Visiting Kym

I was looking forward to yesterday.  It was time to drive west for two hours along the north shore of Lake Erie.  Kingsville is the home of Kym Brundritt, an exquisitely gifted artist.  Months ago, Kym had given me permission to have her painting “Cosmic Tree” grace the back cover of Jody’s book.  It was so kind of her.  I drove with a copy of the book nearby.  I knew that I wanted to meet Kym and give her the book face-to-face.

I found Kym’s art shop – Paisley Dreamer – parked my car and started down the sidewalk.  A woman turned towards me and said, “Are you Bruce?”  I certainly was.  “Kym’s father has just died.”  Maybe an hour before I pulled in.  The woman was Kym’s mom.  We hugged.  Such overwhelming sadness.

I decide to give Pam the copy of Jody’s book and then head back.  But she said, “Would you come to the house?  I think Kym wants to meet you.”  I didn’t want to intrude on the family’s grief, but the answer was natural … “Yes, I will.”

I followed Pam’s car and parked behind her.  A woman crossed the street and talked to her through the driver’s open window.  I recognized Kym from her photograph.  She was walking towards me as I opened the door.  She was crying.  We hugged.  I don’t remember if we said anything to each other before we touched.

We talked a bit – I don’t know what about.  I gave her Jody’s book.  Then Kym asked me to come inside for a drink of water.  We sat and talked.  Two old friends who had never met.  She mentioned that our timing was surreal.  As the funeral folks knocked on the door, I said that I should go.  “No” was her response.  “Stay.  You’re family.”  Oh my God.  How beautiful.

Kym and I decided that we’d go for lunch someday in Kingsville.  Whether that will be weeks or months away, I’ll be there.  Hugging people I’ve never met.  Isn’t that lovely, Jodiette?  “Yes, husband.  It sure is.”

Ha! Ha! Ha!

That’s the sound of me laughing at myself.  I’m so not good at mechanical things, electrical things … lots of things.

Exhibit A: lawn tractor and air compressor

It was time to cut the lawn for the first time this season.  I’ve fantasized about my dear neighbours working on placards in their basements, with nifty slogans such as “Move your ass on the grass” and “Kerr forest growing daily”.  So I started the lawn tractor in our backyard shed and drove it past the house to our driveway.  At which point the front right tire came off its rim.

The tire was looking squished under the weight of the tractor so I took the jack out of Scarlet, our Toyota Corolla, and got the tire into the air.  There!  See, I’m mechanical.

Jody and I bought an air compressor a few years ago and happily I remembered where I had stored it.  Not so happily, the machine’s manual has flown the coop.  Jody was really organized and had alphabetical files for each of our outdoor apparatuses.  (Is that a word?)  But “compressor” or “air” were nowhere to be found.  Oh, Bruce, where did you leave that thing?  And then … “Ha! Ha! Ha!”  It’s so comforting to laugh at my foibles.  Too bad it’s taken me six decades to get to this point.  Oh well.  Perhaps an averagely handy guy would know how to operate the compressor, but that’s not me.  I was especially put off by the warning labels: danger this and danger that.  I phoned the 1-800 number for Rona – the store where we’d bought the beast.  “We don’t have manuals.  But your compressor was made by Black and Decker.  Try them.”  I did but nobody was at home at 6:05 pm.  Mañana.

I now sit reflecting on my lack of male skills, smiling as I do so.  I have many good qualities.  They just don’t happen to include household maintenance.

Exhibit B: TV audio

Jody and I had owned an XM radio for years, and sometimes listened to it in Hugo (our Honda CRV).  But not much recently.  So a month ago I cancelled the subscription and had an audio store remove the hardware.  Just before I went to Belleville, I decided to get the family room in order, so I got rid of the XM radio docking station that was connected to our TV and sound system.  Simple really … all you have to do is pull some cables out and voilà – no XM.  Also no sound from the TV, Playstation 3 or sound system.  (Sigh)  I looked at the ports – audio in, audio out, serial data, IR emitter …  Gosh.  What came from where?  I had no clue then nor now.  A week without TV hasn’t killed me but there were a few shows I had wanted to watch.

And now it’s time once again, ladies and gentlemen, for “Ha! Ha! Ha!”  I just don’t have a clue.  Humbling life is, wouldn’t you say?  May I ever smile at all the “not knowing” in my life.

