Aspire
By Karla M. Steffens-Moran
It’s a snow day, and my youngest son plops down into the chair opposite me in the living room and says: “I’m bored.” I look down at my coffee and then over to him and say: “Go get a game. I’ll play whatever you want.” He stands, rounds the corner to head up the stairs and returns a few short moments later with the game board for Candy Land: “I want to play this one, but I can’t find the cards anywhere.” I tell him where I think he might find them, but he insists that he’s already looked there; he’s already tried and failed. I’m about to tell him to try again, when the phone rings. A few moments later, following an invitation from a friend, he’s abandoned the notion of Candy Land and trying--in this case--to locate its missing pieces. I however have not given up. I will find the game pieces. I will triumph or die trying.
“Try again; fail better,” is a favorite Samuel Beckett quote of mine. I’m thinking, it sums up pretty much what I aspire to: to not quit. Certainly, I have those days, those nights during which time I question whether or not I should even bother--doesn’t matter what it is--because I have failed, my demons have gotten the better of me--again--and I’m back to the same old place. I know that I’m not alone; we all have that place. For some of us it’s standing on the scale, staring down at the number that we swore we’d never be at again, for others it’s staring at the empty wine glass that we promised ourselves we’d never pour again, let alone drink. For some, it’s lighting that cigarette or yelling at our kids or our spouse. For others it’s working too much or too little, getting into another one of those relationships we know is unhealthy for body or spirit--or leaving when we realize too late that we should have stayed, or any moment in which we allow our fear to dominate over our hope. It’s making the choice to do something that we know is less than healthy--not ever really knowing or acknowledging why--followed by the regret of having failed.
“Try again; fail better.” I speak this mantra as my first hopeful step back to making my life make sense again. It’s getting back up on the proverbial horse, the wagon, the right track, back home and saying, this time will be different. This time I won’t fail. This time it will work: the job, the relationship, the diet, the budget, the workout, the plan. This time there will be triumph.
And in that moment, there is in fact a kind of triumph--of will, of spirit, of hope. This is the moment that French philosopher Albert Camus described in his essay: The Myth of Sisyphus. Sisyphus has been punished by the greek gods for doing some naughty thing or another and is forced to spend eternity pushing a large boulder up a hill only to watch it roll back down into the valley as soon as he’s managed to nearly reach the summit. Camus suggests that the moment of Sisyphus’ heroism is not in his ascent, nor in his task of pushing the boulder, but rather in the moment just after the boulder has rolled back down to rest in the valley and just before his descent back down to retrieve the boulder-- again. It’s the look in his eye prior to that first step: Yes, I can. I will.
It’s in the summoning up of the courage to try again--to do the right thing for ourselves, for others, for the planet. And what better time to contemplate this journey of spirit--the holidays, a few breaths short of that great goal setting day of New Year’s. Certainly, the holidays are a time of great celebration but they are as well filled with more than a few moments of despair, of degeneration of will, of depressed spirit--despite the frivolity. There are gifts and gatherings and good times, but for those who are suffering illness, sadness or recent loss--whether it be of friends, relatives, employment or health, the season can prove a genuine challenge to simply finding the energy, the “wherewithall” to put one foot in front of the other. Back up the hill we go, one arduous step at a time.
“Try again; fail better.” It’s the game of Candy Land as metaphor. We begin with great hope on our journey to King Kandy’s Candy Castle, moving our colorful game pieces past the Gingerbread Plum Trees and sneaking past Lord Licorice who lies in wait, avoiding Plumpy, to make our way through the Peppermint Forest and beyond Gumdrop Mountains, only to be Lost in Lollipop Woods or Stuck in Gooey Gumdrops or Molasses Swamp. We learn before we can read about failure as a part of the game. We learn early on that while the point is to play the game--not simply win or lose, that no matter the outcome, there’s both fun and loss to be had in the drama and suspense of it all.
There will be success. And there will be failure. This holiday season, you may very well gain a pound or six. You may fall off the wagon. You may say yes when you should say no. You may purchase something beyond your means. You may scream at the children or the spouse or the parent. You may gamble on a sure bet that is anything but certain success. You will fail. And then there will be the choice. Wallow in the failure for a moment, but then embrace it and then move on, one foot in front of the other--back up the mountain, back down to the boulder, back to the drawing board, the diet, the healthy choice. Because there’s also something gained in not letting the failure dominate the spirit.
