It’s almost 5:00 in the morning of September 11, 2011 and I cannot sleep. I almost feel that it’s going to happen all over again and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Let me bring you back ten years ago to that day from my perspective. My husband and I were on our annual vacation to Cape Cod. I woke up, grabbed a shower and made my breakfast to eat out in the backyard of our rented cottage. As soon as I got out there, though, I realized that it was too hot. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky and it was already about 80 degrees at 9:00 I the morning. So I came back inside where it was cooler, and put on the television to watch the weather report. I saw an image that confused me. It was the image of one of the Twin Towers, completely shrouded in smoke. Dan Rather was saying something about a plane that had crashed into the World Trade Center. I called my husband from the next room and said, “A small plane crashed into one of the Twin Towers. How awful.” I also noticed the now ubiquitous headline crawl along the bottom of the television screen. I started to read it, but that was long before we were used to watching an image and reading the crawl at the same time, so I soon gave up. From what I was able to glean from the crawl, it appeared that a Cessna or other small plane had gone off course and crashed into one of the Towers. We started talking about the time when a small plane crashed into the Empire State Building. We felt terrible for the pilot and any passengers, and hoped that there wasn’t too much damage to the Tower.
Concern turned to shock, though, as I heard Dan Rather say that the second Tower appeared to be in danger of collapse. I thought that it must have been a terrible jolt for one little plane to cause the other Tower to be at risk. Then I said, “Wait a minute. There’s something wrong. I can’t see both Towers. Where’s the other Tower?’ My husband, Jim, thought that it must have been hidden by all the smoke. I started to drink my coffee and eat my bagel. Then I watched the Tower collapse before my eyes. I said, “They’ve imploded the Towers. Why would they implode the Towers?” Then I heard Dan Rather say, “And the second Tower has collapsed.”
I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. I could barely breathe. I tried to speak but no words would come out. When I was finally able to mutter something I said, “Those Towers hold fifty thousand people. Fifty thousand people.” I could feel the bile rise into my throat and I ran to the bathroom to vomit. When I came back out, Jim told me that there were several other planes in the air which appeared to be heading towards Washington, D.C.. One had reportedly crashed into Camp David. And then I knew. I whispered, “We’re under attack. My God, we’re under attack.”
As we watched, sketchy reports began coming in. The White House had been hit. No, it was Camp David after all. I asked, “Where is the President?” but Jim didn’t know. No one knew. Time stopped. My husband’s face was ashen. I asked, “What’s happening?” and he said, “I don’t know. I don’t know. Who could have done something like this?” I choked out the words, “Bin Laden. It could only be Bin Laden.”
We stared at the television screen for hours, too shocked to cry and barely able to speak. We saw people jumping out of windows. Jumping out of 110 story windows. I wondered if they were showing the same footage in New York. I wanted to call my parents who lived about 25 miles north of New York but I didn’t want to tie up the phone lines for the emergency workers. I wanted to go home. I wanted to go to New York, my beloved New York, the city of my birth, the city of my ancestors’ birth. I wanted to do – I don’t know what. Help rescue people? Help clean up? Help somehow? Jim said that we needed to stay put until we had more information. I felt the need to be with people. I needed to go to the beach. Jim said, “Let’s go do something normal for a while. I can't stand watching this anymore. Let’s go play mini-golf.” I didn’t want to play mini-golf. I wanted to go to the beach. I wanted to be with people. I wanted to go home. But we went to play mini-golf. Like two zombies, we bought our clubs and asked the man at the desk if he had heard. We told him we were from New York. He laughed and said, “I bet you’re glad you’re not there now.” I said, “No. I wish I were there now, helping my City.” He looked confused. We played mini-golf. Then we drove around aimlessly. We found ourselves in Chatham, wandering around. We stopped into the only store which was still open. The owner was about to close. She said that a man had come in earlier, also stunned and wandering around. He said that he worked at Cantor Fitzgerald and was on vacation. He said he had nothing to go back to. Everyone he worked with was dead. We drove somewhere else; I don’t even remember where. A store. Maybe a department store. I must have bought something. I don’t know what. While I was on line, the two women ahead of me were talking. One said to the other that her husband worked at Otis Air Force Base and they had gotten the order to scramble.
As we drove back to our cottage, we saw hastily made, hand-written signs for a candlelight ceremony on the beach that night. I asked Jim if he’d like to go. He said “No.” We put the television back on when we got in. Someone was saying that there was no truth to the rumors that fighter jets had scrambled to try to intercept the jets that were flying into buildings. We learned that the Pentagon had been hit, but apparently the White House had not. There was another plane in Pennsylvania that had crashed. We finally managed to put a call in to my parents. My father said that there had been an enormous jet flying low over their neighborhood, flanked by F-16’s. My father would know because he had been in the Army Air Corps during WWII, and in the Air Force Reserves for some years afterwards. I told him that we had heard on the news that the President had ordered Air Force One to fly over the World Trade Center site, and that he must have seen Air Force One. Then I asked him if this was what it was like when Pearl Harbor was attacked. He said, “This is worse.” At that point, I began to tremble because that was the first time in my life I had heard fear in my father’s voice. He said that they could see the smoke all the way from lower Manhattan, that fighter plans were flying overhead and they were terrified. I told him that I wanted to come home and help with the rescue effort. He said, “Don’t, Sue. You’ll destroy your lungs. Don’t go down there.” I told him that I loved him and would call again the next day. I could hear a catch in his voice as he said, “Love you, too.”