Hand Dryers

Sometimes objects out there in the world have a lot to say to me.  When I go into a washroom, I make sure that I use soap.  I also want to have my hands dry when I walk out the door.

Years ago, my office was at Catholic Central High School in London.  I’d do my phone calls and paperwork there, and then zoom off to all sorts of schools to see low vision kids.  The stress of the job often overwhelmed me.  I was just going so fast.  A washroom was right next door, and I’d sometimes fly out of there with hands dripping.  It took me maybe two years to figure out that my bathroom behaviour was a symbol of what was “off” in my life.

One day, I decided to wait until my hands were completely dry.  That was a trick, since the CCH hand dryers were definitely underpowered.  But I was determined.  I rubbed and waited and then rubbed some more, turned the dryer back on a few times, and felt the tension growing in my chest.  What an education.  Having a natural completion of the task seemed wise, but it was so hard to not lean forward into the next moment.

Then what about companions?  I’m in a restaurant washroom rubbing away but another fellow is washing his hands at the sink.  He’ll need the dryer in seconds!  And my hands are still wet.  What discipline it takes to finish the job while feeling him standing behind me.  But that’s what I do.  It’s good to feel the pressure, and to hold it gently, realizing that I will still be alive when my friend and I exit.

But some dryers are painfully loud.  Such an assault on my whole being.  I’ve decided that if there are no paper towels, I’ll drip dry.  This seems to defeat my commitment to dry off completely, but really it doesn’t.   What I’m committed to is my well-being, whether that means not subjecting myself to noxious noise or seeing a task to its natural end.  If my heart and soul remain balanced and happy, then they’re available to the next person I meet.

So … thanks, all you manufacturers of hand dryers.  Little do you realize that you’re contributing to my spiritual development.

Giving Books

I’ve worried occasionally about how I’m going to give out 500 copies of the book I’ve written about Jody.  Today eased that concern considerably.

I started this morning at Parkwood Hospital, where Jody worked for 20 years.  There were five or six people I was trying to find, folks who had asked for a copy.  First I met a fellow who had been a colleague of Jody’s years ago, when she worked with veterans at the hospital.  He knew that Jody had died but not that I had written the story of her illness and death.  I sat on an angled stand that showed a map of the fourth floor and wrote some thankful words about him and Jody while he watched my pen move across the page.  I was thrilled to give the book to him and he was so happy to have it.

Within a few minutes, three women were gathered around me.  I felt a wee tiny bit like a rock star.  Two of the women had been looking forward to having Jody’s story but the third person was approaching me to let me know that she was going on the Heart and Stroke Big Bike Ride in June.  She was doing it in honour of Jody and another Parkwood occupational therapist who died recently.  I was so happy when I heard her news.  I mentioned that I had written a book about Jody and asked her if she’d like a copy.  She started crying … and kept going.  How very beautiful to be present for her tears.  She cried some more when I handed Jodiette: My Lovely Wife to her.

Later, in the elevator, I told a young woman how much fun I was having, signing Jody’s books.  She told me that she was an occupational therapy student.  “I saw a book in the office, with the photo of a woman on the cover.  Is that your wife?”  “Yes … … Would you like a copy?”  She lowered her head, paused, and said “yes”.  Such lovely shyness.  I sat with her for a few minutes in the cafeteria and wrote, “May you serve your patients with love, as Jody did.”

Next I drove over to one of the schools where I assisted visually impaired kids until I retired last June.  More inscriptions, more signings, and the chance to sit with a class of Grade 2/3 children and tell them about my dear wife.  What a privilege.

Then it was off to another school, where person after person welcomed me in the hallway, and several of them said yes to Jodiette.  The principal was so pleased to have me back in her school.  She had read many of my e-mails about Jody to her husband, and some of my thoughts touched them.  Gosh, that’s what I want in life – to touch people.  In the photocopier room, an old friend of mine said no to the book, and cried as she did so.  It had been too heartrending when she read some of my e-mails.  Not receiving Jody’s book was a good decision for her.

Okay, now it was hometime.  Should I follow suit?  Not quite.  I drove a few miles to The London Free Press.  A writer I had met on the train ten days ago had suggested I leave a copy for a certain columnist there, in hopes that he would review it in the paper.  So I did, attaching a note: “In a perfect world, someone at The Free Press would review my book.  But if that doesn’t happen, at least they can read a love story.”  Who knows what will happen?

