“BREAK A LEG: Part Two”

(On Making Me Look Good)

My high school dramatics-coach career lasted an incredible quarter of a century+. I’ve counted and before it was over, I’d directed/co-directed fifty-two high school plays and/or musicals. But believe me, had some crystal-ball fortune teller ever prophesied such a terrifying future to me, I would have run away and joined the circus. Nobody knew more than I just how unqualified I was to fulfill such a prediction.

So what happened? A rocky start. That’s what happened. So many things would go wrong. No big surprise considering I was the guy who’d virtually wilt at the prospect of being commissioned to pilot such an above-his-pay-grade helm.

Take for instance the ordeal of my first time being tasked with three one-act plays to produce and direct on my own at Foxcroft Academy. I say on my own because it wasn’t like it had been eleven years ago at Belfast when I’d inherited an army (The Footlights Club) who could’ve/would’ve managed just fine with or without me. No, there was no army to carry me through and make me look good this time.

So what went wrong? Well, right off the bat, two of my best and brightest plays fizzled right out from under me due to critical absenteeism at scheduled practices. That was crushing. The professional embarrassment over such a failure! I couldn’t figure out how other directors somehow managed to strong-arm their players into seeing that showing-up-at-rehearsals is a very big priority. Me? No General Patton. All I was is just some passive little ‘know-little’ who happened to have accidentally parachuted into the “director’s” chair, and was just going through the motions because, honestly…? I’m ashamed to say I simply didn’t know how to do it.

So there I was, Nervous Norvous me, left only with my B-side play, the least important of the three; a silly, childish piece of fluff titled “Once Upon A Playground,” the one I’d basically inserted into the program only as a filler. Talk about feeling naked.

So despite the fact that I wanted to gather up my family and run away to Canada, we were required to do the play in front of the Academy’s student body first, once that evening, and then once more for the kids in the lower grades the next day. I was going to die!

I remember the feeling of abject shame right down to the pit of my stomach while hearing the sound of the audience, quieting right down to watch as the curtains finally swept apart for our first performance of my fiasco. It was Zero hour. D-Day. And oh how I pitied my kids for having had the bad luck to end up with… me. And now everybody would know, would see with their own eyes, just what an incompetent loser I was as the so-called “director.”

Backstage, and following along with my script, I listened to my kids out there begin delivering their memorized lines. What an empty little play, the voice in my head harangued. What was I ever THINKING?

About three minutes into the play, I was startled practically out of my shoes by a thunderous, raffish noise that sounded something like a crash! Two seconds later in, I’d identified the ‘concussion’ as… laughter. Audience laughter!

Ohmigod! Was that a contemptuous laugh???

Utterly confused I looked down upon the last delivered line. Huh! OK. Yeah, it was… kind of a funny line… but that funny? And by then of course the show was moving on at its inevitable clip, totally out of my control. But before long…

It happened again! Another volley of belly laughs. And not sounding one bit mean-spirited either! And then another one. What the heck was going on?!

What was going on was that the play was working! Somehow succeeding way beyond my mousy, second-guessing expectations. It had never occurred to me that, duh (a) the playwright knew what he was doing when he wrote the thing, that he was good at what he did for his living, and that (b) the kids I’d cast could be trusted to do their part at making the thing work. What a surprise.

But here’s the real reason this dinky little offering somehow finally got off the ground? It turned out that I had two little freshman firecrackers in that cast, two young women who had SO much Pollyanna-esque-optimism and drive to, first and foremost, just be in plays and secondly, once cast, to do everything in their power to make those plays succeed.

That’s the truth. And my God, I had no way of imagining the walloping impact this duo was destined to have on not only me over the next four years but also on Foxcroft Academy’s dramatics program overall. God bless the freshmen, Sarah Thistle and Marliese Eberbach!

So know this: the overall, underlying purpose of me writing this post is… all about me setting the record straight. Because of them, I ended up getting one hell of a great reputation over a number of years as an award-winning drama coach. But that’s not where the bulk of the credit should have gone.

So here it is: this is all about me giving credit where the credit’s due.

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OK. Let me back up a little first.

The first time I held auditions as the new director, something quickly became clear to me: on the one hand, I had a handful of underclassmen who’d come in with the greatest of hopes to be chosen. It was obvious that The Try-Out was something of great importance to them. And… not only had they come to me so admirably prepared, but also with an unbelievable ethic of teamwork and support for one another. Like, I mean they were altruistically helping each other get prepared for their readings, giving each other selfless encouragement to others in the hopes that they too might succeed, rather than approaching the whole ordeal with the hostile intent of a dog-eat-dog competition.

On the other hand was the gang of upperclassmen boys and girls who arrived all cocky, smirking, and openly sneering at their inexperienced, younger counterparts… and right in front of me. Oh yes, they knew this was an open “audition” alright, and yet their vibe was, We don’ neeed no steenkin’ try-outs. Us getting all the juiciest parts? That’s a foregone conclusion, it’s in the bag. Because we’re the varsity and that’s just the way it goes, you losers.

And although I had serious qualms about doing it (and as a result had to endure a long period of guiltily second-guessing myself thereafter)… I assigned roles not to those who seemed to have the most credentials necessarily, but to those who actually demonstrated the most skill, energy, and desire during the audition. Meaning that a lot of those juniors and seniors got dumped in favor of underclassmen who had just honestly earned their places with hard work and talent, damnit!

And oh, what a high school, drama-queen scandal that turned out to be! Upperclassmen’s parents were not happy campers. And the dumpees? Dumbfounded, yet mad as wet hens. But... in the long run, it turned out the best thing I ever could have done. For the kids, for me, and especially for the Academy’s drama program.

And so yes, my directorial career had to get shakily jump-started with the frivolous “Once Upon the Playground.” And I couldn’t believe it got such an enthusiastic reception. Because I guess me, being the dyed-in-the-wool college English major, I was feeling my job required more literarily-meaty offerings with dark and complex themes, overtones, symbolism, double-entendres, and elements of existentialism… which is pretty much why shortly after “Playground,” I opted to put on Albee’s “The Zoo Story,” the one-act featured in my last post.

How pretentious of me. I had so much to learn.

So my tenure got off to an embarrassing, molasses crawl over the first couple of seasons. Reason being, (besides not having a hint of a clue as to how to proceed) I was choosing my plays from among the same musty, curmudgeonly classic titles that F.A. had been putting on since back when I was a student. And my God, weren’t they ever talky and boring!

So one day, I pushed myself to begin to look for something new. Something unique. And I started sending away for play catalogues from all over the country. And as summer vacation loomed, I was deep into poring over the descriptions of many much-more-interesting-sounding, just-published scripts.

Script-reading turned out to be fun. To me, the script catalogs were like the old Sears and Roebuck Christmas Toy Catalogs, each play description sending visions of sugar plums of all the props and costumes we would need to get dancing in my imagination.