I went to the candlelight ceremony on the beach by myself that night. It was beautiful, I guess. Someone handed me a candle and someone else handed me a rose. We lit the candles, said some kind of prayers and then cast the roses into the ocean. Someone was filming for the local news. He asked me where I was from and I said “New York.” He couldn’t say another word.
******
Two weeks later we were back in New York. Jim had gone back to work and I went to the City. I could only take the train down to 14th Street, so I walked the rest of the way downtown. It looked like a war zone. It was a war zone. Tanks and jeeps were in the streets, National Guard were everywhere. I didn’t recognize anything. Everything was closed, boarded up, destroyed. I asked a National Gaurdswoman where I could go to pay my respects. She said, “You can’t get any closer than Trinity Church, ma’am. It’s not safe.” I thanked her and tried to find my way to Trinity Church amid the smoke and ash. I kept looking up, as if I expected to see the Towers. I kept closing my eyes, then looking up, hoping that it had been a dream. But all I saw was smoke and ash. When I got to Trinity Church, dozens of people lined the barricades, looking in the direction of the Towers. I fell to my knees. They were gone. They were really gone. Some people sobbed, some people spoke in hushed tones. Most people prayed.
The most vivid memory I have of that day is the smell. As I got closer and closer to the site, I kept smelling something horrible. The ash became so dense that I had to cover my nose and mouth with a cloth. A wave of revulsion hit me as I realized that I was smelling still-burning, decomposing bodies, and that the ash that I was breathing in had once been three thousand human beings.
After a time – I don’t know how long – I went into the only shop that was still open that far downtown; the Au Bon Pain Pastry shop. I ordered a coffee and a chocolate croissant. Nothing has ever tasted so good before or since. Amid the destruction, the rubble, the ash and smoke, life was going on. The clerk told me that they had stayed open continuously, making gallon after gallon of coffee for the First Responders.
******
It has now been ten years since that horrific day. As I said at the top, I keep feeling that I can someone stop it from happening. That I know now what’s coming so I can warn someone. But it already happened. It happened a long time ago. It happened a moment ago. And it was such a beautiful day.
About Me
- Suzanne Du Charme
- Suzanne is a professional actor, based in the New York area. She is a proud member of SAG-AFTRA and AEA. She appears in independent film, as well as Regional and Off-Broadway theatre. Please visit her FB page, TheatreShare for all your theatre and film needs.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
FREEDOM
I’ve been thinking a lot about freedom lately. What does freedom really mean? Does it mean different things to different people? Can there be any one definition of the word?
235 years ago, freedom meant that a group of British colonies, suffering under enormous tax burdens and the tyranny of a far away King, wished to chart their own course. They wished to break away from their mother country, the country in which many of them were born, and to live as a new, independent nation. Benjamin Franklin spoke of how we had already become a new nationality – we needed a new nation. He was talking about change. Evolving needs for an evolving people.
Thomas Jefferson’s brilliant Declaration of Independence became a shell of its original form as compromises and changes were made to the document. Certainly the greatest of these changes was the institution of slavery. The entire economy of the Southern colonies was based on this unspeakable institution. Indeed, without the removal of the abolition clause, it is most probable that Independence would not have come into being. It would take nearly another hundred years, and a bloody civil war for this horror to be abolished. And it would take all the way into the Twentieth Century until civil rights legislation passed Congress and was signed into law by President Lyndon Johnson.
But this new nation was still not much more than an idea. White, male, land-holders were full citizens. Africans and women were property. There was still a revolutionary war to be fought and won, and win it we did, against seemingly impossible odds. Now we had our new nation – and nobody seemed to be able to agree on what sort of nation it ought to be.
The United Colonies evolved into the United States. Wise men evolved their thinking to include Africans and finally even women as full citizens. We expanded westward and fulfilled our manifest destiny. And we decimated an indigenous population along the way. Towns and cities began to spring up. A railroad stretched from one end of the continent to the other. The industrial revolution drove a growing economy. And we went to war again. And again, and again, and again.
Today, we face a new kind of war. A war based on the corruption of religion. A war which would catapult women back into the Nineteenth Century; A war which has shut down access to basic reproductive care in several states. A war which would define marriage in the most narrow of terms. This war seeks to deny science and the discovery of new medicines and new treatments for devastating diseases. This is a movement which is turning back time; turning back our nation to a time before Evolution was proven to be a fact. Turning back time to a point where religion was not separate from the State. Where the personal, religious beliefs of a bunch of white, land-owning males are the basis for deciding what is best for everyone. Where civil rights are trampled in the name of “security.” Our every movement is caught on camera; our every keystroke recorded for posterity. And why? Because “our God” is better than “their God.” Our shiny new nation, filled with such hope for the future and yet tarnished by such corruption, is evolving once again. This time, it appears to be evolving backwards.
But I see a glimmer of hope over the horizon. I see New York State, the site of our nation’s first capitol, standing once again as a beacon of equality. I see people taking to the streets to protest rights which are being stripped away from them. And I hear a voice, way in the back of the crowd, saying “But I’m not really free. I’m not really an equal citizen. That’s wrong, and that has to change.” What is freedom, America? To me, it means respect for every human being, regardless of whether or not I agree with them. It means compassion for those in despair, both in our own nation and around the world. It means no longer denying oppression and despotism when it occurs around the world. Freedom means choice. Freedom means that the State doesn’t get to tell me what I can and cannot do with my own body, or who I can or cannot marry. It means being able to watch the fireworks on the Fourth of July in public with my newly engaged gay friends. It means to me what it meant to John Adams; “All Americans, free forevermore.”