One final stop: Chapters on Wellington Road South.  Would a big bookstore put our book on display?  A manager told me to e-mail the guy who’s responsible for consignments.  I’ll do that later tonight.  Who knows what will happen?  Again.  I left a copy for him.

An employee who had heard this conversation told me where I’d find books on Buddhism.  I found what looked like a good one and sat down on a chair to do some page flipping.  Okay, done deal.  I walked over to the till and there was my navigator friend.  As I paid for How To Wake Up, he wished me good luck with the consignment and said he’d buy a copy.  “How about if I give you one right now?”  (Pause.  “No, no.”  Smile.  “Well, okay.”)  So I did.

As I was heading towards the entrance, I glanced over to a young female employee who had also been there for the original conversation.  She was sitting at a desk, reading a book.  A familiar-looking book.  One with a beautiful woman on the cover … my Jodiette.  She smiled and said, “This is good.  I’m going to buy one when we display them.”

(Now’s the time for Copy and Paste.)

“How about if I give you one right now?”  (Pause.  “No, no.”  Smile.  “Well, okay.”)  So I did.

The world is a wonder.

A Circle of Drums

Yesterday was sunny and warm in London … such a blessing.  I strolled into Victoria Park – ten acres of green grass and mature trees – and sat on a bench.  Just me and the birds, except for that group of people over there.  Actually a circle of folks sitting on the grass, most of them with a drum on their lap.  Even from a hundred yards away, the sound was hypnotic.  The rhythms moved deep within me.  I closed my eyes and opened my heart.

Then I looked more carefully at these people, about twenty of them, mostly young adults with a few kids sprinkled in.  Two of the women who weren’t drumming stood and danced in their long patterned skirts.  One of them picked up a hula hoop and whirled it around.

I was transported back to the 1970’s, to the Mariposa Folk Festival on Toronto Island.  Lots of gentle movement there too.  Friendly faces.  Big smiles.  No problem, man.  In Victoria Park, the sun was falling between the trees, illuminating those flowing skirts and drumming hands.  I smiled.  How about if the whole world has a go with a drum on its lap?  We’d let the being emerge and the doing fade into the distance.

I closed my eyes again and began meditating.  The beat was strong, but over the minutes it lessened … and eventually stopped.  Excited voices for a bit.  And finally silence except for the breeze and the birdies.  Then I opened my eyes.  My friends were gone.  There was sadness in me.  May the good times never end.  But they do, of course, and that’s just the way life is.  Still, the beat goes on in the space where it had been.  The circle in the grass a hundred yards away still holds the joy of an hour before.  May I sense similar reminders of past glories as I walk through the day.

Turner Brown

Back in the 1990’s, Jody and I bought a light brown stuffed bear, about 18 inches tall.  Jody named him Turner Brown.  He has sat in our bedroom for many years.  After Jody died, I got closer to Turner.  I’m sad to admit that the two of us had often gone weeks between our chats.  No longer, though.  Turner and I talk every day, just like Jody and I do.

A few weeks ago, I went on a 9-day meditation retreat in Massachusetts.  More recently, I spent four days in Belleville.  There was no question each time … Turner Brown was coming with me.  I packed my suitcase, carefully placing my friend on his back on top of the clothes, and shut the fabric cover.  I prayed that Turner could breathe okay.  It turns out that he was fine.  There was a little bump pressing out from the suitcase.  I don’t think anybody noticed.

In my room in Barre, Turner sat on a chair.  In Belleville, I created a place of honour for him on a chest-of-drawers.  In our bedroom, it’s a chair again.  Every morning, I sit in front of Turner and make eye contact.  He seems comfortable with that.  I put my hand on his fuzzy head and say, “Turner Brown … … All beings everywhere.”  And I think of all of us, how fragile we are, how we need love.  Then I take my right hand and draw the outside of my fingers down his left cheek.  It’s one of my favourite gestures.  He gets it.  I hope all people do.

Speaking

I woke up yesterday morning and opened the pages of The London Free Press, our local paper.  There was an article about Art Boon, a 90-year-old World War II veteran who had participated in the liberation of Holland.  For all these years the Dutch people have revered Canadian troops for giving them their freedom.

Art has been invited to participate in the 70th anniversary of this momentous event and he wants his son Rick, an elementary school teacher in Stratford, Ontario, to accompany him, to share in the celebration and also assist with Art’s physical needs.