The challenges are many but trust this: the yellow or blue or red Candy Land card that you must draw in order to move forward is in the deck. It may be the next card in the stack or it may be several away, but it is there, waiting for you to draw it. So, this New Year’s, whether you love or loathe the resolutions, be undaunted. Despite the odds, set those goals. Again. Lose the weight gained. Find the job. Get out of an unhealthy--or or into a healthy--relationship. Stick to your budget. Make that plan. Follow that dream. Queen Frostine, Gramma Nut, Princess Lolly, Albert Camus and even Samuel Beckett are all rooting for you--for each of us. “Try again; fail better.” The operative word being: better.
My goal: to find those missing cards before my son Luke gets back home from sledding. Try--again--I hear them calling to me: Aspire. The Candy Castle awaits.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Let's Do It!
Let’s Do It!
A fresh snow blankets the last of the fallen leaves. Ironically, I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas plays softly on the radio in my kitchen, and as Bing Crosby croons, I am reminded of how when I was a child, my house (as is true of my own house today) was always filled with music. Both of my parents were musicians: my mom, a singer; my dad, a trumpeter. During World War II my dad played with Kay Kyser and his Orchestra.
“He was the first of the big band leaders--before Dorsey, before Goodman, there was Kay--who I might add, was also the first to do military touring,” said my dad. “He needed another trumpeter. I was just lucky,” he added as humbly as any son of a fruit and vegetable truck farmer would.
When my dad returned home after the war, he continued to play with a band--weekends mostly. My mom happily joined him--she loved to sing, and sing she did--all the time. She sang at the piano, in the shower, while she was doing dishes, when she dusted, when she drove me to school--but most particularly, she liked to sing at Christmas time.
Weekends, they’d both get dressed up in clothes that literally sparkled, packed up their instruments and sheet music and headed out to play whatever gig their Band Leader Red Peters had lined up for that night. I’d watch my mom putting on her bright red lipstick, blot her lips with a tissue, before kissing me goodnight, and think to myself, how magical it all seemed. I still remember the way she looked: auburn hair swept off her face like her favorite singer Peggy Lee, the lingering smell of her perfume--Lanvin’s My Sin, which she’d dab on both wrists and at the back of her neck. Finally, I remember the image of that big red kiss left behind on the single white tissue that I’d retrieve from her dresser and save. Still, what I remember most clearly is the music--their favorites, those Big Band American Jazz Standards from the thirties and forties.
On Sundays, the morning after their gigs, all their musician friends would come for brunch--likely not having slept for more than a few hours. My mother would fix pancakes and eggs, fritattas and hash browns and rich, black coffee brewed with eggshells. We children were to be seen and not heard, but that was fine with us as long as we could listen as they all talked and argued, laughed and yes, played--sometimes long past dark when my mom would finally send them all packing. Sundays were filled with music: Begin the Beguine, Night and Day, Shine on Harvest Moon, Moonlight Serenade, You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby. Anything Goes, Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love, Cheek to Cheek, A Tisket, A Tasket, Carelessly…and so many more.
I’m certain that’s why I’ve chosen to direct Jean Shepherd’s A Christmas Story again this year (performed this Friday, December 12th at 7:30 and Saturday, December 13th at 2:00 p.m. in the Mount Vernon District Auditorium). Set in the late thirties, early forties--and featuring a local cast of nearly thirty and technical staff of another dozen students ages five to nearly seventy-five--it brings me back to a time in my own house, a time filled with music. For those of you who may still be unfamiliar, A Christmas Story, is based upon Jean Shepherd’s In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash, in which he recalls growing up during the late thirties and early forties in his hometown of Hohman, Indiana.
Cast members in this year’s production include: Ed Hill, Amy White, Ray Leeper, Jan Moore, Jim White, Hannah Ganzel, Craig Wilson, Corey Brannaman, Tom Bush, Kai Walberg, David Taylor, Luke Moran, Sam Moore, John Butz, Brenna Mills, Molly Fox, Theresa Gruber-Miller, Jackson Brus, Isabelle Light, Sophie Fox, Jasmine Turnquist-Wernimont, Sammy Murray, Cate Morgan, Kate Liberko, Nick Silva, Tyler Kranig, Jasper Rood and Atticus Rood. Additional featured musical performers include: Jenna Smith, Grace Moran and Anna Butz in a tribute to the Boswell Sisters and Tin Pan Alley. Technical Interns include: Zak Moran, Seamus Taylor, Cece Sullivan, Darrow Center, Lyndsey Wycoff, Tim Gruber-Miller, Hannah Ganzel, Alex Bradbury and Caitlyn Mills.