So I started ordering. Like a madman! Perusing scripts became my newest hobby, and I found myself rabidly getting into it. For a ‘know-little director,’ at least this was something I could do. And my burgeoning script-library began filling up mostly with some very odd titles such as “Postponing the Heat Death of the Universe,” SECOND Prize: TWO Months in Leningrad,” and “Nice People Dancing to Good Country Music.” As time went on it got so that before I felt confident about a purchasing a title for my program, I’d honestly ended up reading close to a hundred scripts. And I’m talking each year! (Did I mention that I’m a little obsessive-compulsive?)

Picking the Perfect Play developed into one of my unique Super Powers (OK, let’s just call them my stronger suits, my forte if you will). Say anything you want about me but, damn, I could pick a great play. The other super power being that I was actually very good at coaxing kids out of their little shells, and really releasing and expressing their emotions effectively. But that’s it. That’s all I had. Other than that… I was just some friggin’ moron in the field. But anyway, one day…

Ding! I’d found it! The best play out there! Something brand new and odd and unique in the catalogs, something just published too, something that no one in the entire state had probably heard of yet, let alone had seen performed. Something deliciously unusual.

(from the catalog…)

INCIDENT AT SAN BAJO by Brad Korbesmeyer Short Play, Drama / 4w, 3m

The residents of a trailer camp have quite a story to tell. A stranger tried to sell each of them a mysterious elixir which he claimed would make them live longer. Most, of course, did not buy the elixir –and they are now dead, the water supply having been poisoned by the stranger. Only seven are left to tell the tale– the seven who drank the elixir which, it turned out, was an antidote! Each of their stories is told in a series of interlocking monologues directed at an unseen interviewer. The effect is somewhat like a “60 Minutes” segment.

Yes! This was the one! And when I ordered my dozen copies of the “San Bajo” script, I actually felt excited to be committing us to a different sort of play at least. And when I began our first meeting with my, “OK kids, here’re your copies. This is the play we’re doing. First read-through is right now… I felt a curious little spike in my heart-rate, a little blip of passion that was beginning to go right to work at countering the usual dread that normally handicapped my heart in these endeavors. Because this one was unlike any play I had read before.

What I had no idea of was that this was the play that was going to change everything.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Early on, I’d decided (in order to set the dark and mysterious tone of the piece) that the first thing I wanted the audience to hear while waiting for the curtains to open would be Bob Dylan’s “The Man in the Long Black Coat.” That song is captivating, lurking, spooky, and evocative of some mysterious event so very like “The Incident at San Bajo” it was uncanny.

You don’t have to listen to the whole thing, as we were only going to use the first minute and a half. But here, take a quick listen if you will and try to imagine you’re seated in a packed auditorium waiting on the curtains to swish open, and then this mood-setter starts up. Close your eyes and see where the music takes you. Listen to the tone. Listen to… the crickets:

Most often I’d have that piece playing while the kids came in and took to setting up the rehearsal stage. And right away a positive sea-change overtook the spirit of our rehearsals, which were becoming a labor of love.

Because this little newcomer in the catalogs was a unique ensemble piece wherein each actor is given a coequal starring role, it is an actor’s dream. Each of the seven individual players is intermittently a star in his/her own right, simultaneously occupying one of the six “stations” spread left-to-right across the stage (one station being occupied by a “married couple” together). When the single spotlight is highlighting one of the stations, the other five are left frozen, out of sight in silent darkness. Each “station” is an off-and-on little “micro-world” of its own.

Sure, the entire play is set in the one-and-the-same trailer park— each character being one of the trailer park’s trailer-trash losers. But each is being interviewed in his/her own “mobile home” individually— one, a guy a who’s a conspiracy-theory-ranting gas station attendant; an octogenarian spinster; a wannabe-suave ladies’ man in a smoking jacket, sipping bourbon; a middle-aged, new-age, lady-psychic scammer; and a shallow yuppie couple hell-bent on keeping up with all the latest trends. Point being: the physical space each character occupies on stage is a disparate little time-space microcosm, replete with that character’s emotional, educational, psychological, and spiritual plane. An actor’s dream.

The audience never hears the interviewer’s voiced questions, but of course the characters’ responses make the prompts obvious.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So along with the two other one-acts, we put “The Incident at San Bajo” on in front of the school and then the community. We were a big hit. Then it was time to board the bus and head out to the Maine State Principals’ Association Regional One-Act Play Competitions.

The Regionals never know what hit’em. We took them completely by surprise and by storm. “San Bajo” steamrolled right over the other schools. Not only did we take first place, but each and every individual of the seven took home his/her own much coveted All-Cast Festival Award, a rare accomplishment. And when it was all over, everybody was talking about the play itself, and about us.

(below, an encouraging note from our supportive headmaster)

So two weeks later, we hit the States on a roll… but immediately found ourselves humbled. We were up against the much bigger schools, a lot of them, and it showed— bigger schools with fatter wallets, humongous programs, and decades of greater experience, schools who were used to winning.

We were the small school underdogs, ripe for failure…

Such an interesting thing though, these competitions. Your big yellow school bus stops at a local motel for you all to drop the bags and suitcases into your assigned rooms, and then you rush to get right back on the bus. Next, over at the host school, you unload all the props, register yourselves at the welcoming table in the school lobby, get your festival badges, get escorted to your assigned to a classroom (which will be your home base over the next two days), get handed your programs, discover what time of day (Saturday or Sunday) your play is scheduled to hit the stage, and then you just sort of dissolve into the chattering crowds for a bit.

It’s a time for all the kids to meet and befriend their competitors, while the directors do likewise. There are three sessions each day: morning, afternoon, and evening— each one followed by The Unnerving Critique where your cast and crew (with their little tails between their legs, most likely) get herded into the designated ‘Judges’ Classroom’ and face the music.

It’s kind of like a rodeo.

Over the entire weekend you’re seated with your crew in the auditorium (watching all the other schools perform their little hearts out), seated in the cafeteria for the lunches, or seated in your assigned classroom going over and over your lines.

But you know, it’s a wonderful thing, getting to watch the spunk and the amazing creativity of all those various high school students on parade. Often daunting too, because you do find yourself struggling with imagining just how well your play might get measured up against the ones you’re watching.

But somewhere during those seemingly endless two days comes That Heart Attack Moment! It’s… your turn!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank goodness I’d chosen the first two-minutes of Bob Dylan’s “The Man in the Long Black Coat” as our intro for “San Bajo.” Because while we were toiling at the last-minute tweaks of our props set-up back-stage, in the semi-darkness back there behind those closed curtains, the lethargic tempo of that music (which was soft and slow, and contained the sound of the night-time chirping of crickets) felt familiar and comfortable, and seemed to calm us all right down. Seemed to make the whole thing feel that this was nothing more than just another dress rehearsal back home.