What does freedom mean to you?
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
WHO CARES WHAT I'M WEARING?
There is a column in the Sunday New York Times Styles sections entitled “What I Wore,” in which people of whom I’m never heard tell us what they’ve worn in the past week, day by day, outfit by outfit. This usually includes references to high end designers and second hand shops in the East Village. These people have some wardrobe, let me tell you. I can’t imagine where they fit all of these clothes in those notoriously tiny NYC closets. Sometimes I think they must turn an entire bedroom over to their wardrobe. I know one woman who has turned over the entire upper floor of her Park Ave. duplex to her extensive designer wardrobe. And I mean designer. Gucci, Chanel, Valentino, Prada, Balenciaga (the real one), Halston. It’s wardrobe Heaven up there. At 80-something, this fine lady is still a perfect size zero and still occasionally models. She drives a red Jaguar, which is garaged next door to her apartment, to her country house in New England on the weekends. I had the great pleasure to work with her on a play in which she played a beautiful, fine lady with a great wardrobe. One stultifying humid September afternoon, I spent hours with her, going through her closets to find the perfect outfit for her character. (I was the costume designer on this particular production, though I usually work as an actor. When there’s work. When I’m not directing. Or coaching. Or designing. Oh, you know, it’s show biz.) When we were done, we took our repast of Haagen Daas vanilla ice cream and instant coffee. She regaled me with the story of how she had a coupon for the ice cream and was able to get it for half price. She always uses coupons. Always. Why pay more than you have to for anything? Smart lady.
So I was reading the Times column today and thought, “No one has ever heard of me. Why don’t I go through my wardrobe day by day for a week and send it to the newspaper so everyone can read about what I wear, why I chose it and where I bought it?”
Monday: Dark wash jeans (Sears), a black camisole (Target. These are genius! Cotton and just enough spandex to act as shapewear and a layering piece. And at $8.99 I scoop them up by the handful in every color) and blue, cotton-rag sweater (JC Penny.) I love that sweater and often wear it on chilly days. It’s so comfy and it looks like denim so it pairs nicely with denim. On my feet where my black Rockport’s. I have two or three pair in black and one pair in brown. Approved by the American Orthopedic Association, they are classically styled oxfords that go with absolutely everything. I topped it off with a brick red, full length down coat which was a Christmas present from my parents about 15 years ago. (That Lands End wears like iron.)
Tuesday: Dark wash jeans (Sears), a black camisole (Target) and a black cowl-neck, three-quarter sleeve sweater (Sears clearance.) Black Rockport’s and a London Fog trenchcoat (Macy’s) completed my look.
Wednesday: I worked from home so I chose to stay comfy: black yoga pants (Target), Black camisole (Target) and an orange hoodie from my favorite Cape Cod outlet, Cuffies, alas, no longer there. (I so miss that Cuffies. Of course, there’s still the Cuffies in Dennis, but the one in West Yarmouth was so big and well-lit, brimming over with T-shirts, shorts, my beloved hoodies, baseball caps, all conspicuously emblazoned with the words “Cape Cod”… Ah well.) On my feet were my stand-by tan suede moccasins (Lands End).
Thursday I visited my mother at the nursing home so I wanted to look nice. I wore dark wash jeans, a black cotton long-sleeved top (vintage) over a black camisole and for a pop of color, a teal cotton flyaway sweater (Marshalls, if memory serves) and teal pashmina (from a film shoot.) Black Rockport’s and my trusty Lands End down coat served as outerwear.
Friday was another dreary, rainy day in the suburbs of New York, so I opted for comfy and warm: dark wash jeans, black camisole, cranberry colored cashmere sweater (Gap) and a red plaid chenille scarf under my red down coat. Black Rockport’s kept me on my feet and stylish at the same time.
Saturday we went to see a fabulous production of “Tartuffe” at Seton Hall. I chose dark wash jeans, a black camisole, black cowl-neck sweater and rusty-burgundy lacy cotton top. I love this piece. I bought it at a shop in the Cape Cod Mall years ago and it is my go-to blouse when I’m feeling “arty.” It looks vaguely like something you’d see at the Renaissance Festival, but I refer to it as my “Stevie Nicks top” because I would wear it to sing rock music. If I were in a rock band.
By the time Sunday came around and the weather still had not warmed up nor dried out much, I actually recycled a look from earlier in the week. Dark wash jeans, black camisole and black cowl-neck sweater, minus the teal flyaway sweater. Black Rockport’s and my London Fog trench kept out the damp.
So, that was my week in fashion. New York Times, I’m waiting for a reply.
So I was reading the Times column today and thought, “No one has ever heard of me. Why don’t I go through my wardrobe day by day for a week and send it to the newspaper so everyone can read about what I wear, why I chose it and where I bought it?”
Monday: Dark wash jeans (Sears), a black camisole (Target. These are genius! Cotton and just enough spandex to act as shapewear and a layering piece. And at $8.99 I scoop them up by the handful in every color) and blue, cotton-rag sweater (JC Penny.) I love that sweater and often wear it on chilly days. It’s so comfy and it looks like denim so it pairs nicely with denim. On my feet where my black Rockport’s. I have two or three pair in black and one pair in brown. Approved by the American Orthopedic Association, they are classically styled oxfords that go with absolutely everything. I topped it off with a brick red, full length down coat which was a Christmas present from my parents about 15 years ago. (That Lands End wears like iron.)