Similar to today, the years of the late thirties and early forties in which the play is set were years of worldwide economic crisis and world war. These were the years following the Great Depression, of FDR’s New Deal (introduced years earlier by Al Smith as mayor of New York and expanded in Albany when Smith became Governor of New York), of the victory over the Nazi’s in Europe and our eventual return to a time of economic prosperity and peace. Years of tumult, trial and yes, triumph-- during which there often wasn’t much money for the basics--let alone for any extras--it was a time of sacrifice, of rationing, but it was also a time of hope as well as a time when the Radio, Television, Movie and Music Industries as well as theatre, in particular American Musicals, moved into a Golden Age.
My dad recalled how they’d gather around the radio in the evenings and listen to all the old serial antics of Little Orphan Annie, The Shadow, Buck Rogers, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, Superman or his favorite: Amos ‘n Andy. He spoke fondly about the comics--known as the “Zanies”--like Eddie Cantor, Ed Wynn, Jack Pearl and Cliff Hall and Joe Penner. My mom shared how they’d spend all day long at the movie house on Saturdays, watching everything from skits to short cartoons, singing along with the bouncing ball, catching up on the movie tone news clips, enjoying feature films like Wizard of Oz, Drums Along the Mohawk, Gone with the Wind or the “Chiffhanger” serials like Zorro, Flash Gordon, the Spy Smasher, Tiger Woman, Those Little Rascals and yes, The Adventures of Red Ryder and his Red Ryder BB Gun!!
So, it is more than fitting that Odyssey Theatre for the Young of Art and Friends of Mount Vernon Lisbon Community Theatre revive this old chestnut, A Christmas Story during this particular holiday season and our own trying economic times. When too many of our loved ones are serving abroad, when the cupboards are frighteningly bare, when we are worried about what the future holds in terms of energy and economics--we need to come together in hope.
We need to laugh, to cry, to sing along with the bouncing ball, to cheer on the antics of our favorite characters--spend an evening gathered together around the radio or an afternoon laughing at the antics of Little Ralphie as he conspires to get the one thing that will make this the best Christmas EVER--despite his mother’s, his teacher’s and even Santa’s warning that: YOU’LL SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT, KID, he does not quit dreaming. In spite of it all, more than anything it all rests upon needing (not merely wanting but needing) “An official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time."
So, if the weather outside is frightful, or the job or the to-do list is making you exclaim: You’re Driving Me Crazy, or your response to the question, ‘how are you?’ is answered with, ‘I’m working Night and Day,’ or you’re just hoping for a bit of Love Around the Corner, or a single day of Blue Skies, or perhaps you are in need of a Christmas miracle like a rainshower of Pennies from Heaven to pay those mounting bills, then Will You Remember, that this is My Prayer for you. That you’ll take some time to bring your family, your children, your parents, your grandparents Come Rain or Shine, or sleet or snow, to listen as The Music Goes Round and Round, this Friday, December 12th at 7:30 p.m. or Saturday, December 13th at 2 p.m. to the Mount Vernon District Auditorium to see A Christmas Story, so we might be reminded that there is much to be glad about in the simple act of our coming together as a community. I promise if you do, afterwards you may just be whistling: Heaven, I’m in Heaven…and thinking to yourself: Goody, Goody, or perhaps simply Thanks for the Memory.
Yes, Let’s do it, let’s put on our sparkly party clothes, maybe even some bright red lipstick to celebrate the season, Let’s Fall in Love once again--or perhaps for the first time--with the magic of the season, the magic of the theatre, the magic of making merry, of making music! It’s as simple as following the bouncing ball! And a one and a two and a three! Begin the Beguine!