My visual memory of those last moments have the actors, like busy, little, methodical shadows, silently tip-toeing about the stage, and moving things around in slow motion.

And then OMG! The curtains swept open. And there we were.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

OK, so no, we didn’t win. The competition was really stiff. Still, what we did do is knock the socks off everyone! So it was a moral victory. There is no third place trophy, at least there wasn’t at the time (1990), but according to the judges’ notes, that’s where we placed. Sure, we’d have liked to have won, but the enthusiasm that was showered upon us from all the other directors and cast members throughout the rest of the festival left us all very proud.

Two signs indicating how well we’d done were (1) in the following year, and the years that followed, we saw many, many other schools choosing to enter their versions of “The Incident at San Bajo” into the competition, so I’d say the Samuel French Publishing Company owed our school a big debt of gratitude for the free advertising, plus (2) before heading for home, we were profusely congratulated on our performance by the judges and were informed that in the following year we’d be placed at the highest level competitively (i.e., we’d be judged specifically against only the top-tier schools). And see, I didn’t even know that then, that there were two levels of the competitions. Which shouldn’t surprise anyone, since at that time an encyclopedia could have been published containing all the directorial things I wasn’t aware of.

But… look at us: WE’D MADE IT TO STATES!! And so yes, this was the play, and the cast, that began making all the difference in the Academy’s dramatics program over the next ten years back then.

So with FA’s student body back home already awed by our stellar performance on the hometown stage, some changes were in store. For one, it immediately became a lot easier for me to get boys to try out for the plays. When I’d begun, 98% of those trying out were females, while 98% of the scripts I could get my hands on called for mostly guys. Secondly, over time our productions began drawing larger and larger audiences, not just the parents and families of our cast members anymore, but seriously interested theater-goers from the neighboring towns and general area were showing up. So we were steadily building a reputation, which meant our program was beginning to haul in more money on ticket sales for a change.

So, “Incident at San Bajo” really had put us on the map. But does that mean I finally got over my Nervous Norvousness as a director? Hah! Nope. Not at all. It just meant more ulcers for me. Don’t get me wrong. I loved seeing the plays I’d selected do so well. But there were always, every single time, those lingering terrors threatening to, you know, unexpectedly collapse everything… all those what-IFS that could end a play in disaster in the wink of a poked eye.

I just wasn’t cut out for a tension-filled career.

But my actors were. They thrived on it. Things did go wrong, of course. But my kids always took care of those things. They were amazing. So it’s embarrassing for me to have gotten the credit for the way our dramatics program took off over the next decade. Yes, I picked great plays. I can take credit for that. And yes, I was pretty good at getting kids to let their emotions loose, and to project their voices. But that was it. The only other thing that I was good at was… well, letting go of things, letting my amazing crackerjack kids loose on each play. They were wonderful.

So here I am, setting the record straight: The lion’s share of the credit for making Foxcroft Academy shine in dramatics and helping the drama program grow and improve during my tenure goes to the kids, the little actors I was so blessed to get the chance to be associated with. And this is especially true for the three above, my drama wunderkinder: the amazing Sarah Thistle, Marliese Eberbach, and Pat Myers, all members of the class of 1994. They put their magic into those “great plays” I selected. They made each one simply fly. They made me practically famous as a director.

Only it wasn’t me. It was them.

I was only picking the plays and sort of going along for the ride…

And look at what a ride it was…

**THE SECOND-BEST PLAY WE EVER DID**— **GOT US A COUPLE OF MONTY- PYTHON-ESQE LETTERS OF COMPLAINT FROM LOCAL MINISTERS, HEH HEH**

Et Cetera…

Ah, those halcyon days (with ulcer)…

Feel free to leave a comment if you wish in the field below, and then simply click on “POST COMMENT.” I will respond…

STAGE FRIGHT: Always Say ‘Break A Leg,’ Never ‘Good Luck’

When I was a high school freshman, the dramatics coach tried to recruit me to audition for a play he was doing. The very thought of that terrified the hell out of me. I’d had stage fright all my life, and I’d never even been on an actual stage. And I told him so. He said not to worry. I told him I freeze whenever I even have to do an oral book report in front of the class. He told me not to worry. I told him it wasn’t even possible for me to memorize anything. Again, not to worry. So, I flat out told him I didn’t want to be in a play.

He told me to meet him in the library right after school that afternoon. And back then, we were all pretty much duty-bound to do whatever a teacher told us to do. So… I showed up.

But in the meantime though, dumb-ass little me got to stupidly wondering, What would it be like to be… a stage star? And then I got to thinking that… maybe this coach actually could, no— that he obviously could, get me over the terror that always gripped me whenever any number of silent eyes were locked onto me. That his job, after all. So yeah, it occurred to me that just maybe my life could be about to change. BIG-time. Because I’d always been a dreamer.

I’d begun imagining the glory of the thunderous cheers and applause while I, standing alone up there on the stage, was taking my final bows. It felt… good. Exciting. Where might it l all lead? I was asking myself. Hollywood? It made sense. Because I assumed that many a Paul Newman might likely have begun their super-star careers on humble high school stages just like ours. After which… well, one thing had just naturally led to the next thing which could just as naturally lead to… well, being a heartthrob eventually. And getting to sign thousands of autographs. I was getting excited.

So right after school I strolled my way to the library with as confident a smile as I could paste onto my face.

A sign taped to the door sternly warned, AUDITIONS. NO ADMITTANCE.

I stepped inside. “Close the door,” I was told, rather curtly.

He in a bad mood or something? I wondered. I closed the door behind me, but suddenly, once inside, I was unexpectedly overtaken by a slightly creepy, ominous feeling. I’d been expecting droves of my classmates being there, all clamoring for the big part I was probably going to walk away with. But instead, no, it was only me. Only me and the director. One on one.

I would’ve preferred the door left open…

Then, checking his watch like we’d already run out of time, he slapped a dog-eared script into my hands, turned on his heel, and headed off for the opposite far end of the long library. “Page 36!” he called over his shoulder. Well, the script was already opened to page 36, so… “Read the highlighted passage!”

For some reason, my chicken-livered little heart had begun to worm its way up about three inches in my chest. I tried swallowing, but it didn’t want to go back down. Looking down at his own opened copy, he barked, “Begin reading!”

I cleared my throat a few times first, but then managed it. I read the passage. And looked up to find him contemplating me with a puzzled look on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“I couldn’t hear what you said, is what. I couldn’t hear a thing you just read. You know, if I can’t hear you… in here, with just me and you, how’s even the first row of the audience ever going to hear you? So OK. Once again, once again. From the top! Louder this time. Project your voice!”