Tuesday: Dark wash jeans (Sears), a black camisole (Target) and a black cowl-neck, three-quarter sleeve sweater (Sears clearance.) Black Rockport’s and a London Fog trenchcoat (Macy’s) completed my look.
Wednesday: I worked from home so I chose to stay comfy: black yoga pants (Target), Black camisole (Target) and an orange hoodie from my favorite Cape Cod outlet, Cuffies, alas, no longer there. (I so miss that Cuffies. Of course, there’s still the Cuffies in Dennis, but the one in West Yarmouth was so big and well-lit, brimming over with T-shirts, shorts, my beloved hoodies, baseball caps, all conspicuously emblazoned with the words “Cape Cod”… Ah well.) On my feet were my stand-by tan suede moccasins (Lands End).
Thursday I visited my mother at the nursing home so I wanted to look nice. I wore dark wash jeans, a black cotton long-sleeved top (vintage) over a black camisole and for a pop of color, a teal cotton flyaway sweater (Marshalls, if memory serves) and teal pashmina (from a film shoot.) Black Rockport’s and my trusty Lands End down coat served as outerwear.
Friday was another dreary, rainy day in the suburbs of New York, so I opted for comfy and warm: dark wash jeans, black camisole, cranberry colored cashmere sweater (Gap) and a red plaid chenille scarf under my red down coat. Black Rockport’s kept me on my feet and stylish at the same time.
Saturday we went to see a fabulous production of “Tartuffe” at Seton Hall. I chose dark wash jeans, a black camisole, black cowl-neck sweater and rusty-burgundy lacy cotton top. I love this piece. I bought it at a shop in the Cape Cod Mall years ago and it is my go-to blouse when I’m feeling “arty.” It looks vaguely like something you’d see at the Renaissance Festival, but I refer to it as my “Stevie Nicks top” because I would wear it to sing rock music. If I were in a rock band.
By the time Sunday came around and the weather still had not warmed up nor dried out much, I actually recycled a look from earlier in the week. Dark wash jeans, black camisole and black cowl-neck sweater, minus the teal flyaway sweater. Black Rockport’s and my London Fog trench kept out the damp.
So, that was my week in fashion. New York Times, I’m waiting for a reply.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
How to Pack for Two Weeks at the Beach
I've just returned from a lovely, relaxing vacation on Cape Cod. Well, as relaxing a vacation as one can have with a six-month-old puppy and a husband who doesn't go to the beach. Yes, my little hubby doesn't like to swim in the ocean. Doesn't like to sit on the beach. Not without good reason, mind you. He has vision problems that preclude his being able to see without his contacts, and his vision cannot be corrected with glasses. And he's not a fan of seaweed.
So our vacation consisted of sleeping incredibly late every day, having a lazy brunch on our private deck off the master bedroom of our rented cottage, and actually having the time to read the newspaper. Then I would walk down to the beach in the late afternoon, just when the crowds were thinning out and the sun wasn't strong enough to burn me to a crisp. About an hour later, the hubby would drive all the way to the beach with the puppy, and drop her off with me for her swimming lessons. (It's half a mile - tops - to the beach)
Gracie the pup had never been to the ocean, and was initially reticent to step into the surf. Perhaps she inherited a fear of seaweed from her dad. But after several days of slow coaching and encouragement, my little girl was doing the doggie paddle like a pro. She would then sit in my lap on the jetty, eliciting "Awww's" from passersby.
While dogs are not technically allowed on the beach in season, I noticed that the locals all bring their dogs down for a dip at about 6:30 - 7:00 in the evening. Gracie had a regular doggie playgroup nearly every evening. Just as the sun began to set, we'd all head back to our respective homes or cottages to get ready for dinner.
Now, here is where the title of this piece really comes in. Over the course of two weeks, I found that I wore: a bathing suit; shorts and a top; sandals or flip-flops; sometimes a sweater. What I packed was: a really nice dress in case I booked an audition (I did not); a strapless beach dress; three pairs of crops; a pair of jeans; a pair of shorts; two sweaters and a hoodie; two pair of sandals; one pair of nice shoes; one pair of flip-flops; three cover-ups; four camisoles; eight tops; two summer scarves; a straw hat; pajamas and a robe. I also brought along a full set of makeup (just in case that audition popped up, or if we went out to a fine restaurant); day cream; night cream; eye cream; my headshots and resumes (see above), and a ton of reading material.
After twenty years of vacationing on the Cape, you'd think I would have known better. But we used to go in September when the weather was very changeable. Now that said hubby works as a teacher, Septembers are out and August is in. It's really not that much different in terms of crowds, and the economy has kept the rental rates flat. But it is warmer.
So I've devised a list for all of you who will be heading to the beaches next Summer:
A bathing suit or two (sometimes they don't dry out overnight, and there's nothing worse than pulling on a cold, damp bathing suit)
One cover-up or pareo
One pair of shorts
One pair of crops
One pair of jeans (in case it gets chilly, or you go the the movies, where the air-conditioning is blasting)
Five or six colorful tops
One nice dress in a crush-resistant jersey (This can be black, but it's more fun in a color. This is what you'll wear should you get that audition or go to a fine restaurant.)
Flip-flops (if they're black, you can wear them to your audition and/or restaurant. as well as the beach)
Good walking sandals
Your regular skin care items (this you really can't leave at home, because you have to take extra care of your skin at the beach)
SUNSCREEN
A sun hat
An umbrella
You can pack all of the above in a carry-on. Bring a beach bag to carry any prescription medication that you are taking, and maybe one beach book. (Summer is not the time to catch up on your Dostoevsky.) Also, you can use it to collect shells, beach glass and pretty pebbles, even though your home is already overflowing with these items.