OF SPECIAL NOTE: Odyssey Theatre for the Young of Art will be collecting new and wrapped toys, clothes, books, games, gift certificates and gift cards for donation to South East Linn Community Center’s Angel Tree program for distribution to families in need during this holiday season! Food items will also be welcomed! Please be generous this year! Happy and Safe Holidays! Questions, call 319-213-0147 or visit our website at www.odysseytheatremv.com
A fresh snow blankets the last of the fallen leaves. Ironically, I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas plays softly on the radio in my kitchen, and as Bing Crosby croons, I am reminded of how when I was a child, my house (as is true of my own house today) was always filled with music. Both of my parents were musicians: my mom, a singer; my dad, a trumpeter. During World War II my dad played with Kay Kyser and his Orchestra.
“He was the first of the big band leaders--before Dorsey, before Goodman, there was Kay--who I might add, was also the first to do military touring,” said my dad. “He needed another trumpeter. I was just lucky,” he added as humbly as any son of a fruit and vegetable truck farmer would.
When my dad returned home after the war, he continued to play with a band--weekends mostly. My mom happily joined him--she loved to sing, and sing she did--all the time. She sang at the piano, in the shower, while she was doing dishes, when she dusted, when she drove me to school--but most particularly, she liked to sing at Christmas time.
Weekends, they’d both get dressed up in clothes that literally sparkled, packed up their instruments and sheet music and headed out to play whatever gig their Band Leader Red Peters had lined up for that night. I’d watch my mom putting on her bright red lipstick, blot her lips with a tissue, before kissing me goodnight, and think to myself, how magical it all seemed. I still remember the way she looked: auburn hair swept off her face like her favorite singer Peggy Lee, the lingering smell of her perfume--Lanvin’s My Sin, which she’d dab on both wrists and at the back of her neck. Finally, I remember the image of that big red kiss left behind on the single white tissue that I’d retrieve from her dresser and save. Still, what I remember most clearly is the music--their favorites, those Big Band American Jazz Standards from the thirties and forties.
On Sundays, the morning after their gigs, all their musician friends would come for brunch--likely not having slept for more than a few hours. My mother would fix pancakes and eggs, fritattas and hash browns and rich, black coffee brewed with eggshells. We children were to be seen and not heard, but that was fine with us as long as we could listen as they all talked and argued, laughed and yes, played--sometimes long past dark when my mom would finally send them all packing. Sundays were filled with music: Begin the Beguine, Night and Day, Shine on Harvest Moon, Moonlight Serenade, You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby. Anything Goes, Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love, Cheek to Cheek, A Tisket, A Tasket, Carelessly…and so many more.
I’m certain that’s why I’ve chosen to direct Jean Shepherd’s A Christmas Story again this year (performed this Friday, December 12th at 7:30 and Saturday, December 13th at 2:00 p.m. in the Mount Vernon District Auditorium). Set in the late thirties, early forties--and featuring a local cast of nearly thirty and technical staff of another dozen students ages five to nearly seventy-five--it brings me back to a time in my own house, a time filled with music. For those of you who may still be unfamiliar, A Christmas Story, is based upon Jean Shepherd’s In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash, in which he recalls growing up during the late thirties and early forties in his hometown of Hohman, Indiana.
Cast members in this year’s production include: Ed Hill, Amy White, Ray Leeper, Jan Moore, Jim White, Hannah Ganzel, Craig Wilson, Corey Brannaman, Tom Bush, Kai Walberg, David Taylor, Luke Moran, Sam Moore, John Butz, Brenna Mills, Molly Fox, Theresa Gruber-Miller, Jackson Brus, Isabelle Light, Sophie Fox, Jasmine Turnquist-Wernimont, Sammy Murray, Cate Morgan, Kate Liberko, Nick Silva, Tyler Kranig, Jasper Rood and Atticus Rood. Additional featured musical performers include: Jenna Smith, Grace Moran and Anna Butz in a tribute to the Boswell Sisters and Tin Pan Alley. Technical Interns include: Zak Moran, Seamus Taylor, Cece Sullivan, Darrow Center, Lyndsey Wycoff, Tim Gruber-Miller, Hannah Ganzel, Alex Bradbury and Caitlyn Mills.
Similar to today, the years of the late thirties and early forties in which the play is set were years of worldwide economic crisis and world war. These were the years following the Great Depression, of FDR’s New Deal (introduced years earlier by Al Smith as mayor of New York and expanded in Albany when Smith became Governor of New York), of the victory over the Nazi’s in Europe and our eventual return to a time of economic prosperity and peace. Years of tumult, trial and yes, triumph-- during which there often wasn’t much money for the basics--let alone for any extras--it was a time of sacrifice, of rationing, but it was also a time of hope as well as a time when the Radio, Television, Movie and Music Industries as well as theatre, in particular American Musicals, moved into a Golden Age.