Well, I’d thought I’d read the words exceedingly well, but…

His terse manner was crushing me like a cigarette butt under his toe. Yes, I know. I can easily see it now. I cringe to admit it, but I was one exceedingly fragile little wuss back then.

Anyway, I took a deep breath and bellowed out the lines.

“OK. I did hear you that time. But there was no emotion. None whatsoever. You’re not reading telephone book listings, you know. I mean, look at what you’re reading. Look at it. What’s the character feeling there, do you think? Happy? Sad? What??”

Jeez. I didn’t know there was gonna be a quiz. I looked down at the words. “I dunno,” I said. “Mad?”

“Bingo! Angry! But not just angry. Angry as hell! Can you show me angry as hell?”

Well, I knew he wasn’t ready for the honest answer to that. “I dunno,” I mumbled. “I’m not sure.” Inside I was dying for some reason. Fading fast. Becoming the deer in the headlights.

“OK OK OK,” he said. “Lemme show you. Watch me…. OK?”

So… yeah. I watched him. He began by looking down at his feet for a few moments. Taking a couple of deep breaths. And then… whoa! His head snapped up so suddenly, I recoiled! His face was flushed. And his eyes? They were locked on me, and he was seething! And before I knew it, he’d started pacing, back and forth, in a rage that seemed just too great to contain, and needed more damn room!

Wham! He launched into a loud, raving tirade! He started going nuts right there in the library where you were only supposed to whisper! And even though yes, I realized intellectually that this was just a demonstration… I was feeling a scold stab of guilt anyway because emotionally… I couldn’t unconvince myself that it was really me personally he was raging at because he’d simply just had it with me and my little chicken-shit hesitation! I mean, Jesus, I was watching a temper tantrum growing right before my eyes! An all-out Jeckyll and Hyde!

And when he was finished (well, whenever he was finished), the only proof that I’d ever even been there was a dog-eared script I’d left dropped on the library floor and the click of the door closing behind me!

Little Elvis had fled the building! And from now on, Little Elvis was gonna be content spending the rest of his spineless little life cowering somewhere off in the shadows where it’s gonna be safe…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So. Guess what happens. Five-plus years later and drenched in nervous perspiration, I’m seated before a school superintendent, having just inked the very first contract of my future thirty-four-year high school English-teaching career life.

Wow. Quite daunting for little ol’ shrinking-violet me; however it’s done and dusted. I heave a big sigh of relief. I’m rich, for cryin’ out loud. I’m making $5,618 bucks a year! I’m gonna buy me a new car!

But… as the super is shaking my hand, sealing the deal as it were, he hits me with this: “So. You’ll be teaching four English classes, two speech classes, and taking over as the new dramatics coach. Again, welcome aboard!”

“Excuse me?” My blood is running cold! “What was that?”

“I said, ‘Welcome aboard…’”

“No. Not that. ‘Dramatics coach?’”

“Yes. And congratulations.”

“Oops. Uh-oh! Wait wait wait. Uhmmm, look, I’m sorry. I thought I was just signing on to teach English. Right? I mean… OK, honestly? See, I’ve never even been in a play in my life. I’ve hardly ever even been to any plays. I mean, I don’t know the first thing about dramatics. So… I guess what I’m saying is… I don’t think I can possibly…”

“And yet…” and here he’s studying me over the top of his glasses, “you just signed a contract agreeing to be doing exactly that.”

I do the old double-take here. “What? I did?”

And while my eyes crazily careen down through the words and lines and paragraphs on the top page lying before me, I hear him say, and with an ice-cold, razor-sharp edge… “I must say… this is odd, because I definitely thought you’d just told me… that you wanted to teach here this year…”

Yikes!

(If I’d had any of my wits about me, and any amount of courage at all (which I hadn’t), I suppose I could have told him, “Why no. Says here I just signed up for ‘DRAMAGICS,’ whatever the hell THAT is.” Truth is, though, I was so nervous I’d missed the misspelling and only right now just noticed it.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Long story short? I did “become” the dramatics “director.”

I lucked out somewhat, though. I inherited a student army of thespians known as The Footlights Club.

And more fortunately, those kids, unlike moi, really knew what they were doing, thank God.

So, throughout that year I ended up surviving co-directing one syrupy, patriotic, three-act play titled This Is My Country, which gave me two or three heart attacks on a weekly basis;

“directing” one two-act comedy (ditto on the heart attacks); and then “directing” three one-act plays, one of which would be required to compete in the Maine State Principals’ Associations Area One-Act Play contest. For that one, I chose a stodgy, dry, classic British drama titled “The Rocking-Horse Winner” by D. H. Lawrence. It was a clever little thing.

But get this, and wouldn’t you just know it— somehow (much to my chagrin) the damn thing actually won!

For me, this meant two more long weeks of rehearsals, and then a bus-trip over to Bowdoin College for the State level competition where, thankfully, our play earned nothing more than an Honorable Mention.

And by the way… the administration was oddly flabbergasted by the surprise of us winning. It was like… they didn’t know how to take the news. The school had apparently never ever won at the drama competition before and, being so totally baseball, basketball, football, wrestling, and golf oriented, it had apparently never even occurred to them that such an event might conceivably be a thing. I mean… it was almost as if I’d done something wrong. You know, like… nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!

So you see, this fiasco turned out to be one of what I call the many “successful-failure stories” of my life. I’ve had a slew of them. I mean, look: without even a stinkin’ clue as to what I was doing, I came out of it a first-time winner. Not that coming out of it a winner was what I wanted, mind you. All I wanted was for it just to be over. But no. Beginner’s luck. Now I had to keep on having rehearsals every day until it was time, two weeks later, to load up the bus and take the show on the road to Bowdoin College for the States..

Why ME?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Anyway, I couldn’t wait to bail on that town after only a year (for tons of reasons). And I immediately lucked out, landing a position at a school that not only had an amazingly successful drama program already in place, but one that was manned by a simply incredible drama director. Phew! And so, for the decade I spent there, I was able to just sit back and enjoy his (not my) productions from the comfort and safety of an audience seat, right where I wanted to be. It was great. Ten years without having to “direct” a single play. I was living the dream.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

But after that, I ended up moving back to my old hometown. Took an English-teaching slot at my old alma mater, Foxcroft Academy. It felt good to be home. Yeah, I did have duties of course. I ended up being the advisor of the school newspaper for one thing. But as long as it wasn’t coaching drama, that was OK with me…

But before long, alas… the need for a high school drama coach once more raised its ugly head and began looming over me. And I was not happy about that. I sure as hell didn’t want it. That was the last thing I wanted, my mantra being, Let somebody else do it! I tried fighting off the pressures the administrative mafia was putting on me, using any and all the excuses I could come up with.

