)
For that matter, in that private back yard, put security screens, motion sensor lights and maybe an alarm on the windows and door. Those and the dog she was hoping to get will deter probably 95% of criminals.
Was being on the ground floor really part of what made her nervous? I've never lived in a large city, where, in the words of the old TV show "Mad About You," homeowners generally "own square footage hundreds of feet in the air, like normal people." Safetywise, it seems to me that in a high rise, you'd have bigger worries about fire, earthquakes, plumbing leaks, power outages and dozens of other issues that seem to more than balance out any "danger" of being on the ground.
She bought the gated condo, in case you're wondering, and put in security screens.
Both times, the camera crew went back to see how they liked their choices; both times, the clients were very happy. That's good; one choice is not best for everyone. That's why there are choices.
I just didn't understand their thought processes.
Or maybe it's the way they expressed themselves that I didn't understand. If the first woman would have said that she valued urban living, and the second had said that she valued privacy, what they said and did would have made sense to me. Instead, I was baffled.
Human interaction is difficult.
Also, I don't think I'll ever want a career in real estate.
That shouldn't be surprising, really. I shouldn't expect everyone to be like me, and I like to think that I don't. I'm baffled, though, more often than I like to admit.
I was watching one of those real estate shows - people go shopping for a home in a certain city, and we, the audience, get to watch. We watched a couple with small children, relocating overseas, and a teacher buying her first home.
The relocating wife said, over and over, that it was important to her to "experience (the country's) lifestyle;" it seems to me that it's impossible to avoid it. You'll be living in another country. It's inevitable that you'll experience their lifestyle, even if you try to avoid it. Still, they'd look at properties, and she'd complain, "I can't experience (the country's) lifestyle here."
She'd look at bedrooms and say, "This is tiny! It's smaller than our closet back home," and be astonished that, "There's only one bathroom?"
"That's very typical of (our) houses," the agent would say. Apparently, that was not the "authentic lifestyle" that the client was hoping to experience.
One home, that I thought was darling, was below their budget. It was on a riverbank in a beautiful area that was described as being 15 minutes outside of town. It had a big yard (important to me, and fun for the kids), was across from a park, and near walking trails. The wife hated the downstairs decorating, which seems to me to be a small thing - it's relatively easy to paint and hang new art. She was very unhappy, though, that there were no stores or restaurants in easy walking distance. "I don't want to get in the car every time I want to go somewhere," she said. That, too, apparently kept her from "experiencing the lifestyle."
One home was quite a bit outside of their budget. Both husband and wife said, "Ooh," and grimaced when the agent told them the price. "That'll be quite a stretch," the husband said doubtfully. Still, the wife lit up as soon as they walked in.
"Look at the chandelier! It's gorgeous!" she said. I was thinking, "For that kind of money, the chandelier had better come to life and clean the house," but they didn't seem to be thinking the same thing. "It's so elegant!" the wife said. "And historic!"
As much as she loved the house, she loved what was outside the house even more. It was easy walking distance to the market and restaurants. The wife glowed. "Now this is the lifestyle that we came to experience!" she said.
They chose the expensive house. "We'll just travel less than we originally planned," the husband said. They were moving to a European nation, and had originally planned to use the time there to see more of Europe.
"Well, the kids are little. Maybe this just isn't the time of our lives to travel," the wife said.
I was left thinking, seriously? She'd rather have a really expensive house so that she can walk to the flower vendor and bring bouquets home to enjoy them under the elegant chandeliers than travel through Europe? I just can't imagine.
Obviously, to her, the country's lifestyle was synonymous with "urban" and "elegant." I have no problem with urban or elegant, but it irritated me immensely that she kept insisting that she wanted "authentic" when what she wanted was urban. They're not the same thing. Just be clear with the agent, and yourself, that you don't like suburban or rural areas. It'll waste less of your - and their - time.
As a newlywed, I lived in a rural area, outside of a small town. We bought a home about ten minutes from town. The only business that might have been in walking distance (and that was a stretch) was a gas station. My kids would have had to ride the bus if they'd been school age.