My dad recalled how they’d gather around the radio in the evenings and listen to all the old serial antics of Little Orphan Annie, The Shadow, Buck Rogers, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, Superman or his favorite: Amos ‘n Andy. He spoke fondly about the comics--known as the “Zanies”--like Eddie Cantor, Ed Wynn, Jack Pearl and Cliff Hall and Joe Penner. My mom shared how they’d spend all day long at the movie house on Saturdays, watching everything from skits to short cartoons, singing along with the bouncing ball, catching up on the movie tone news clips, enjoying feature films like Wizard of Oz, Drums Along the Mohawk, Gone with the Wind or the “Chiffhanger” serials like Zorro, Flash Gordon, the Spy Smasher, Tiger Woman, Those Little Rascals and yes, The Adventures of Red Ryder and his Red Ryder BB Gun!!
So, it is more than fitting that Odyssey Theatre for the Young of Art and Friends of Mount Vernon Lisbon Community Theatre revive this old chestnut, A Christmas Story during this particular holiday season and our own trying economic times. When too many of our loved ones are serving abroad, when the cupboards are frighteningly bare, when we are worried about what the future holds in terms of energy and economics--we need to come together in hope.
We need to laugh, to cry, to sing along with the bouncing ball, to cheer on the antics of our favorite characters--spend an evening gathered together around the radio or an afternoon laughing at the antics of Little Ralphie as he conspires to get the one thing that will make this the best Christmas EVER--despite his mother’s, his teacher’s and even Santa’s warning that: YOU’LL SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT, KID, he does not quit dreaming. In spite of it all, more than anything it all rests upon needing (not merely wanting but needing) “An official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time."
So, if the weather outside is frightful, or the job or the to-do list is making you exclaim: You’re Driving Me Crazy, or your response to the question, ‘how are you?’ is answered with, ‘I’m working Night and Day,’ or you’re just hoping for a bit of Love Around the Corner, or a single day of Blue Skies, or perhaps you are in need of a Christmas miracle like a rainshower of Pennies from Heaven to pay those mounting bills, then Will You Remember, that this is My Prayer for you. That you’ll take some time to bring your family, your children, your parents, your grandparents Come Rain or Shine, or sleet or snow, to listen as The Music Goes Round and Round, this Friday, December 12th at 7:30 p.m. or Saturday, December 13th at 2 p.m. to the Mount Vernon District Auditorium to see A Christmas Story, so we might be reminded that there is much to be glad about in the simple act of our coming together as a community. I promise if you do, afterwards you may just be whistling: Heaven, I’m in Heaven…and thinking to yourself: Goody, Goody, or perhaps simply Thanks for the Memory.
Yes, Let’s do it, let’s put on our sparkly party clothes, maybe even some bright red lipstick to celebrate the season, Let’s Fall in Love once again--or perhaps for the first time--with the magic of the season, the magic of the theatre, the magic of making merry, of making music! It’s as simple as following the bouncing ball! And a one and a two and a three! Begin the Beguine!
OF SPECIAL NOTE: Odyssey Theatre for the Young of Art will be collecting new and wrapped toys, clothes, books, games, gift certificates and gift cards for donation to South East Linn Community Center’s Angel Tree program for distribution to families in need during this holiday season! Food items will also be welcomed! Please be generous this year! Happy and Safe Holidays! Questions, call 319-213-0147 or visit our website at www.odysseytheatremv.com
The Heart of a Man
The Heart of a Man
“A good old man is hard to find,” my friend, neighbor and theatre cohort Amy teased.
“And we need two of them,” I lamented.
“No problem,” we both said, tongue firmly planted in cheek. And then we both laughed.
We’d been calling old men all week trying to encourage them to take the part of Old Flick in the upcoming production of Jean Shepherd’s classic A Christmas Story. Set in the late thirties, the story is a recollection retold by two old friends--Ralph and Flick--of a Christmas when all little Ralphie needed (not merely wanted but needed) was to own a Red Ryder BB Gun double carbine action--to shoot varmints.