I mean sure, I get it, the headmaster didn’t realize that, deep down inside, I was that same, mousey-little, neurotic, post-traumatic-stress-disordered ‘high school freshman’ who’d once actually run for his life from the library of this very same school! I mean… I guess I looked like a normal human being and all.

Anyway, they finally got me box-canyoned-in between a rock and a hard place. I caved.

But you can’t imagine not only the cruel irony, but the stress of being the so pathologically self-conscious, stage-frightened, shrinking violet who’d never even been in (could never have been in) a frickin’ play in his whole damned lifetime! Finding myself back living in the same nightmare all over again? The nightmare of being lashed to the helm of the Good Ship Foxcroft Drama Club? The nightmare of the large crowds. Moms and dads and their families! School board members and (shudder!) administrators! Colleagues! And, I dunno, just… random people walking right in off the street. And to do what? Gawk at me and my pathetic little productions with their cold, glassy, and judgmental Medusa stares!

And me backstage, sweating it out with… What if one or more of my kids suddenly gets a lethal case of stage fright (like I would have) and just freezes right up in place? What could I do then?! How could I ever help them?! Or… What if my slapped-together little “opuses” happens to turn out really really bad?! I’m talkin’ a major flop! I’m talkin’ tanked! I’m talkin’… stink, stank, stunk here! What then?

Talk about feeling naked! You know, if anyone ever decided to make a biographical movie of my early drama-director life, they’d hafta steal Don frickin’ Knotts out from under The Andy Griffith Show to play me.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

OK, so obviously one of my standard drama duties was again going to include co-directing the annual musical, like before. I had no idea then it then, but we were destined to eventually pull off Fiddler on the Roof, The Music Man, Oklahoma, Carousel, and Guys and Dolls, before I was through. And again, my task would only be to handle all the speaking parts (as opposed to the choral). But I was fortunate there, as the musical director was more way than competent as the real guy at the helm, so each one of those plays were going to come off a success with, or without, me.

And on top of that, I was also expected to choose and direct either a two- or 3-act drama, plus the usual two or three one-act plays, one of which would again be expected to compete in the Maine State Principal’s One-Act Play competition.

So there I was once, a decade later and once again, wallowing in the same utter dysfunction again as did Catch-22’s lost soul, Major Major Major Major…

Long story short, I just had to make myself put my big-boy pants on, bite the bullet, and man-up. Just get on with it. Despite the fact that things would, and did, go wrong sometimes, of course. Well… actually, practically all the time.

Oh, I’ve got lots of war stories. Stories that’d make you cringe. But, we’ve only got time for one here. Maybe if I can pull off a Part II, I can torture you with two or three more. But anyway, here goes:

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One of the one-act plays I selected very early on was “The Zoo Story” by Edward Albee.

I chose that one because (A) lazy me back then, there are only two characters in it (easier to get two kids to show up for practices at the same time), (B) it required only a minimal set, simply a single park bench (easy peasey), and (C) I wanted to do something a little avant-garde and “relevant” (I mean jeez, Albee wrote the shocker-classic Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, didn’t he. So by going with this one, I suppose I was sorta praying that this particular play might just make me look… (alright, dream on) somewhat cool, probably.

The play is a little existential slice of the Theater of the Absurd… and dark. Right up my alley.

So this very odd duck of a play was to be performed for two nights (thank God, not three!). It ends with the two characters getting into a nasty argument wherein one of them whips out a switchblade knife. And during the ensuing tussle, one of the guys gets stabbed in the abdomen and dies. (See? Dark. I know.)

So the thing obviously was… I needed to procure a switchblade. But from where? They were illegal.

Well as fate would have it, I’d been to Boston a couple of times as a kid. And each time I’d gone, I’d made sure to visit the rare and wondrous, Ray Bradburian emporium, Jack’s Joke Shop. Which is where I ended up blowing most of my vacation money, both times.

That store was a mid-1960s preadolescent boy’s dream! It stocked every thinkable novelty imaginable! You know, the realistic looking fake ice-cube (with the housefly frozen in the center) to casually drop into somebody’s ice tea glass! The fake boutonniere with the flower designed to ‘squirt-gun’ water right into the faces of anyone you could con into trying to give it a sniff! Professionally marked cards to cheat your friends with!! Electric joy-buzzers! Those very realistic-looking ‘puke pads’ to drop on somebody’s clean carpet! Itch powder! And something else. Some very realistic looking “switchblades,” only instead of an actual blade, it was a little steel, fine-toothed comb that would pop out of them when you pushed the button on the handle. That seemed to be just the ticket! I’m tellin’ ya, that place was a play-props heaven.

And luckily, I discovered they still had those switchblade-combs for sale. Two types, actually: the chintzy inexpensive ones, where the comb would ‘jack-knife ‘out from the side,

and the much more expensive model where the comb would telescope forward right out of the handle. And OK, the latter seemed just the ticket. I was craving realism. For with that one, you could (1) after menacingly brandishing the knife under the stage lights, keeping it deceptively moving so that the lights flashing off the steel would not allow the audience to focus on it sufficiently to see that it was actually just a comb), (2) craftily push and hold the release button which acted like a clutch, and then (3) ram your guy right in the guts with it, thereby ‘sending’ the “lethal blade” right back up inside the hollow handle (presto change-o!) instead of burying it deep into the ‘victim’s’ dramatic intestines! At which point the ‘victim,’ feigning obvious ‘pain,’ would conveniently grab and hold the handle in place there (to make it appear embedded, but more honestly to keep the little contraption from [boing!] accidentally launching itself (on its tightly-coiled spring) right off his belly and flying right into the first row of the audience, possibly poking someone’s eye out!

So anyway, we had our little “switch-comb” to practice with for two whole weeks, my two of actors going through the numbers (1,2, and 3) over and over, in slow-motion at first, and then speeding up the action. Simple choreography.

(And by the way, let me just say that that was one of the few things that was actually turning out to be fun about play preparation: playing with fun props. Even for me. Oh, the little boy in me…).

Consequently, the switchblade scene, then, was becoming the least of my worries. What was keeping me up nights was the nightmare what-if-specter of one or both of my actors forgetting his lines on stage! I mean, I’d have nineteen nervous breakdowns if I were an actor and that happened to me! But jeez, just what the hell does one do if and when that horror ever goes down? Other than simply throwing in the towel, looking out at your audience, and saying, “Hey, we’re sorry, but at this point, the show will not go on. You may all collect your money back over at the ticket table at this time. Thank you. Thank you all for coming…”?