Rick’s school board has turned down his request for a 6-day unpaid leave.  And the media storm has stretched across Canada.  The article mentioned that there would be a town hall meeting on Thursday evening in Stratford to discuss the situation and possible solutions.  I put down the paper and realized … I’m going.  It felt right.  It also felt strange.  I have never been very political.  But Art and his fellow veterans need to be honoured and to be allowed to stand beside their family members in Holland.

I arrived in Stratford and was advised to go to Bentley’s Restaurant for a good burger.  I sat at the bar, beside a fellow who was on the edge of being drunk.  Also, he appeared to have a memory problem, as he told me over and over again about working in a plastics factory in the 1970’s.  But I enjoyed his company.  I paid attention to him.  I wonder how many people do that.  What I was doing was nothing special, just honouring a fellow human being.

Chairs were set up in a large room at Stratford’s City Hall.  On the stage, eight people took turns speaking: Art, a veteran of Bosnia and Afghanistan tours of duty, two representatives of the school board, an historian, a lawyer, a professional singer who lives in Stratford, and the chairman.  We also heard from a 16-year-old student and the mother of one of Rick Boon’s students.  I thought they all spoke well, with great sincerity and respect.  It’s so tempting to look at this issue as “I’m right.  You’re wrong,” but that’s not it.

I knew halfway through the proceedings that I would speak when the audience members were invited to do so.  It was a natural sureness.  No tension.  Later, I stood in a line at the microphone, waiting for my turn.  Now I was nervous, but I was fine with that.  Long ago, I learned that the best public speeches are real.  They don’t need to be polished, “professional”.  They just need to come from the heart.

My turn.  In the past I’ve often obsessed about how far my mouth should be from the microphone.  Just a wee bit of obsession last night.  Here’s approximately what I said:

“My name is Bruce Kerr.  I live in Union, Ontario.  I don’t really have an affiliation.  I read about this meeting in this morning’s London Free Press, and I wanted to come.

There are two perspectives here, and I think that they’re both valid.  However, one perspective can be “senior” to the other one – more valuable.  I’m a retired teacher.  I know something about collective agreements and I’m sure that working with them is difficult for school board members.  I know that with my former board, the phrase “exceptional circumstances” showed up in our agreements.  The other perspective focuses on the incredible gift that the Canadian troops gave to the Dutch people, and the value of father and son celebrating that together, and celebrating their love for each other.  Also I understand that Rick assists with some of Art’s physical needs.  I think this perspective is more valuable.

And I have a question: Concerning this issue, what are Rick Boon’s students learning?”

It was a rhetorical question.  I sat down.

I’m glad I spoke.  No fanfare.  No reporter asking me afterwards for further comment.  Just a natural speaking.  I said hi to a couple of people, walked out the door, got in my car Hugo, and drove home.

The Musicians of Orchestra London

I went to a concert tonight – 25 musicians playing classical music brilliantly in an old church with a wraparound balcony.  Up until a few months ago, these folks were the core of Orchestra London.  Then city council cut their funding and now the orchestra is virtually bankrupt.  How sad that our city of 350,000 no longer has funded classical music.

These players have a motto: “We Play On.”  And they most certainly do.  When we gave them a prolonged standing ovation at the end of the evening, there were tears in my eyes, and in those of several musicians.  Plus smiles all around.  We lightened their hearts, I do believe.

I sat in the third row, right in the centre, and I saw wondrous things.  The concertmaster (that is the violinist who sits close to the conductor and plays lots of solos) was a ball of passion.  He rocked forward and back.  He closed his eyes.  His notes, full of vibrato, were wondrous to behold.  At times, it looked like he was kissing someone.  At others, he seemed to be making love to his instrument.  The flautist was just as expressive.  Her head would dip and sway as she played her solo line.  And her long silver flute, usually held horizontally, would dip and sway as well.  It was all a dance.

The violinist closest to me had the most expressive eyes.  I was behind her and to the left so I could see her eyelashes move.  She would glance at her music, and then her eyelashes would rise as she looked at the conductor, keeping to the beat of his baton.  It was lovely to see.

I played cello from Grade 6 till Grade 13.  Why, oh why, did I give it up?  Tonight I watched the cello section intently.  When the cellist dips and sways, it’s a big instrument that moves around.