If you do land that audition, go to your friendly neighborhood drugstore and purchase eyeliner, mascara and blush. Better still, you should be able to fit that much makeup and one lipstick in your purse. You will never end up wearing any makeup otherwise. After two or three days, the sun will have kissed your skin with a soft, warm glow, even through the sunscreen.
Then you will be able to relax and kick back, never having to worry about how you are going to fit everything back into your suitcase, along with all the gifts you will have purchased, when you are trying to check out at ten o'clock in the morning.
A special note on wearing black: don't. You're at the beach. Everyone is happy. You're happy. Save the black for when you're back in New York. The obvious exception, of course, is that audition that you keep trying to land. If you're a New York actor, it's almost expected that you will wear black. Hence, that one black dress. But you'll stand out more if you wear red. Or blue, green, aqua, turquoise, orange - whatever color brings out your tan.
Oh, and about the pajamas and robe - we had house guests for a couple of days. That was the only time those items were needed. As I said, it was a lovely vacation!
So our vacation consisted of sleeping incredibly late every day, having a lazy brunch on our private deck off the master bedroom of our rented cottage, and actually having the time to read the newspaper. Then I would walk down to the beach in the late afternoon, just when the crowds were thinning out and the sun wasn't strong enough to burn me to a crisp. About an hour later, the hubby would drive all the way to the beach with the puppy, and drop her off with me for her swimming lessons. (It's half a mile - tops - to the beach)
Gracie the pup had never been to the ocean, and was initially reticent to step into the surf. Perhaps she inherited a fear of seaweed from her dad. But after several days of slow coaching and encouragement, my little girl was doing the doggie paddle like a pro. She would then sit in my lap on the jetty, eliciting "Awww's" from passersby.
While dogs are not technically allowed on the beach in season, I noticed that the locals all bring their dogs down for a dip at about 6:30 - 7:00 in the evening. Gracie had a regular doggie playgroup nearly every evening. Just as the sun began to set, we'd all head back to our respective homes or cottages to get ready for dinner.
Now, here is where the title of this piece really comes in. Over the course of two weeks, I found that I wore: a bathing suit; shorts and a top; sandals or flip-flops; sometimes a sweater. What I packed was: a really nice dress in case I booked an audition (I did not); a strapless beach dress; three pairs of crops; a pair of jeans; a pair of shorts; two sweaters and a hoodie; two pair of sandals; one pair of nice shoes; one pair of flip-flops; three cover-ups; four camisoles; eight tops; two summer scarves; a straw hat; pajamas and a robe. I also brought along a full set of makeup (just in case that audition popped up, or if we went out to a fine restaurant); day cream; night cream; eye cream; my headshots and resumes (see above), and a ton of reading material.
After twenty years of vacationing on the Cape, you'd think I would have known better. But we used to go in September when the weather was very changeable. Now that said hubby works as a teacher, Septembers are out and August is in. It's really not that much different in terms of crowds, and the economy has kept the rental rates flat. But it is warmer.
So I've devised a list for all of you who will be heading to the beaches next Summer:
A bathing suit or two (sometimes they don't dry out overnight, and there's nothing worse than pulling on a cold, damp bathing suit)
One cover-up or pareo
One pair of shorts
One pair of crops
One pair of jeans (in case it gets chilly, or you go the the movies, where the air-conditioning is blasting)
Five or six colorful tops
One nice dress in a crush-resistant jersey (This can be black, but it's more fun in a color. This is what you'll wear should you get that audition or go to a fine restaurant.)
Flip-flops (if they're black, you can wear them to your audition and/or restaurant. as well as the beach)
Good walking sandals
Your regular skin care items (this you really can't leave at home, because you have to take extra care of your skin at the beach)
SUNSCREEN
A sun hat
An umbrella
You can pack all of the above in a carry-on. Bring a beach bag to carry any prescription medication that you are taking, and maybe one beach book. (Summer is not the time to catch up on your Dostoevsky.) Also, you can use it to collect shells, beach glass and pretty pebbles, even though your home is already overflowing with these items.
If you do land that audition, go to your friendly neighborhood drugstore and purchase eyeliner, mascara and blush. Better still, you should be able to fit that much makeup and one lipstick in your purse. You will never end up wearing any makeup otherwise. After two or three days, the sun will have kissed your skin with a soft, warm glow, even through the sunscreen.
Then you will be able to relax and kick back, never having to worry about how you are going to fit everything back into your suitcase, along with all the gifts you will have purchased, when you are trying to check out at ten o'clock in the morning.
A special note on wearing black: don't. You're at the beach. Everyone is happy. You're happy. Save the black for when you're back in New York. The obvious exception, of course, is that audition that you keep trying to land. If you're a New York actor, it's almost expected that you will wear black. Hence, that one black dress. But you'll stand out more if you wear red. Or blue, green, aqua, turquoise, orange - whatever color brings out your tan.
Oh, and about the pajamas and robe - we had house guests for a couple of days. That was the only time those items were needed. As I said, it was a lovely vacation!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Nature of Friendship
Hi Friends,
A very sad event happened this week that got me thinking about the nature of friendship. I was trolling around the net and came across a web page for a community theatre to which I used to belong - the magnificent Elmwood Playhouse in Nyack, NY. I joined their page, and the first post I read was information about a memorial service for an old friend who had passed away - two weeks ago. I scrolled down and saw previous posts which told of our friend going into the hospital, then falling into a decline. Then there was a call to everyone to get to the hospital if they wanted to say their final goodbyes. Following that post was information about the wake and funeral, and then a memorial service the next week. And I had missed it all.