No. Somehow I had to come up with a way to insure that I could bail my kids out and not leave them (and me) in the lurch if they did forget their lines. And the best thing I could come up with was… just lying on my belly on the stage floor, stage-left, just barely out of sight of the audience behind the edge of the curtain with script in hand, and me on hair-trigger-tenterhooks staying at-the-ready to hiss their forgotten lines out to them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“The Zoo Story,” Opening Night…

Here’s a little basic, bare-bones synopsis of “The Zoo Story”:

PETER, a publishing executive in tweeds, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, smoking a pipe, and reading a book, is seated on the park bench near the zoo. Then, JERRY enters stage-right, charging right up to the bench and insinuating himself into Peter’s serenity by first beginning to tell Peter a story about his visit to the zoo, and eventually starting to ask Peter some unwanted personal questions about his life. Before long, things between them go downhill. Jerry wants Peter to move over and give him room to sit, which Peter prefers not to do. Jerry, just the kind of stranger you don’t want to meet alone, by yourself, begins poking Peter, demanding he move over. When that gets no results, Jerry begins punching Peter harder, telling him he now wants the entire bench for himself. And finally, Jerry just outright challenges Peter to a fight. Peter finally agrees to fight Jerry. Jerry pulls out a switchblade, and throws it at Peter’s feet, to give Peter a fighting chance. When Peter picks up the knife in a defensive position, Jerry rushes him— thereby impaling himself on his own knife. Jerry staggers, the knife embedded in him, and falls onto the bench. After a brief exchange of bizarre words from Jerry, Peter grabs his book and runs off screaming “OH MY GOD!” as Jerry dies on the bench.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So OK, it’s a thirty-minute play approximately, but it’s rapidly drawing down to the climax now. Thankfully, not a single line has been forgotten. Plus the play has gone very well so far. You can’t imagine the relief I’m feeling.

And as the end draws near, I begin doing a little play-by-play, in my head:

OK. Here it comes! The fight scene.

Good! They’re tussling!

And voila! Jerry pulls Jack’s-Joke-Shop knife-comb out of his pocket! Snick! Out flicks the blade! Perfect!

He drops it intentionally at Peter’s feet as the initiative for Peter to grab it up.

Now, with Peter holding the blade defensively, Jerry charges him, and impales himself on it!

…WHOA there!

They freeze! And remain frozen, as in a dramatic tableau, for six, maybe seven, long and silent seconds!! Longer than in our rehearsals!

And you can hear a pin drop in the gym!

It’s genius! So… why didn’t I think of this?

And then they fall apart, with Peter fleeing off-stage bellowing his final line, “Oh… my… God!“

And Jerry, now bleeding to death on the bench, delivers his last:

“Could I have planned all this?

“No… no, I couldn’t have.

“But… I think I did.”

Long silence…

He slumps.

(dies)

La Fin.

Curtains starting to close!

THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE FROM THE AUDIENCE!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wow. While I, so deliriously relieved and crazy with emotion now that everything’s gone off without a hitch, have struggled myself dizzily up onto my feet, I see Peter marching toward me across the stage.

“My GOD! Wonderful job!” I exclaim. “You nailed it! Flawless, you guys! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better death scene. You… outdid yourselves! Congratulations!”

But something’s off. Standing before me now, in place, Peter isn’t smiling. No, that’s an understatement. His face is a mask of horror…

And Jerry, still collapsed over on the bench, is positively glaring up at me. But… why? What is it I’m missing here? “What?!”

Looking down at Jerry, I see that he’s slowly beginning to hike up the front of his shirt.

“Well… I’m confused. I mean, what the hell, guys…? You’re scaring me here!”

But then I see it!

Oh my God!

Jerry has two navels!

No, of course he doesn’t have two navels. The “navel”-navel, the one a little higher up and off to the right of his real one, is not a navel at all. It’s… a dent! A deep… dent in his belly! A hot, reddening, sore-looking, deep, little dent!

“Oh my!” I say.

The stage crew is shouting, “Curtain call, you two! C’mon! Let’s go!”

Peter leans in closer to the both of us, and moans, “Jeez! I’m SO, SO sorry!! My God, I just… I panicked! My thumb just… slipped right over the button, Mr. Lyford!! It slipped! And I didn’t manage to get it pushed down in… the button… so…”

“Curtain call! Come on!”

I’m thinking, Omigod, as the two back away, turn, and head over to center stage. The curtain fully opened now, they take their bows, soaking up the applause and whistles. Stupidly, I even get called out to join in.

But after the curtain closes, I see Peter picking up the switchblade from the floor. “You got a replacement for tomorrow night?” he asks, handing it over to me. Jerry joins us from behind.

“Whatta you mean?”

“I mean this,” Jerry whispers, nodding down at it.

Oh jeez, the blade is still locked in the ‘out’ position. And the once proud and straight little comb is now bent, snaked into what I can only describe as three wide little S-curves!

Peter’s face is a mask of horror. “I’m sorry,” he whines. “So sorry. I panicked and froze! My thumb slipped off the damn button! It… It never collapsed back in! It stayed locked in place! I pretty much stabbed him, Mr. L…”

“Pretty much?” Jerry growls. “I mean… look at my stomach!”

“You can’t believe how sorry I am!”

I’m studying Jerry’s wound. “God, that looks painful!”

“Ya think?!“

And here I’d thought all along that the thing was made of steel. Thank God it wasn’t!

“Wow. Well, at least there’s no blood. But damn, no wonder it looked so real out there! You think you’re gonna be OK?”

“I guess. It stings like hell though.”

“Look, I mean it! I’m so sorry!“

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

I shake my head, looking at my crumpled prop. “And that’s a big No on a back-up knife,” I say. “I wish to hell I’d bought two, but…”

“So… what’ll we do about tomorrow night’s production,” Jerry asks. “How’s that gonna work?”

“I have no idea, guys. I have no idea whatsoever.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Next morning what I did do was rush the “knife” over to the shop, looking for any help I could get. “Can you put this in a vise or something,” I asked the shop teacher. “You know… straighten it out? Flatten it out somehow?”

The shop teacher scratched his chin, tsk-tsked over it, hmmm’d and hawed over it a bit and finally said, “I dunno. I guess we’ll find out.”

Well, they did manage to straighten the comb out… somewhat. But not nearly enough to get it to slide back and forth in and out of the handle. It was still too bent for that, alas. But you know what they say… “The show must go on.”

Next night, as I’d instructed, Jerry pulled the pathetic, no-longer-a-switchblade “knife” out of his back pocket and kept it in motion all the time under the lights, us hoping nobody would notice what it was really looking like. I really missed that dramatic, switchblade SNICK! from the night before though.

But we got through the play. And from all the accolades, we were pretty much a success. There was a larger teenage crowd on the second night. I guess that’s because the word got out in school that there was a pretty realistic, friggin’ knife fight in it. Something probably never seen in an Academy play before.

I believe we even broke even, or better, on admission fees. That, in itself, was seen as remarkable…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Like I’ve said before, I appreciate comments. If you wish, feel free to leave one in the field below and then simply click on “POST COMMENT.” I usually respond…

THIS OLD GUITAR

I grew up in a home that had an old acoustic guitar just lying around in it. It was my mom’s.