All these heads in motion.  All these eyes closing and opening again.  I couldn’t think of another profession where such expression is normal.  The average teacher doesn’t move like that.  Nor doctors, executives or plumbers.  It must be so cool.

We heard pieces from Mozart (composed when he was 17!), Wagner, Bartok and Haydn – different styles but the passion remained.  At one point, one of the musicians spoke to the audience.  She talked about classical music being “transformational”, beyond words.  Yes.  I was transported tonight to a land of tone and movement.  I’m glad I was there.

Welcomed to Belleville

I had never been to Belleville before.  But I’ll be back.  People were so kind to me.

It started with a phone call weeks ago to reserve a room at the Place Victoria Place Bed and Breakfast.  This fellow Gord was so … conversational.  This is good.  I’m going to enjoy this.  And I did.

Gord and Danielle are clearly proud of their home.  Danielle’s tour was done with such pleasure.  I loved the 12-foot ceilings, the white duvet in my white bedroom, the claw foot tub and clamshell sink, plus my own private sitting room.  But it’s people who make the world go round.  I was looking for a purveyor of liquorious fluids for Thursday’s supper, and Danielle recommended The Beaufort Pub.  The woman who served me at the bar (Valerie?) clearly enjoys Belleville, and I enjoyed her roast beef cradled in the world’s biggest Yorkshire pudding.  And my barmates were happy to talk.  We covered the NHL playoffs and the sad demise of the Bulls.  It didn’t matter that I was a stranger.  Nobody gave me the “Do I know you?” look.  Just folks.

Chatting at breakfast each morning was awfully fun.  On Saturday, I wanted to write a blog about my Friday walk, which took me way east on Dundas St. to a carwash and a convenience store.  I was obsessing about the name of the carwash.  I really wanted to include that but my brain wasn’t co-operating.  Gord took off to his computer and tried to find the name.  No luck.  And none with the Yellow Pages.  Danielle and Gord were even willing to get in their car and drive over there for me, but I asked them not to.  I wanted to write my blog and then get out into the Belleville world.  So the car wash remained anonymous.  But it’s coming to me now … I’m sure it’s called “Sammy’s Shiny Sudsy Car Wash”.  Yes, that’s it.

My hosts told me about the wonders of Sandbanks Park.  I’m definitely going to experience the dunes when I come back.  And Gord helped me locate a little strip of Belleville park near Great St. James St.  It turned out to be a wild place!

Still in the spirit of “We’re glad you’re here,” on Friday evening, after the performance of Jake’s Women, a guy in the theatre’s lobby asked me if I’d like to meet the cast.  “Yes, I sure would.”  This was Phil, who I later found out was the director.  He led me into a room off the lobby … and I’m confused about what occurred next.  It all happened so fast.  I think he looked at the cast members in the room and said, “This is Bruce.”  Then all these bright faces were turned towards me, smiles and hands heading my way.  I was known.  I was appreciated.  And I was welcomed into their dramatic world.  So touching.

Now I’m back in Union.  But Belleville is still vibrating in my heart.  My thanks to you all.

Jake’s Women

We’re all human beings.  We all celebrate and suffer, win some and lose some.  When I go to a play or a movie, I want to see a slice of life.  Something real.  Something that reminds me of who I am, and lets me see one more time that I’m not alone in this life.  We all experience it all.  Take the character Jake from the play Jake’s Women.  Here’s what he has to say:

“I care.  I love.  I’m miserable.  I’m angry.  I’m desperate.  I’m hopeful and mostly I’m confused.”

Aren’t we all?

For the last three evenings, I’ve had the privilege of watching life on the stage, as portrayed with tenderness and humanity by eight skilled actors.  I got to be sitting in the Pinnacle Playhouse in Belleville, Ontario for performances of Jake’s Women.  Lucky me.  Truly.

Here are the folks who acted in the play, and what I especially enjoyed about each of their creations:

Sophia Douglas-Najem portrays Molly, age 12

What a bright spirit.  There’s a scene where Molly is meeting Jake’s new girlfriend Maggie for the first time.  Maggie brought a giftwrapped book for Molly, but had been in such a hurry that she hadn’t noticed what book she’d grabbed.  When Molly opens it, we see that it’s the 1981 World Atlas.  Maggie’s all embarrassed, but Sophia as Molly looks at her with great enthusiasm and says, “No, I really need this for school because the names of the countries are changing all the time.  This is terrific.”  And Molly’s kindness shines.