We’d begun the process of casting by drawing up our criteria for men who would be: 1) the right age (over seventy); 2.) willing to do the parts (theatre saavy or at least adventurous enough to learn); 3.) available to do the part ( in other words, in town versus in Arizona or Florida); 4) capable (translation: open-hearted); and finally 5) men who would understand the joy and necessity of owning a "An official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time"--or better yet, men who had actually owned one.
Again, we’d looked at each other: “Right, no problem, Christmas miracle.” Undaunted, we began our “call and email” campaign. In my heart I was not only confident that we’d find two gentlemen who fit the criteria to do it--we’d find that here were two old men who were meant for the part.
My heart was right. That very day, Ed Hill returned my email with a resounding: Yes! Yes! Yes! He was not only willing and available to play the part of Old Ralph, he was equally delighted to make a few calls to some old guys who might be willing to get involved. Within the week, Ed called me back and said: “Tom Bostwick would like to see a copy of the script.”
That same night, I pulled up in front of Tom’s house, hopeful, nervous. I could see Tom seated across from the front window in his easy chair. He was laughing with and nodding to grandson Zach who was sprawled on the couch to his left. They were watching the game.
I rang the bell and Tom’s wife Marge answered and invited me inside. “It’s cold out there; come on in,” she said, and called to her husband. “Tom, Karla’s here.” The house was warm and inviting and smelled like Sunday supper. Tom came around the corner, and I handed him a copy of the script, hoping he’d like it. I waved to Zach.
“Here for dinner are you?” I asked him.
“Yep,” Zach said and smiled. “Meatloaf.”
Meanwhile Tom paged through the script.
“You know,” he said. “I had a Red Ryder BB Gun. Did everything with it that I wasn’t supposed to do--including shoot out my own eye! No kidding!”
That was the thing about Tom, he was nearly always kidding. A dry, ascerbic wit--much like his son Eric’s--and no doubt like Zach’s. He was full of what my Dad referred to as “the Dickens.”
Marge was hesitant about him getting involved, worried that he was taking on too much what with his church board matters and such. He shook his head as if to assure her that it would be fine, turned to me and said the words that made my heart sing:
“You can count on me.”
And that was it. The following week he was there at rehearsal, delivering his lines with great humor and heart. He was joking with his fellow cast members--adult and child alike--a part of the action, a part of the circle as we shared our names and parts. Afterwards he came up to me and shared how much fun he was having, how glad he was to be involved, how he’d never before seen such a great group of kids. I told him how delighted I was to have found not one but two good old men! He laughed and took me by the arm gently and told me what a great job I was doing. I was taken quite aback by his charm.
“Thank you, Tom,” I said. “That means a lot coming from you. You’re too kind..” That was the Saturday before Thanksgiving. “I’ll see you after the holidays.” To which he replied:
“You can count on me!”
Life had other plans. On Thanksgiving Day Thomas “Tom” Bostwick passed away. That great big generous heart of his gave out. I was in Chicago visiting family when Amy called the day after Thanksgiving with the news. I stood in the middle of Best Buy on Black Friday and cried like a child who had just learned that her own grandpa had died. I could not imagine the circle without him in it. Amy continued to share how happy he’d been, how he’d been telling everyone how glad he was to be doing what he loved, nervous but excited, learning his lines. He’d been in a good place, a connected place, doing what he loved.
My head tells me that’s what matters, that the best we can hope for is to leave this world on a note of joy versus lament, connected versus isolated, full versus hungry. My heart tells me how fitting a tribute to this man so many of us counted on--a generous man who shared of himself: an afternoon of Sunday meatloaf and the game; a good joke; a screw gun to help build a set or repair something around the house; a tall tale about a boy named Tom, born 71 years ago, who one Christmas wished for and received "an official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time" --a boy named Tom--whose heart was full of mischief and mirth to the end--a boy who shot his own eye out with that Red Ryder carbine actionBB Gun.
A boy who grew into one fine old man, an old man that we were fortunate enough to find. An old man who never forgot the boy in his heart, an old man who remains in the circle, whose absence is felt. This one’s for you, Tom! Count on it.
“A good old man is hard to find,” my friend, neighbor and theatre cohort Amy teased.
“And we need two of them,” I lamented.
“No problem,” we both said, tongue firmly planted in cheek. And then we both laughed.