Many of my friends and relatives found my living circumstances to be varying degrees of undesirable, and used words like "tacky," "provincial" and "middle of nowhere" to describe it, but no one would have said, "You're not living an authentic American lifestyle." When they sang the praises of where they lived, or tried to convince me to relocate, they never said that it was more American or more authentic than where I lived.
If someone had moved there from overseas, I would not have expected them to say, "It's too bad that I won't be living an authentic American lifestyle." I would not expect them to move back home saying, "Gee, I wish I could have seen what America is like."
The single woman wasn't worried about being authentic; she said that her biggest concern was safety. She said that the scariest thing that had ever happened to her was having a man stand outside her home screaming, and then throw a chair through her window.
To that end, she'd specified the part of town she wanted, a part she assumed to be safe. She wanted to adopt a dog, so in addition to safety she wanted outdoor access.
She was shown an 8th floor condo in a lovely building that she deemed very safe, but it was a bit pricey, and she thought that "coming down 8 floors in the middle of the night so the dog can go potty seems a bit much." A less expensive ground floor condo impressed her because it was gated and necessitated a security code, but the fact that the bedroom window faced the alley - basically, the complex's driveway, giving access to the garage units and dumpsters - caused her a great deal of concern.
"You can always get security screens," the agent said. (She also sniffed to the camera later that, "In her price range in that neighborhood, she's going to be on the ground floor. She's going to have to deal with that.")
The agent also took her to a small, two bedroom house. "This neighborhood makes me nervous. I notice that there's businesses mixed in with the houses," the client said. I found it very amusing that the last client had been delighted by having businesses in walking distance, but it made this client nervous. (They weren't questionable businesses - no porn shops or the like.) "And this street seems very busy."
The house had a back yard that the client loved. "It's very private. Your neighbors can't see in, and there's plenty of room for a dog." She liked the house, until she opened the blinds on the master bedroom window. She visibly recoiled and turned on the agent as if she'd just discovered machine gun toting assassins.
"I told you how important safety was to me, and look at this! It looks right out front! The street is right there!"
At that point, I'm thinking several things. Was she unclear that the room was in front of the house until she physically opened the blinds? Was she unclear about how far away the street was? She just seemed so surprised, and I don't know why. I mean, it is TV, they probably ask people to amp up their reactions, but it still seemed odd.
Then, too, I'm unclear on how this made it unsafe. There's a light on the porch, there's a street light in front of the house, and yes, it's a fairly busy street; this means that it's the least likely spot for anyone to break in. Criminals try to avoid being seen. The backyard that she, and the cousin she brought along to help her decide, swooned over was a far more likely spot for a break-in. Out of sight of the neighbors or passers by, someone could take their time jimmying a locked door or window. Going into the unused guest room is also far safer and more likely for a house breaker than going into an occupied room in plain sight of the street, the neighbors, God and everybody.
Then I thought about a conversation with my middle daughter recently. I spent a month and a half sleeping in my living room, recovering from surgery and unable to climb the stairs to my bedroom. "Doesn't that creep you out?" she wanted to know.
"No." I wondered what about my living room was creepy. I mean, my decorating isn't everyone's taste, but it's certainly mine.
"You're about three steps away from the door."
"Is anybody going to be coming and going while I'm in bed?" I can handle people seeing me in my jammies (but they'd better not wake me up if I'm sleeping).
"Probably not. But you're right there if someone breaks in."
"The front door is the least likely place for anyone to break in." Maybe we've all been watching too much TV; criminals will likely not stand on my front porch fiddling with lockpicks. We also have a porch light, a streetlight in front of our house, and clear visibility up and down the street from the front.
Seeing a person in evidence is usually a deterrent, as well. Brian Mitchell, who kidnapped Elizabeth Smart, worried that he'd come across an adult in the house. He once tried to take another girl, but abandoned the plan because someone was sleeping on the sofa in the chosen home. He couldn't risk being seen or heard.