After this meeting, father Jake asks daughter Molly, “What’s the absolute best thing about her?  Sophia is so present when she replies “That she’ll make us all a good family again.”  Her words hang in the air.

A few scenes later, young Molly is sitting with dad and older Molly (age 21).  They start playing a game, naming actors and actresses.  Jake suggests a couple and older Molly is faster than young Molly in coming up with the answers.  Sophia is brilliant as she tries to get the words out, showing flashes of disappointment when her “sister” gets there first.  Well done.

Judie Preece portrays Karen, Jake’s sister

Jake creates all these imaginary conversations with the women in his life, but he sometimes forgets to dress them well.  Judie shows wonderful exasperation as she rips into Jake: “Where did you find this dress I’m wearing?  This dress is not me.  Bette Midler does a concert in a dress like this.”  And Judie, facing the audience, does an exaggerated singing pose.  Classic.

Shortly thereafter, Karen is consoling Jake about his former wife Julie, who died in a car accident, and about Maggie, his current wife.  Judie lets her “brassy broad” image take a back seat as she softly says, “I’m sorry Julie died.  I’m sorry that Maggie is so unhappy.”  Then she immediately flips to “This is another good speech.  Give me more lines like this.”  Marvelous contrast.

Much later in the play, eyes wide, front and centre with the audience, Judie blasts out Karen’s lines: “You’re the star of the show, Jake.  You’re the one they shoot out of the cannon and you fly around the tent with an American flag in your mouth and all the women go crazy and faint and they take them away to hospitals.”  No lack of oomph in Ms. Preece!

Julie Bryson portrays Sheila, Jake’s new girlfriend

Jake is waxing poetic that Sheila is real, rather than the imaginary moments he has with other women in his life.  “Dimensional.  You have sides.  You have a left side, a right side, a front side, a back side.”  Meanwhile Julie as Sheila is twisting her body left and right, apparently fascinated with her dimensionality.  It’s a very funny moment.

Julie expertly demonstrates confusion and frustration as Jake appears to be talking to Sheila, but really is telling the hidden Maggie where to get off:  “You know what’s goddamn wrong.  It’s you!!”  Then all of Sheila’s angst bursts out in an impassioned speech that grabs the audience and hangs on: “You love me, you want me to move in with you but not today, later, in the future, someday, somehow, somewhere over the rainbow …”  Julie sputters so well.

Then, in a flash, Sheila settles down, with Julie putting in calm pauses that work: “Alright.  Fine.  I’ll go to Bedford.  If you want to go to Bedford, I’ll go.”  I love contrast.

Bill Petch portrays Jake, a writer who lives in his head

Bill’s onstage for the whole play.  Not only does he have control over an immense pile of lines, but he delivers them with marvelous subtlety of inflection and facial expression.  He’s also great with the reactions when the conversation is taking place between two other actors.  (I want to be like him!)

Bill is beautifully stunned when Maggie says she wants a separation:  “Separate for six months?”  He pauses masterfully after Maggie blasts him about not listening.  “Jake?  Did that go by you too?” ………………..  “No, I caught it.”  He was so sad, just like the audience.

Further along, Bill demonstrates how Jake as a baby coped with his mother, who tied him to his high chair.  “Couldn’t move my hands.  Couldn’t push away the baby food I hated.  I had to fight her off with my nose.”  You had to be there!

There were so many great Jake moments.  I especially liked it when Bill talks to us in the audience.  “I was five years old in a third floor apartment in the Bronx, waking up from a nap and there’s no one there.  My mother is on the fourth floor visiting a neighbor.  I’m terrified.  Why doesn’t she hear me?  Why doesn’t she come?”  I got your terror, Bill.  Nicely done.

Dianne Wilson portrays Edith, Jake’s therapist

A prickly, officious one – this Edith, and Dianne pulls her off extremely well.  Jake’s distraught that Edith doesn’t seem to have any empathy for him.  Jake: “What do you want, a tap dance?”  Edith: “Why not?  You’re unhappy if you want to be.  You’re lonely if you want to be.  It’s your choice.”

Then Edith is pleading with Jake to tell her what he really wants, and the caring shows through Dianne’s high-volume voice:  “Ask for it, then I’ll stop it … Ask for it, Jake.  Please!”