I sat at my computer for I don't know how long; staring at the words on the screen, burying my head in my hands, and muttering over and over again, "I don't believe this, I don't believe this." I couldn't believe that, after 25 years of knowing this incredible man, I could have not known of his passing. We had so many friends in common; folks who still worked at this wonderful theatre, friends who had helped him out in so many ways. Friends who never called or emailed to let me know that he was failing. I sent an email to many of these friends, telling them that I felt sad and hurt that no one had contacted me. Two people wrote back; one had also only just learned of the news after the fact, and the other had only just learned - from my email. I wrote back to everyone and said that it seemed that everyone assumed that everyone else knew, or would find out. I suggested we get together for a toast to our departed friend. And I told them that, although we were not in the best of touch, I loved them, and hoped that something like this would not happen again.
A couple of days have passed since this sad incident. I spoke to my shrink about it, and she commiserated. I spoke to some other friends, and they commiserated. Then I realized today that I haven't cried. Not one tear. I loved this man. He was a force of nature; designing Broadway-worthy sets for forty years. We worked for the same company in NYC for a while and would occasionally commute together. I respected his work, drank in his knowledge of theatre -- feared his wrath. But mostly, I just loved him. His was like a big, scary Rottweiler with the heart of a Golden Retriever. And he was always there. I could walk into that little theatre anytime of the day or night and be pretty darned sure that he'd either be there, or was expected, or had just left. He designed the set for one of my first Equity shows at the Helen Hayes Theatre (now Riverspace). In later years, my hubby (Jim, in case you don't know him) began to work in theatre education. Whenever he did a show, our friend designed it. Between Jim and the kind and talented Jack Gremli, our friend had at least two or three jobs every year. And yet, as I thought about all these memories, I didn't cry. I began to wonder why.
Maybe I'm still in a state of shock. Maybe if I'd been able to see my friend in the hospital, or have gone to the funeral, or the memorial service... maybe if I'd picked up the damn phone and called him once in a while. He wasn't the type to ask for favors or help, and he didn't pick up the phone much himself to call others. But I knew that. So what stopped me? Did I think I would be bothering him? Did I think it would be too much trouble for him to hobble to the phone on his feet as he began to lose toes to diabetes? Was I afraid the conversation would be awkward: "So, how many toes have you got left?" Or did I just assume that, if anything really bad happened, I'd just hear? Well, I heard, alright. And, even though I still can't believe it, it must be true - I read it on Facebook.
So while I can wallow in righteous indignation that no one called me, I have to come to terms with the fact that I didn't call my friend. Oh sure, I chatted from time to time about this set design or that prop that I needed to borrow. But when he really needed his friends, I wasn't there. I can only hope that he knew that I cared. I did tell him. And he'll always be in my heart. But don't be surprised if you get a phone call from me out of the blue - just to say hello. I'll be trying to be a better friend. The way I wish I had been to our beloved Robert Sven Olson.
I'm crying now.
A very sad event happened this week that got me thinking about the nature of friendship. I was trolling around the net and came across a web page for a community theatre to which I used to belong - the magnificent Elmwood Playhouse in Nyack, NY. I joined their page, and the first post I read was information about a memorial service for an old friend who had passed away - two weeks ago. I scrolled down and saw previous posts which told of our friend going into the hospital, then falling into a decline. Then there was a call to everyone to get to the hospital if they wanted to say their final goodbyes. Following that post was information about the wake and funeral, and then a memorial service the next week. And I had missed it all.
I sat at my computer for I don't know how long; staring at the words on the screen, burying my head in my hands, and muttering over and over again, "I don't believe this, I don't believe this." I couldn't believe that, after 25 years of knowing this incredible man, I could have not known of his passing. We had so many friends in common; folks who still worked at this wonderful theatre, friends who had helped him out in so many ways. Friends who never called or emailed to let me know that he was failing. I sent an email to many of these friends, telling them that I felt sad and hurt that no one had contacted me. Two people wrote back; one had also only just learned of the news after the fact, and the other had only just learned - from my email. I wrote back to everyone and said that it seemed that everyone assumed that everyone else knew, or would find out. I suggested we get together for a toast to our departed friend. And I told them that, although we were not in the best of touch, I loved them, and hoped that something like this would not happen again.
A couple of days have passed since this sad incident. I spoke to my shrink about it, and she commiserated. I spoke to some other friends, and they commiserated. Then I realized today that I haven't cried. Not one tear. I loved this man. He was a force of nature; designing Broadway-worthy sets for forty years. We worked for the same company in NYC for a while and would occasionally commute together. I respected his work, drank in his knowledge of theatre -- feared his wrath. But mostly, I just loved him. His was like a big, scary Rottweiler with the heart of a Golden Retriever. And he was always there. I could walk into that little theatre anytime of the day or night and be pretty darned sure that he'd either be there, or was expected, or had just left. He designed the set for one of my first Equity shows at the Helen Hayes Theatre (now Riverspace). In later years, my hubby (Jim, in case you don't know him) began to work in theatre education. Whenever he did a show, our friend designed it. Between Jim and the kind and talented Jack Gremli, our friend had at least two or three jobs every year. And yet, as I thought about all these memories, I didn't cry. I began to wonder why.