If my house is empty, it would be worse if someone broke in, because they'll have ample, unobserved time to wreak havoc and take my stuff.
Maybe most people worry about being near the front door. Maybe I'm unaware of how most people think.
Maybe the home buyer worried that people would see or hear what was happening in her house, and that made her feel exposed, which she equated with unsafe. Close the blinds at night, and you've fixed 90% of that. No one is going to stand in your front yard, in clear view of the neighborhood, peeking in through your closed blinds. They'd be arrested. Very few people will stand on the sidewalk and listen to you. (And if you're loud enough for people driving by to hear you, well, you have other issues.)
For that matter, in that private back yard, put security screens, motion sensor lights and maybe an alarm on the windows and door. Those and the dog she was hoping to get will deter probably 95% of criminals.
Was being on the ground floor really part of what made her nervous? I've never lived in a large city, where, in the words of the old TV show "Mad About You," homeowners generally "own square footage hundreds of feet in the air, like normal people." Safetywise, it seems to me that in a high rise, you'd have bigger worries about fire, earthquakes, plumbing leaks, power outages and dozens of other issues that seem to more than balance out any "danger" of being on the ground.
She bought the gated condo, in case you're wondering, and put in security screens.
Both times, the camera crew went back to see how they liked their choices; both times, the clients were very happy. That's good; one choice is not best for everyone. That's why there are choices.
I just didn't understand their thought processes.
Or maybe it's the way they expressed themselves that I didn't understand. If the first woman would have said that she valued urban living, and the second had said that she valued privacy, what they said and did would have made sense to me. Instead, I was baffled.
Human interaction is difficult.
Also, I don't think I'll ever want a career in real estate.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Turn the Page
"On a long and lonesome highway..."
The American West is filled with "lonely" highways, stretches of asphalt ribbon stretching to the horizon across sparsely populated, sagebrush studded land. I spent my childhood in the family car or pickup truck, driving for hours between small towns, mountains, lakes and other isolated places.
Some of my favorite memories from those roads, though, come not from my childhood, but my adult years before I was a wife and mother. They includes lots of time on the highway, spending hours en route between small towns, on tour with the local university theater company.
"You can listen to the engine moaning out its one note song..."
There were two dozen or so of us packed into vans and a single large truck, hauling scenery, costumes and the like to places with names like Winnemucca and Tonopah. I was 19, but not a full, or even part, time student. The university theater company was open to the community. Members like me, unenrolled at the U, were exempt from some of the requirements the students had - for instance, always having to stay after a show closed to "strike," or tear down and put away, the set, props, costumes and everything else. I held myself to the higher standard, though, expecting from myself everything required if I was being graded. It was important to me to be a "real" member of the company.
I'd spent almost two seasons with the company by the time I went on tour. I'd already watched the group go on an international USO tour and another state tour, and I was so deeply jealous of those who got to go. But, I was living on my own, working for minimum wage, and I couldn't afford the time off work or the expense of travel. I'd juggled a lot to make sure I could spend two weeks on tour before I applied to go, and I wanted it so badly I could taste it.
The show was "The Passion of Dracula," and I was crew. We'd already had a great run in the university theater. Having worked the show already didn't guarantee me a spot on tour. I had to apply and wait. When my name showed up on the list tacked to the "call board," the theater bulletin board, my best friend and I shrieked so loudly, jumping up and down and hugging, that a professor had to come out of his office and shush us.
"But your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do..."
We all got a small per diem allowance from the university, designed to cover our food and other travel expenses. The professors and other faculty, of course, got paid wages as well. The other students were typical college kids whose parents footed most of their bills. Most of them lived with their parents or in dorms that their parents paid for. For them, the per diem was just a nice perk. For me, it was my only income for half a month. I had to save enough out of it to pay my rent and my half of the living expenses at the place I shared with a roommate. I'd done the math; I watched every cent like a hawk. A couple of the casinos gave us coupon books, $2 in nickels, or both, when we checked into their rooms. I hoarded them like a miser. I skipped some of the things the rest of the company did, like the night everyone else ate at a renowned Basque restaurant. Then and now, it was considered a "must do" in some of the towns we visited. I had the ham and eggs special ($1.99) in the coffee shop at the hotel/casino where we were staying. Everyone thought I was crazy, but I had to have somewhere to live when we were done.