In Dianne’s hands I really felt Edith in love with her own words.  “You always have options.  That’s what life’s about … Options … Options … I love how my voice trails off … Options … Options”, as she strolls off the stage.  The audience loved it.

And then there’s the old non-verbal interlude.  Jake’s heading to the bathroom while Karen and Edith are talking about him.  As soon as he closes the door, the conversation ceases.  I then got to enjoy Dianne examining her nails and plucking a piece of fluff off the arm of her chair.

Daria Coates portrays Molly at age 21

Molly is a young woman whose mother Julie died when Molly was only 10.  Thanks to Jake’s vivid imaginings, Molly at 21 gets to meet her mom.  The joy on her face as she crossed the stage to sit beside Julie on the couch was lovely.  And then she spoke: “I have a million things to ask you.  It’s like meeting someone you’ve always heard about.  Like a movie star.  Only it’s my mom.”  (Sigh)

Julie asks about the young man who’s given Molly a ring.  And Daria as Molly melts as she talks about her new love: “Well, he’s at Yale.  The Drama Department.  I met him at the theatre.  He did a play there.”  Such ordinary words, but Daria infused them with great happiness.

But there’s more to Daria’s Molly than sweetness.  I was scared as she blasted her dad: “You bring us together after eleven years and you give us ten lousy minutes together.  What is that?  Why did you do it?  It’s so damn cruel.”  Ouch.  And then, with Daria looking close to tears, “Why didn’t you leave well enough alone?  What is it you wanted to see?”  I’m exhausted even thinking about it.  Good job.

Erica Holgate portrays Julie, Jake’s first wife

I loved seeing Erica burst onstage and throw her fury at Jake after they made love the night before (her first time): “Where were you? … Last night.  This morning.  Right now.  This minute.  How could you not call me?  How could you not want to know how I feel?”  Oh my goodness.

And then revulsion, as Jake explained their first time was 29 years ago, and had her see how old he is now: “You’re fifty-three? … and I slept with you last night?”  What fun.  But almost instantly, Julie mellows: “I do like the wrinkles around your eyes … and under them.  It gives you – character.  It’s nice.”  Have I ever mentioned that I like contrast?  Well, I do.

Farther along, joy is written all over Erica’s face.  Jake: “You don’t know who Molly is?”  Julie: (shakes her head “no”, then realizes) “Oh, God.  We had a girl.”  Such a string of very human moments.

Wendy Roy portrays Maggie, Jake’s wife

An infinity of subtle tones of voice and facial expressions come from this gifted actor.  Wendy was a pleasure to watch.  Let’s start off with funny.  Maggie and Jake were reliving the cocktail party where they met.  Maggie was talking to a yuppie couple about an upcoming election: “Oh God, I haven’t made up my mind who to vote for … No, I understand the issues, I just don’t know who’s running.”  Sure it’s a funny line, but in Wendy’s hands it’s hilarious.

After Maggie has told Jake that she wants a six month separation, and has spent some time alone in their hot tub, she appears on the second floor of the set, dressed in a bathrobe.  Maggie simply says, “Can we talk for a minute?” and the vulnerability in us all sees itself in her.  Time stood still.

Towards the end of the play, Maggie’s love for Jake is in Wendy’s eyes:  Jake: “You look about ten miles away from where I sit.”  Maggie: “No, Jake.  I think we’re so close.  I swear.  I think we’re only an inch or two apart.”

And …

Jake:  “Jesus, now I have to be the Messiah.”  Maggie: “No, I’ll just settle for Jake.”

***

The individual performances were lovely to behold, but these actors were also so skilled in creating one-to-one relationships, priceless moments of contact.

1.  Jake and Maggie talking about the two children they lost in childbirth.  Jake: “We didn’t get any breaks, did we?”

2.  Jake looking at Julie, in response to Karen saying she’s naïve: “No.  She’s just young.”

3.  Young Molly and Maggie, getting to know each other:

Maggie: “I was a cheerleader in high school.  But I depressed everyone so they let me go.”
Molly: (Laughs) “That’s funny.”
Maggie: “It is?  Oh, thank you, Molly.  That means so much to me.”

4.  Molly, Molly and Jake sitting together quietly, the kids loving their dad, and Jake loving them right back

5.  Older Molly and Julie talking silently with great affection while Jake speaks to the audience

***

I had a great time
Thank you, actors of the Belleville Theatre Guild
You deserve great praise and happiness