Way back in the early 1940’s, she and some of her wild siblings and friends formed a locally popular country-western band that played at the area Grange halls. According to a 1999 article in Paper Talks: as dirt-poor as they were, Ma’s (Violet’s) older sister Elva earned enough cash by “cutting potato seed” to purchase a guitar for herself and one for her. They named themselves The Bar-K Buckaroos. Mom’s brother Chester, a born con man, acted as the band’s “manager” under the imaginative name Ace Dixon.

(A cherished Lyford family story is that our dad, Raymond, was smitten and became a big fan of mom’s during one of their concerts. Reportedly performing a popular song of the day called “Winking at You,” she came strolling down through the audience, coming to a stop right in front of him, and then personally serenading him with a few lines. {And winked at him!} And the rest is history.)

So anyway, the guitar. When I was in junior high, Ma taught me three basic chords, all in the key of C: C, F, and G7. I discovered that with those three, I could navigate my wannabe singer’s voice through most of the popular songs at that time. Eventually, however, I found that if I ever wanted to be able to handle The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun,” I had to familiarize myself with the A minor chord as well. I mean, anybody and everybody who was learning guitar that I knew wanted to play that particular song, it being so dark and cool.

Back in 1960 I had a friend who owned an electric guitar and an amp. I’d spend hours with him in his bedroom taking turns blasting his neighbors. We’d crank that amp up to a 7 on the Richter scale and let’er rip. This Wayne Smith was so much more talented than I was. (And if you’re wondering how good I was, my answer is: not so much. I think I got to be… promising, but that’s as far as I ever got.)

I’d learned the do re mi scale in C though, which enabled me to pick out the melodies of popular songs in that key fairly easily. So from Wayne’s bedroom, the neighbors got treated to my loud rendition of “Apache,” an instrumental made by famous by The Shadows in 1960, or The Ventures’ popular “Walk Don’t Run.” On top of that, and being nuts over Johnny Cash, I worked hard to learn to play the chords of his hits in his signature style while picking out the melodies to boot.

But like I said, “promising, but that’s as far as I ever got.” There are a couple of reasons:

(1) I’m lazy.

I’d already learned to play practically everything I wanted to play in the key of C. Trying to master playing the necessary chords for pop songs in other keys? Well, that was difficult, wasn’t it. Smacked of effort. So why bother? C was good enough for me. And besides, if I wanted to play songs in higher or lower chords… hey, that’s what capos are for, right?

So… laziness.

(2) I suffered from terminal stage fright.

Although in the safety and privacy of my room I practiced! practiced! practiced! like I was trying to get to Carnegie Hall (and had even begun to show some definite growth), the problem was this: the moment I’d feel a few eyes bearing down on me while playing, my brain would just fly right out the window.

It’s been that way all my life. For instance, as a kid I played a lot of basketball with a number of older kids. Every weekend after Central Hall Rec Center closed down at 10:00 pm, a bunch of us would rent the floor and play ball till 1:00 am next morning. I got really good at it too. I’d honed a hook shot that was deadly. I was hell on wheels.

Now of course, you’re probably thinking, Oh sure, in HIS OWN OPINION he was hell on wheels. So… how good was I really? Answer: good enough to make the starting five on the A-squad three years running. In 7^th grade. In 8^th grade. And in my freshman year.

Why?

Stage fright. Oh, I was just great during practices. And in each one of those three years, when the jump-ball tip-off signaled the start of first game of the season, I was right out there on the floor. with the rest of the starting team. But…

There’d end up being about 150 fans’ eyes gawking at us, but particularly right at me (or so I felt). Consequently, I became dazed, confused, and “frozen.” One of my teammates would shoot the ball over to me and guess what: I’d just stand there, watching the ball bounce off my chest and disappear out of bounds.

And after that happened twice, Coach would call me over to the sidelines, look deep into my eyes and ask, sincerely, “Tommy. What’s going on?!” And my answer (to each successive coach, three years running) was always the same: an embarrassed, “I… don’t know…” After which I’d spend the rest of the season warming the bench.

Sad irony: I was as bad at performing with the guitar as I was at basketball. And not only that but, yeah, up through my sophomore year in high school it was also that way when talking to pretty girls. Which sucked, but… it just was what it was.

See, this is what the ancient Greeks called a ‘tragic flaw.’

However (A) by 1962, I was still looking sort-of-hopefully toward my (possible?) musician-future-stardom with some degree of optimism, but (B) although I had no way of ever expecting the irony of it (nobody would or could have), the future-BIG-payday teased at by the windfall of Ma’s guitar wasn’t going to be about…

…me.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now, I’ve mentioned in previous posts that my best friend throughout high school (and beyond) was a fella named Neil Mallett. He grew up in Sebec, Maine, located a few miles north of my hometown of Dover-Foxcroft. From kindergarten through eighth grade, Sebec kids attended school in Sebec. However, beginning with their freshman year, they joined us ‘townies by enrolling in Foxcroft Academy.

Neil and I were both enrolled in the College Prep curriculum at FA, so the two of us ended up taking all the same classes. Not only that, but Neil ended up sitting right behind me in pretty much every class due to the fact that our unimaginative teachers could think of no better way than alphabetical order to arrange our seating plans. This recurring proximity sealed our friendship. Consequently, I soon found myself becoming a frequent visitor out at his home in Sebec.

We didn’t have a lot in common at first. I lived in town in a house resting on a boring single acre of land; Neil lived in the country. Our house was boxed in by the houses of our many, many next-door neighbors. He lived in a not-at-all crowded, neighbor-filled-neighborhood. His homestead had all kinds of things mine didn’t. An old field truck that I could drive. A tractor. A huge barn. A flock of sheep. A big German Shepherd. At least four other brothers. A mom filled with spooky stories. Big country breakfasts every morning. And lots of fields with haying to be done.

It was wonderful. For me, a rural agricultural Disneyland. I wanted to live out there in Mallettville. I wanted to be a Mallett.

I stayed over often.

**Dumbass me.** **Notice the brown rectangular roof of the *very large building* down below in the upper half of the photo, for a sense of scale…**

All kinds of things happened out there. For one thing, I got fear-frozen up maybe 200+ feet up on the 260-foot, still-under-construction Telstar tower that was adjacent to one of their properties.

Practically all the boys from miles around felt compelled to climb that tower at one time or another. It was a rite of passage.

Another thing that happened is that I got to spend almost an entire summer haying out there. My God, it was hard, hot and sweaty work, but I loved every minute of it.

Now, harking back to the real adventure: one time out there, in the winter of ‘62, I got to talking about how much I was enjoying playing my Ma’s guitar at home. Neil’s and his younger brother David’s ears perked right up my descriptions. And so I got asked to bring Ma’s guitar out there for them to check out next time I came over.