"And you don't feel much like riding; you just wish the trip was through..."
We had no "spare" time. We'd roll into a town before lunch, put on a show of various fairy tales at the local elementary school, then go to wherever the play would be that night - usually the local high school - and set up, then eat dinner, do the show, tear it all down, pack it up, fall into bed and be up early the next morning to do it again in a different town. There was no pool time, and no nap time unless you slept in the van. It was hard work. I loved it all.
"Here I am, on the road again
There I am, up on the stage
Here I go, playing the star again
There I go, turn the page..."
I played characters like Jack's Mother in Jack and the Beanstalk in the children's show. We changed wherever there was room; once all of us packed into a broom closet to dress and undress. We performed in lunch rooms, mostly. The kids and teachers seemed to love it. These shows were freebies, designed to spread both goodwill and word of mouth. We ended every show by passing out flyers for that night's performance. The kids weren't our target "Dracula" audience, but their parents were.
We also did scenes from "Dracula" at the high schools, because they were our target audience. One scene involved our Lucy, under the vampire's spell, biting our Dracula's chest and licking up the blood while she made, well, "yummy noises" - noises indicating pleasure. It was my job to fill the squeeze bulb on the back of Dracula's brooch with stage blood, so that he could bleed on cue. Yeah, pretty racy stuff for us big city folk to be presenting to rural teens. Our Lucy and our Dracula had very different takes on this scene. He saw it as pulling her over to the Dark Side, whereas she saw it as being deeply suggestive of sex. Nobody polled the kids, but they gasped, every time.
"Well, you walk into a restaurant, strung out from the road
And you feel the eyes upon you, as you're shaking off the cold
You pretend it doesn't bother you, but you just want to explode..."
After every show, we'd have people say things like, "Thank you so much for coming to our town! We never get the opportunity to see productions like this!" They didn't just tell the actors, they'd tell all of us. Those, of course, were the folks who sought us out deliberately. Walking into a restaurant, gas station or casino could elicit a different response. We piled out of our vans, many of us in head to toe black, with shirts with the word "Passion" in large letters, and graphics of a vampire, long before they were mainstream. We felt conspicuous.
"Most times you can't hear them talk
Other times, you can
All the same old cliches
'Is that a woman or a man?'"
It was the mid 80s; popular looks included long, curled hair on men, shorn or shaved hair on women, and mullets on everyone. I don't think that any of us looked outlandish; no guyliner, no animal print leggings that I recall. I thought that we looked pretty normal. Our Dracula looked downright Mr. Rogers, wearing a sweater vest and a bow tie every day. Still, we were theater people in a town full of ranchers and cowboys. We stood out.
"And you always seem outnumbered
You don't dare make a stand..."
I remember hearing about a couple of times that minor words were exchanged, maybe when one of us physically bumped into a guy our age in flannel and boots, but we had a very strict conduct code, a tight schedule and a short leash. I only remember one particular time when I felt unwelcome. We swept into a restaurant that had offered us a discount on their buffet; they apparently did this every time the group toured. Cheap food and young people - yes, please! I remember a few horrified looks and pointed comments about how "crowded" and "noisy" we made the place. I tried to smile sweetly, hoping to demonstrate how harmless and fun we were.
"Out there in the spotlight you're a million miles away..."
There's a reason that people "talk shop" with others of their profession or hobby or vocation. No one else really understands. As an actor, you're both acutely aware of the audience, and oblivious to their presence. As a stage technician, you're a cog in a complicated machine, both independent and interconnected. Either way, you live for the work itself, but also for the reaction it elicits. Trying to describe how you feel sounds self absorbed. Others like you, though, "get" it. You don't have to explain.
"Every ounce of energy you try to give away..."