Maybe I'm still in a state of shock. Maybe if I'd been able to see my friend in the hospital, or have gone to the funeral, or the memorial service... maybe if I'd picked up the damn phone and called him once in a while. He wasn't the type to ask for favors or help, and he didn't pick up the phone much himself to call others. But I knew that. So what stopped me? Did I think I would be bothering him? Did I think it would be too much trouble for him to hobble to the phone on his feet as he began to lose toes to diabetes? Was I afraid the conversation would be awkward: "So, how many toes have you got left?" Or did I just assume that, if anything really bad happened, I'd just hear? Well, I heard, alright. And, even though I still can't believe it, it must be true - I read it on Facebook.
So while I can wallow in righteous indignation that no one called me, I have to come to terms with the fact that I didn't call my friend. Oh sure, I chatted from time to time about this set design or that prop that I needed to borrow. But when he really needed his friends, I wasn't there. I can only hope that he knew that I cared. I did tell him. And he'll always be in my heart. But don't be surprised if you get a phone call from me out of the blue - just to say hello. I'll be trying to be a better friend. The way I wish I had been to our beloved Robert Sven Olson.
I'm crying now.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Democratic Family Values
My Fellow Americans,
With the most important Presidential election in our lifetimes less than two weeks away, I can no longer remain silent about what I see as an attack on my family values, and the family values of millions of Americans who still consider themselves, well, Americans. We are the great silenced minority of women (only 51 % of the population), forward-thinking social moderates (known to Republicans as "Liberals"), fiscally conservative (again, in Republican-speak, "Tax and Spend"), who would love to see our Constitution restored. We are your gay cousins, your lesbian sisters, your environmentally conscious neighbors. We believe that a small, committed group of citizens can effect change. And, oh yes, some of us even believe that a woman can become President of these United States.
To counter the attacks on our family values, I have put together a photo essay of a typical week in the life of a Democrat; namely, me.
This is me operating my "battery-operated Lawn Machine."
Note how easily the battery pops out for re-charging. I can mow half an acre on one charge.
I, too, have an energy plan. It involves changing all the light bulbs in our house to compact fluorescents. Average electric bill during the summer months: $15.00. And that includes the air conditioning that we rarely need to turn on, because we use insulating shades on the windows, and take advantage of breezes at night to cool the house.
But being a Democrat isn't all work and no play. We like to attend the theatre and movies. Here I am (right) at the press opening for "Forbidden Broadway," with the director of one of my films, James Darling.
And here is the star of the show (left), the lovely and talented, Cristina Bianco, with another one of Jim's acting students, Sam Civarella.
I also recently attended the premier screening of Ron Cole's film, "Practical Magic," with his cousins and my dear friends, Josh and Scott Zenriech.
But it take
s some effort to look good and present a polished, professional look to the public. So here I am, getting my $1.50 makeover (I have already vowed to either return my lipstick to the CVS, or donate it to charity after the awards-show season):
In keeping with my Democ
ratic Values, I will drive to all the SAG Award Screenings and after-parties in my energy efficient, 10-year old Honda Civic. (30 MPG city/37 MPG highway). Note that I have purchased a Terrapass to offset my car's carbon emissions.
Now that I've had some fun, I call this next section "Taking the Gloves Off." The way I see it, we do not have a viable candidate for President in this election. Obama is untested, radical, cagey in his answers, and cannot explain away his associations with some very nefarious characters. His economic plan is naive at best, and dangerous at worst. There is no such thing as "refunding" tax money to those who have not paid taxes. That would be called "Welfare." Despite John McCain's repeated requests for Town Hall meetings, Obama has refused at every turn. Tomorrow night, he will spend some of his bazillion dollar war chest to buy air time on the major networks, delaying the start of the World Series, to put out another canned infomercial. Could it be that he doesn't want to be ripped to shreds in a true open forum, the way he was in the question and answer style debate against Hillary Clinton?
John McCain is a true American hero and patriot. He comes from a long line of military men who have served their country admirably. But he wants to overturn Roe v. Wade, and that is my litmus test for a candidate. If the Republicans are, indeed, the party of less government, what the hell are they doing in my bedroom, telling me not to use birth control and not to have an abortion? How, exactly, is anyone's marriage threatened by gay and lesbian couples being given the right to marry? Are any of you, personally, threatened by this prospect? Will you end up in divorce court if your gay friends and relatives share the same rights that you and your spouse share? And his choice for running mate would be laughable, were it not so tragic. Sarah Palin has been set up as a beacon of Christian morality and conservative family values. Apparently, she did not feel that she and her husband needed the sanction of their church before they started a family. They were married a mere eight weeks before their first child was born. Under her administration in Alaska, tax credits were issued to those who owned private planes (such as her father-in-law), and those who ran snow-machine shops. (such as her husband and herself) And while she holds herself out to be "just plain folks, who shop at 'The Target'," she is walking around in a $150,00 wardrobe from Neiman's and Saks. Finally, as an animal lover, it sickens me to think of her hanging out of a helicopter, shooting wolves with automatic weapons. But, to quote one of her long-time friends, "They have a good, Christian marriage where they shoot guns." I've been searching through my Bible and can't find any mention of shooting guns as a pre-requisite for marriage. As for those who say that her family should be off-limits, and everyone should lay off criticizing her clothing and calling her a beauty contestant -- uh, she was a beauty contestant. And she was the one who trounced out her family as an example of Republican Family Values, so as far as I'm concerned, they are fair game. Including the 17 year old daughter who seems to be following in her mother's footsteps when it comes to starting a family. Isn't this the party that preaches abstinence? It sure doesn't look like anyone is abstaining up in Alaska.
