I love October. I do. I've been waiting for it, for the rainswept days and those seconds when the wind blows your hair back just long enough for you to know you're really alive. I've been waiting for the challenges and the triumphs that this October in particular will bring, Portland Marathon with one of my best friends by my side and then Autumn Leaves with my sister and all of my dearest Portland friends by my side. So many months I am left waiting for the sunset or the downpour or the mist to rise, so many months I am left wanting for the joy that Oregon fall, true Oregon fall, brings me. And so you can imagine with great certainty that I have been relishing this moment, when I finally get to sit down and write out my October, spell the victories and memorize the hardships. It is a month of forgiveness. It is a month of beginnings and promises and the clean slate of each morning after a hard rainfall. This post was intended to be a celebration of October and a cataloging (doesn't that sound interesting?! :)) of each goal and achievement I have set forth for myself--and there are several. This is the time when I return to who I am. And that is joyful. But to be truthful, Chicks, I am a little heartsick tonight.
Many, if not all of you, know that before I worked with kids I was a professional stage manager. Now as you can imagine that never paid the bills, so alongside that work I did a variety of other things. But for many many years, that passion which I have funneled into my running, my writing, and my day to day work, was housed in theaters. Like so many people I found myself hitting dead ends in high school, especially during my junior and senior years, and so I began to volunteer at the one professional theater company in Eugene--the Willamette Repertory Theater--headed by two of the kindest and hardworking men I've ever had the opportunity and honor to work for, and the joy to work with. The Cap'n, artistic director, and the First Mate, the general direction. They are to this day two of my favorite people, and as I grow older I find myself wanting them to be proud of the work I'm doing. Anyway, when I first started working with them, the theater was housed in a converted garage behind a bakery. The floor was Jackson Pollock'ed, the costume shop in one corner and the finance department in another corner, the rehearsal hall and props room and bathroom and kitchen all sharing one big, frigid, concrete floored room. It was, in a word, heaven. They gave me a home, you see, gave me chances and responsibilities and knowledge and hugs and words and brutal lessons of the truths of working backstage. With them I assistant stage managed my first show, then stage managed my first show, and then my last. All in all I worked on about 15 productions for them in a space of about 4-5 years. Some of that was simply putting together programs, some of it was calling the show itself. All of it was hard and amazing.
The thing about working with this company was the speed with which productions came together. Pre-production work certainly started 2-3 months ahead, but rehearsals to tech week to opening night to closing matinee was a standard and solid 6 weeks. 6 weeks! 6 weeks to put together a play, create a family, negotiate working arrangements, find problems, fix problems, laugh and cry and tell a story. Both the Cap'n and First Mate had worked at Oregon Shakes, so in each production we had at least one talented, strong, experienced Equity actor, which made a difference to be sure--but never were they the lynch pin, no, it was always a team effort. Which made it all the sweeter when the shows opened to success and all the sadder when they closed. I have learned in the theater world that really you never say goodbye. In fact, what we say is always see you later. Because the beauty of it is, you will. Someday you will cross paths with these people again, sooner or later, and it will be just as wonderful (or sometimes not, let's be honest) working with them the second, fourth, or nineteenth time around as it was the first. This world requires a great deal of heart.
The first two shows I asm'ed for the Rep were small affairs--3 cast members each. A great start to my career, especially since the guys (yep, both casts were all men, as were the director and stage manager..sometimes I think they kept me around just to add a little balance to the room!) were sweet and professional and oh my goodness unbelievable. The second show was a drama and it will remain the best and most favorite show I ever worked on. Put it this way--we moved into a Union theater (all the stagehands and workers were part of the Stagehands Union, IATSE Local 675), and the stagehand we had running SR, a notoriously kind but cantankerous fellow, was spellbound. Every night, every show, I would catch him sitting across from me, head in his hands, watching the story unfold. The Cap'n said it best: when you can get the Union stagehand, every night, when you can get him to watch and engage and love the show, well then that's how you know that this time, you've done it right.
Anyway (I know, you're thinking good lord, will this end?!), the third show I did with them was huge: You Can't Take It With You. A cast of 15 and we had everything: pyrotechnics, drunk Russians, love scenes, xylophones, crazy servants, multiple arrests, and props galore. It was a blast! But it could easily get out of control, but for three people: the Cap'n, our fearless director, the Helmsman, our experienced stage manager, and Sir, our veteran actor playing the role of Grandpa. And oh, how he shone. I got to see him play Scrooge once too, just as phenomenal in that as he was in this. More than that he was a class act, a gentleman. No wardrobe fitting was too annoying, no prop too painful to work with, no line worth forgetting. I have had the pleasure of working with many actors and actresses who fit that description, by the way, and he was not the first or the last. But Sir stands out. I can't quite put my finger on why. But he had a heart that cracked his chest cavity right open and a mischievous joyful small boy air to him, lighting around the corners of his mouth. His persistent devotion to his craft was equaled by his patience for the people he was working with, and equaled by his joy in people in general. I think maybe one of the reasons I remember him so clearly is that he was one of the first actors I met who just loved unconditionally. He once told me I was beautiful; he once told me I was a good asm. Praise from on high, for Sir knows his way around a theater. I haven't seen him in 3 or 4 years but every once in a while he crosses my mind, as several of them do, my theater ghosts, reminding me of a life I loved so dearly. I do know that the last time I had the chance to see him, he hugged me hello and told me to come visit, squeezing my hand briefly before we had the chance to say see you later as befit our joined world.
Perhaps--or maybe for sure--you've seen where this is going: I got an email today from the Cap'n, who told me that Sir passed away a week or two ago. He was 70, fighting cancer, well lived and well loved. The Cap'n said he'd been down to Ashland for a celebration o f life: it was fun, if a bit sad. In this world we are good at saying so long to each other, that farewell we have down to a science. And we are good at celebrating a person's life instead of mourning their death. In between the musty fly rail ropes and the shabbily marked prop tables, between the vending machine dinners and endless tech rehearsals, between that one cue you really fucked up and the line that the actress just nailed so that you know that the people whose faces you can't even see are lined with tears, in between all that lies a certain whimsical, dare I say Puck-ish, absolute and perfect joy in this life and the people who make up each day.
Fall is here and with it a earth stained and quiet resolve to once again make each day something different than the one before it. With it comes the chance to say hello, send the email, write the letter, make the phone call; with fall comes forgiveness. I can't bring myself to say goodbye. So instead I'll just say this: see you later, old friend. You were one in a million and I am honored to this day to have worked with you, been by your side even for just a few moments, and to have gotten to hug you one more time. Remember, no whistling in a theater and don't say the name of the Scottish play, and for heaven's sake whatever you do, don't wish us good luck. Tell me break a leg and then I'll go safely. Break a leg, Sir. I'll see you after the next opening.