Our set was gorgeous. All the carved wood elements were actually made of styrofoam, so they were light enough to haul around. The Victorian "wallpaper" was painted on. The costumes were equally stunning. We had staircases, fancy furniture, crates and boxes of things to transform the high schools into an English mansion, and our actors into characters.
Besides the stage blood, my favorite jobs involved the wind and fog machines and flash paper.
Our wind machine was low tech, my preferred method of doing things. It was a wooden cylinder with slats attached to the round end units. Over that was stretched heavy canvas. A hand crank came out of one end of the cylinder. Turning it made a remarkably realistic wind noise. It was my job to create everything from low moaning wind to shrieking gusts.
The fog was higher tech, produced by a small machine into which I poured chemical fog juice. At certain points, I'd slide the machine close to the edge of the set and turn it on. Its motor made only a whisper, and the fog would pump out of one end. It was glorious stuff, reflecting the lights, swirling when the actors walked, filling the familiar drawing room with an otherwordly air. By the end of one scene, the air would be thick with fog. Turn off the machine, and it dissipated, like magic.
We had several large and small wooden crosses. At one point, our Van Helsing held up a dramatic, ornate cross about 2 1/2 feet long. Our Dracula would grab the cross, and it would burst into flame - truly, actual flame. Both of them would then drop the cross, and the fire would die. It was visually spectacular.
The crosses were painted to look like metal, but they were all wood - lighter, easier to fabricate, easier to rig. The large cross had a hollowed out portion on the back where we fastened a cigarette lighter, right at the junction of the beams. My job, every night, was to wind flash paper across the back of both beams, wound into a spiral and stapled. When Dracula grabbed it, Van Helsing flicked the lighter on. The flame would race along the paper, providing a fantastic, but brief, flash of real fire. It was another moment that always elicited gasps, and it made me smile, every night.
I learned to make stage blood when we opened our trunk one day and discovered that the entire gallon container had leaked, coating the inside of the packing crate, and leaving us with no blood for a fairly bloody show.
I panicked a bit, but our Lucy said, "No problem. Come with me." She whisked me off to the grocery store, where we bought light corn syrup, red food coloring, and blue dish detergent. I still make "blood" the same way, whether I'm using it onstage, for Halloween, or, as I did once, for a zombie themed promo video.
"Later in the evening, as you lie awake in bed
With the echoes from the amplifiers ringing in your head..."
I didn't know it at the time, but within a year I'd be a pregnant newlywed, living in one of the small towns where we'd performed.
The tour is such a fond memory that the smell of chemical fog, or hearing Bob Seger sing "Turn the Page," makes me instantly nostalgic.
I think that everyone who works in entertainment, whether they're a slam poet, concert violinist or lighting tech, should get the chance to tour with a show; even if it's just for two weeks, through the Nevada desert.
"Here I am, on the road again
There I am, up on the stage
Here I go, playing the star again
There I go
There I go."
The American West is filled with "lonely" highways, stretches of asphalt ribbon stretching to the horizon across sparsely populated, sagebrush studded land. I spent my childhood in the family car or pickup truck, driving for hours between small towns, mountains, lakes and other isolated places.
Some of my favorite memories from those roads, though, come not from my childhood, but my adult years before I was a wife and mother. They includes lots of time on the highway, spending hours en route between small towns, on tour with the local university theater company.
"You can listen to the engine moaning out its one note song..."
There were two dozen or so of us packed into vans and a single large truck, hauling scenery, costumes and the like to places with names like Winnemucca and Tonopah. I was 19, but not a full, or even part, time student. The university theater company was open to the community. Members like me, unenrolled at the U, were exempt from some of the requirements the students had - for instance, always having to stay after a show closed to "strike," or tear down and put away, the set, props, costumes and everything else. I held myself to the higher standard, though, expecting from myself everything required if I was being graded. It was important to me to be a "real" member of the company.
I'd spent almost two seasons with the company by the time I went on tour. I'd already watched the group go on an international USO tour and another state tour, and I was so deeply jealous of those who got to go. But, I was living on my own, working for minimum wage, and I couldn't afford the time off work or the expense of travel. I'd juggled a lot to make sure I could spend two weeks on tour before I applied to go, and I wanted it so badly I could taste it.