We’d been calling old men all week trying to encourage them to take the part of Old Flick in the upcoming production of Jean Shepherd’s classic A Christmas Story. Set in the late thirties, the story is a recollection retold by two old friends--Ralph and Flick--of a Christmas when all little Ralphie needed (not merely wanted but needed) was to own a Red Ryder BB Gun double carbine action--to shoot varmints.
We’d begun the process of casting by drawing up our criteria for men who would be: 1) the right age (over seventy); 2.) willing to do the parts (theatre saavy or at least adventurous enough to learn); 3.) available to do the part ( in other words, in town versus in Arizona or Florida); 4) capable (translation: open-hearted); and finally 5) men who would understand the joy and necessity of owning a "An official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time"--or better yet, men who had actually owned one.
Again, we’d looked at each other: “Right, no problem, Christmas miracle.” Undaunted, we began our “call and email” campaign. In my heart I was not only confident that we’d find two gentlemen who fit the criteria to do it--we’d find that here were two old men who were meant for the part.
My heart was right. That very day, Ed Hill returned my email with a resounding: Yes! Yes! Yes! He was not only willing and available to play the part of Old Ralph, he was equally delighted to make a few calls to some old guys who might be willing to get involved. Within the week, Ed called me back and said: “Tom Bostwick would like to see a copy of the script.”
That same night, I pulled up in front of Tom’s house, hopeful, nervous. I could see Tom seated across from the front window in his easy chair. He was laughing with and nodding to grandson Zach who was sprawled on the couch to his left. They were watching the game.
I rang the bell and Tom’s wife Marge answered and invited me inside. “It’s cold out there; come on in,” she said, and called to her husband. “Tom, Karla’s here.” The house was warm and inviting and smelled like Sunday supper. Tom came around the corner, and I handed him a copy of the script, hoping he’d like it. I waved to Zach.
“Here for dinner are you?” I asked him.
“Yep,” Zach said and smiled. “Meatloaf.”
Meanwhile Tom paged through the script.
“You know,” he said. “I had a Red Ryder BB Gun. Did everything with it that I wasn’t supposed to do--including shoot out my own eye! No kidding!”
That was the thing about Tom, he was nearly always kidding. A dry, ascerbic wit--much like his son Eric’s--and no doubt like Zach’s. He was full of what my Dad referred to as “the Dickens.”
Marge was hesitant about him getting involved, worried that he was taking on too much what with his church board matters and such. He shook his head as if to assure her that it would be fine, turned to me and said the words that made my heart sing:
“You can count on me.”
And that was it. The following week he was there at rehearsal, delivering his lines with great humor and heart. He was joking with his fellow cast members--adult and child alike--a part of the action, a part of the circle as we shared our names and parts. Afterwards he came up to me and shared how much fun he was having, how glad he was to be involved, how he’d never before seen such a great group of kids. I told him how delighted I was to have found not one but two good old men! He laughed and took me by the arm gently and told me what a great job I was doing. I was taken quite aback by his charm.
“Thank you, Tom,” I said. “That means a lot coming from you. You’re too kind..” That was the Saturday before Thanksgiving. “I’ll see you after the holidays.” To which he replied:
“You can count on me!”
Life had other plans. On Thanksgiving Day Thomas “Tom” Bostwick passed away. That great big generous heart of his gave out. I was in Chicago visiting family when Amy called the day after Thanksgiving with the news. I stood in the middle of Best Buy on Black Friday and cried like a child who had just learned that her own grandpa had died. I could not imagine the circle without him in it. Amy continued to share how happy he’d been, how he’d been telling everyone how glad he was to be doing what he loved, nervous but excited, learning his lines. He’d been in a good place, a connected place, doing what he loved.
My head tells me that’s what matters, that the best we can hope for is to leave this world on a note of joy versus lament, connected versus isolated, full versus hungry. My heart tells me how fitting a tribute to this man so many of us counted on--a generous man who shared of himself: an afternoon of Sunday meatloaf and the game; a good joke; a screw gun to help build a set or repair something around the house; a tall tale about a boy named Tom, born 71 years ago, who one Christmas wished for and received "an official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time" --a boy named Tom--whose heart was full of mischief and mirth to the end--a boy who shot his own eye out with that Red Ryder carbine actionBB Gun.
A boy who grew into one fine old man, an old man that we were fortunate enough to find. An old man who never forgot the boy in his heart, an old man who remains in the circle, whose absence is felt. This one’s for you, Tom! Count on it.
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