So we made plans for that.

“It was a dark and stormy night.” Freezing, windy, and snowing. One of Neil’s older brothers pulled up in our driveway to chauffer the guitar and me off to Sebec. And since the entire rear window of the car was for some reason missing and the snowflakes were swirling around inside the interior, I wrapped the instrument up in an old blanket to keep it as dry as possible. It was about a 10-minute ride.

So anyway, the guitar arrived in one piece (and no worse for the wear), and we brought it into the warm Mallett living room. Everybody gathered around for my little demonstration. And believe it or not, even though I was among very good friends, I still got as nervous as hell while doing it.

Wow though, Neil and young David really got into the whole idea that with only three, maybe four chords, you could play “any song.”

***BOYS! Grow Giant Mushrooms in YOUR Cellar!***

Sounds pretty much like a pitch from one of those ads in the back of some 1950’s comic book, doesn’t it. But that is pretty much what I told them anyway. But of course…that turned out to be an unintentional untruth of course.

Anyway, it was a hands-on experience for them, each taking turns, trying out the chords, and immediately learning about the guitar-player’s painful fingertips. But I figured that, like most kids who just dream and dream of playing the guitar, that the nitty-gritty reality of the commitment involved would end up making short work of that dream. Besides, they didn’t even own a guitar.

But unbeknownst to me, the guitar I’d just handed over was like Jack’s magic beans in the story of Jack and the Beanstalk. Something immediately took root in these two guys. I mean, by placing that completely ordinary musical instrument into their sweaty little palms, I was unwittingly creating a monster. (Well, two monsters actually.) (And to be clear: I’m talking ‘monster’ in a good way… in a very good way.)

Because in a few weeks, they had a guitar of their own. And in a few more weeks, they had two guitars! And damn, they could both play them! Head and shoulders above what I was capable of. And on top of that they’d discovered they could sing as well, David assuming the lead vocalist role, and Neil backing him up with the harmony. They quickly assembled a playlist of popular folk and country songs and took them out on the road.

**This article from *Up North* (Jan/Feb 2008) by Shelagh Talbot**

Next thing you knew, they were performing a couple of numbers before the student body at Foxcroft. And were a sensation. Everybody loved their sound. Word got out. Their reputation spread. They were asked to perform gigs at Rec Center, churches, weddings, and grange halls just like my mom. And they had become… The Mallett Brothers.

(Yes, I know– right this very moment there is a nationally popular band called The Mallett Brothers [David’s two sons, Luke and Will] out there making a big, successful splash in the music world, but Neil and David were the original Mallett Brothers back in the 60’s.)

Before you knew it, they were even showing up on television— TV talent shows, performing in guest spots with other well-known local singers, and then (lo and behold!) they came out with their own television show!

Early in the 60’s I was fortunate in that, being such a close family friend and all, I was allowed to accompany them on their various grange hall gigs all over the area. I liked to think of myself as sort of their ‘roadie’ but, in reality, I was more of groupie, just tagging along for the adventure.

And then, in another blink of an eye it seemed, they began cutting a few 45 rpm records. And songwriting became added to the mix. That was a family affair, beginning with their mom, Pauline, who penned the song, “Solomon,” (the yellow label featured in the photo below). The Mallett Brothers were off and running.

These records found their way to radio stations around the state of Maine, got plenty of play time, and bolstered their growing popularity.

The 45 in the center is titled “Cole’s Express.” The story behind that one is that The Mallett Brothers got hired by a large firm in the small city of Bangor, ME, namely Cole’s Express. They were hired to sing their way north to south, east to west all over the state of Maine to promote Mr. Cole’s company. It was a lucrative deal.

Oh how I envied them, staying in motels, meeting all kinds of interesting people, and getting paid for doing something they were more than passionate about. The YouTube video below was recorded during one of their stops in Fort Fairfield, Maine.

But hey, one of the best and most memorable of the many gigs I got to accompany them on was on Monday, July 20th, 1963. This was during the total solar eclipse of that year, at the dead center of the eclipse path which lay smack-dab in Dexter, Maine. Dexter hosted an unforgettable 4-day celebration that included vendors, food, dancing, a talent show, and music.

Headlining the music on the stage that day was The Mallett Brothers. The weather was perfect. And a family of performers were so taken by David and Neil, that they invited us to come out to view the eclipse on their family’s farm. It was great. We got to watch the confused cows slowly heading in across the fields toward the barn only to stop and turn around when the sun came back out. And then we also got to hear the rooster crow an untimely cock-a-doodle-doo, announcing morning for the second time that day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So here’s my point… well, at least PART I of my point (look for one other ‘Part’ of the point in this adventure). So many things subsequently happened only because there was this old guitar, a left-over relic from the 1940’s, left leaning up against a side of our piano in the family living room back in the mid-1950s. I mean, suppose my mom never received that guitar in the first place, and that there’d never been a little country western group called the Bar-K Buckaroos. Would I have taken that amateur interest in playing a guitar anyway? I don’t see how. At least not then. Would I ever get some other opportunity to learn about those three chords? Possibly. A lot of kids did.

On the other hand, I’m pretty positive I would have met and befriended Neil anyway though, thanks to the alphabetical-seating-order-fetish of those unimaginative teachers of FA’s College Prep classes. But there wouldn’t have been that particular winter’s night gathering in the Mallett living room, listening to me playing those easy chords.

In fact, minus the cause (the guitar) and effect (David’s and Neil’s early musical career) I, Neil, and David could all very likely be living lives in some alternative reality. I mean… horror of all horrors, what if I’d (haha) gone over there and, in an enthusiastically glorified and charismatic manner, shared with them the basketball path I was futilely trying to master, and had somehow tantalized and mesmerized them with the amazing scientific precision of that deadly “hook shot” I had honed so sharply? Might then Neil and David have put their creative energies into competitive sports instead? And might David and Neil have become famous brother-athletes on a national scale, like Peyton and Eli Manning?

OK, now you’re probably wondering what it is I’m smoking. Just being facetious. But yeah. Really. What if there hadn’t been that guitar at all, eh? Did the guitar have anything to do with me finding a permanent girlfriend? Yes!

Did that guitar have anything to do with David and Neil crossing paths with The Man in Black, Johnny Cash? Yes, I believe so!

But stay tuned to find out. Look for “This Old Guitar, Part II” in the next day or two.

Tag: Stage Fright

“BREAK A LEG: Part Two”

INCIDENT AT SAN BAJO by Brad Korbesmeyer Short Play, Drama / 4w, 3m

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STAGE FRIGHT: Always Say ‘Break A Leg,’ Never ‘Good Luck’

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THIS OLD GUITAR

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