The show was "The Passion of Dracula," and I was crew. We'd already had a great run in the university theater. Having worked the show already didn't guarantee me a spot on tour. I had to apply and wait. When my name showed up on the list tacked to the "call board," the theater bulletin board, my best friend and I shrieked so loudly, jumping up and down and hugging, that a professor had to come out of his office and shush us.
"But your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do..."
We all got a small per diem allowance from the university, designed to cover our food and other travel expenses. The professors and other faculty, of course, got paid wages as well. The other students were typical college kids whose parents footed most of their bills. Most of them lived with their parents or in dorms that their parents paid for. For them, the per diem was just a nice perk. For me, it was my only income for half a month. I had to save enough out of it to pay my rent and my half of the living expenses at the place I shared with a roommate. I'd done the math; I watched every cent like a hawk. A couple of the casinos gave us coupon books, $2 in nickels, or both, when we checked into their rooms. I hoarded them like a miser. I skipped some of the things the rest of the company did, like the night everyone else ate at a renowned Basque restaurant. Then and now, it was considered a "must do" in some of the towns we visited. I had the ham and eggs special ($1.99) in the coffee shop at the hotel/casino where we were staying. Everyone thought I was crazy, but I had to have somewhere to live when we were done.
"And you don't feel much like riding; you just wish the trip was through..."
We had no "spare" time. We'd roll into a town before lunch, put on a show of various fairy tales at the local elementary school, then go to wherever the play would be that night - usually the local high school - and set up, then eat dinner, do the show, tear it all down, pack it up, fall into bed and be up early the next morning to do it again in a different town. There was no pool time, and no nap time unless you slept in the van. It was hard work. I loved it all.
"Here I am, on the road again
There I am, up on the stage
Here I go, playing the star again
There I go, turn the page..."
I played characters like Jack's Mother in Jack and the Beanstalk in the children's show. We changed wherever there was room; once all of us packed into a broom closet to dress and undress. We performed in lunch rooms, mostly. The kids and teachers seemed to love it. These shows were freebies, designed to spread both goodwill and word of mouth. We ended every show by passing out flyers for that night's performance. The kids weren't our target "Dracula" audience, but their parents were.
We also did scenes from "Dracula" at the high schools, because they were our target audience. One scene involved our Lucy, under the vampire's spell, biting our Dracula's chest and licking up the blood while she made, well, "yummy noises" - noises indicating pleasure. It was my job to fill the squeeze bulb on the back of Dracula's brooch with stage blood, so that he could bleed on cue. Yeah, pretty racy stuff for us big city folk to be presenting to rural teens. Our Lucy and our Dracula had very different takes on this scene. He saw it as pulling her over to the Dark Side, whereas she saw it as being deeply suggestive of sex. Nobody polled the kids, but they gasped, every time.
"Well, you walk into a restaurant, strung out from the road
And you feel the eyes upon you, as you're shaking off the cold
You pretend it doesn't bother you, but you just want to explode..."
After every show, we'd have people say things like, "Thank you so much for coming to our town! We never get the opportunity to see productions like this!" They didn't just tell the actors, they'd tell all of us. Those, of course, were the folks who sought us out deliberately. Walking into a restaurant, gas station or casino could elicit a different response. We piled out of our vans, many of us in head to toe black, with shirts with the word "Passion" in large letters, and graphics of a vampire, long before they were mainstream. We felt conspicuous.
"Most times you can't hear them talk
Other times, you can
All the same old cliches
'Is that a woman or a man?'"
It was the mid 80s; popular looks included long, curled hair on men, shorn or shaved hair on women, and mullets on everyone. I don't think that any of us looked outlandish; no guyliner, no animal print leggings that I recall. I thought that we looked pretty normal. Our Dracula looked downright Mr. Rogers, wearing a sweater vest and a bow tie every day. Still, we were theater people in a town full of ranchers and cowboys. We stood out.
"And you always seem outnumbered
You don't dare make a stand..."
I remember hearing about a couple of times that minor words were exchanged, maybe when one of us physically bumped into a guy our age in flannel and boots, but we had a very strict conduct code, a tight schedule and a short leash. I only remember one particular time when I felt unwelcome. We swept into a restaurant that had offered us a discount on their buffet; they apparently did this every time the group toured. Cheap food and young people - yes, please! I remember a few horrified looks and pointed comments about how "crowded" and "noisy" we made the place. I tried to smile sweetly, hoping to demonstrate how harmless and fun we were.
"Out there in the spotlight you're a million miles away..."
There's a reason that people "talk shop" with others of their profession or hobby or vocation. No one else really understands. As an actor, you're both acutely aware of the audience, and oblivious to their presence. As a stage technician, you're a cog in a complicated machine, both independent and interconnected. Either way, you live for the work itself, but also for the reaction it elicits. Trying to describe how you feel sounds self absorbed. Others like you, though, "get" it. You don't have to explain.
"Every ounce of energy you try to give away..."
Our set was gorgeous. All the carved wood elements were actually made of styrofoam, so they were light enough to haul around. The Victorian "wallpaper" was painted on. The costumes were equally stunning. We had staircases, fancy furniture, crates and boxes of things to transform the high schools into an English mansion, and our actors into characters.
Besides the stage blood, my favorite jobs involved the wind and fog machines and flash paper.
Our wind machine was low tech, my preferred method of doing things. It was a wooden cylinder with slats attached to the round end units. Over that was stretched heavy canvas. A hand crank came out of one end of the cylinder. Turning it made a remarkably realistic wind noise. It was my job to create everything from low moaning wind to shrieking gusts.
The fog was higher tech, produced by a small machine into which I poured chemical fog juice. At certain points, I'd slide the machine close to the edge of the set and turn it on. Its motor made only a whisper, and the fog would pump out of one end. It was glorious stuff, reflecting the lights, swirling when the actors walked, filling the familiar drawing room with an otherwordly air. By the end of one scene, the air would be thick with fog. Turn off the machine, and it dissipated, like magic.
We had several large and small wooden crosses. At one point, our Van Helsing held up a dramatic, ornate cross about 2 1/2 feet long. Our Dracula would grab the cross, and it would burst into flame - truly, actual flame. Both of them would then drop the cross, and the fire would die. It was visually spectacular.
The crosses were painted to look like metal, but they were all wood - lighter, easier to fabricate, easier to rig. The large cross had a hollowed out portion on the back where we fastened a cigarette lighter, right at the junction of the beams. My job, every night, was to wind flash paper across the back of both beams, wound into a spiral and stapled. When Dracula grabbed it, Van Helsing flicked the lighter on. The flame would race along the paper, providing a fantastic, but brief, flash of real fire. It was another moment that always elicited gasps, and it made me smile, every night.
I learned to make stage blood when we opened our trunk one day and discovered that the entire gallon container had leaked, coating the inside of the packing crate, and leaving us with no blood for a fairly bloody show.
I panicked a bit, but our Lucy said, "No problem. Come with me." She whisked me off to the grocery store, where we bought light corn syrup, red food coloring, and blue dish detergent. I still make "blood" the same way, whether I'm using it onstage, for Halloween, or, as I did once, for a zombie themed promo video.
"Later in the evening, as you lie awake in bed
With the echoes from the amplifiers ringing in your head..."
I didn't know it at the time, but within a year I'd be a pregnant newlywed, living in one of the small towns where we'd performed.
The tour is such a fond memory that the smell of chemical fog, or hearing Bob Seger sing "Turn the Page," makes me instantly nostalgic.
I think that everyone who works in entertainment, whether they're a slam poet, concert violinist or lighting tech, should get the chance to tour with a show; even if it's just for two weeks, through the Nevada desert.
"Here I am, on the road again
There I am, up on the stage
Here I go, playing the star again
There I go
There I go."
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