I was in our local diner tonight, and overheard a conversation between two women who were seated at the booth across from mine. One of them said, "What went wrong? How did this happen? How did these two men become the only candidates that we have to chose from? Is it that no one else wanted the job, so we've got the bottom of the barrel?" The most qualified, experienced candidate was Hillary Clinton. For whatever reason, the DNC decided that they would not back her. I guess that, even in the 21st Century, there are just too many good old boys who are threatened by a strong, intelligent, qualified woman leader in this country. It is my fervent hope that, after the next President screws us even more into the ground economically, politically and socially, Hillary will run again in four years. It is my even more fervent hope that some of you will realize that it was not simply because she was a woman that so many of us wanted her to be President. It was because she would have made the best President. May God protect the United States of America. We're going to need all the help we can get.
With the most important Presidential election in our lifetimes less than two weeks away, I can no longer remain silent about what I see as an attack on my family values, and the family values of millions of Americans who still consider themselves, well, Americans. We are the great silenced minority of women (only 51 % of the population), forward-thinking social moderates (known to Republicans as "Liberals"), fiscally conservative (again, in Republican-speak, "Tax and Spend"), who would love to see our Constitution restored. We are your gay cousins, your lesbian sisters, your environmentally conscious neighbors. We believe that a small, committed group of citizens can effect change. And, oh yes, some of us even believe that a woman can become President of these United States.
To counter the attacks on our family values, I have put together a photo essay of a typical week in the life of a Democrat; namely, me.
This is me operating my "battery-operated Lawn Machine."
Note how easily the battery pops out for re-charging. I can mow half an acre on one charge.
I, too, have an energy plan. It involves changing all the light bulbs in our house to compact fluorescents. Average electric bill during the summer months: $15.00. And that includes the air conditioning that we rarely need to turn on, because we use insulating shades on the windows, and take advantage of breezes at night to cool the house.
But being a Democrat isn't all work and no play. We like to attend the theatre and movies. Here I am (right) at the press opening for "Forbidden Broadway," with the director of one of my films, James Darling.
And here is the star of the show (left), the lovely and talented, Cristina Bianco, with another one of Jim's acting students, Sam Civarella.
I also recently attended the premier screening of Ron Cole's film, "Practical Magic," with his cousins and my dear friends, Josh and Scott Zenriech.
But it take
s some effort to look good and present a polished, professional look to the public. So here I am, getting my $1.50 makeover (I have already vowed to either return my lipstick to the CVS, or donate it to charity after the awards-show season):In keeping with my Democ
ratic Values, I will drive to all the SAG Award Screenings and after-parties in my energy efficient, 10-year old Honda Civic. (30 MPG city/37 MPG highway). Note that I have purchased a Terrapass to offset my car's carbon emissions.
Now that I've had some fun, I call this next section "Taking the Gloves Off." The way I see it, we do not have a viable candidate for President in this election. Obama is untested, radical, cagey in his answers, and cannot explain away his associations with some very nefarious characters. His economic plan is naive at best, and dangerous at worst. There is no such thing as "refunding" tax money to those who have not paid taxes. That would be called "Welfare." Despite John McCain's repeated requests for Town Hall meetings, Obama has refused at every turn. Tomorrow night, he will spend some of his bazillion dollar war chest to buy air time on the major networks, delaying the start of the World Series, to put out another canned infomercial. Could it be that he doesn't want to be ripped to shreds in a true open forum, the way he was in the question and answer style debate against Hillary Clinton?
John McCain is a true American hero and patriot. He comes from a long line of military men who have served their country admirably. But he wants to overturn Roe v. Wade, and that is my litmus test for a candidate. If the Republicans are, indeed, the party of less government, what the hell are they doing in my bedroom, telling me not to use birth control and not to have an abortion? How, exactly, is anyone's marriage threatened by gay and lesbian couples being given the right to marry? Are any of you, personally, threatened by this prospect? Will you end up in divorce court if your gay friends and relatives share the same rights that you and your spouse share? And his choice for running mate would be laughable, were it not so tragic. Sarah Palin has been set up as a beacon of Christian morality and conservative family values. Apparently, she did not feel that she and her husband needed the sanction of their church before they started a family. They were married a mere eight weeks before their first child was born. Under her administration in Alaska, tax credits were issued to those who owned private planes (such as her father-in-law), and those who ran snow-machine shops. (such as her husband and herself) And while she holds herself out to be "just plain folks, who shop at 'The Target'," she is walking around in a $150,00 wardrobe from Neiman's and Saks. Finally, as an animal lover, it sickens me to think of her hanging out of a helicopter, shooting wolves with automatic weapons. But, to quote one of her long-time friends, "They have a good, Christian marriage where they shoot guns." I've been searching through my Bible and can't find any mention of shooting guns as a pre-requisite for marriage. As for those who say that her family should be off-limits, and everyone should lay off criticizing her clothing and calling her a beauty contestant -- uh, she was a beauty contestant. And she was the one who trounced out her family as an example of Republican Family Values, so as far as I'm concerned, they are fair game. Including the 17 year old daughter who seems to be following in her mother's footsteps when it comes to starting a family. Isn't this the party that preaches abstinence? It sure doesn't look like anyone is abstaining up in Alaska.
I was in our local diner tonight, and overheard a conversation between two women who were seated at the booth across from mine. One of them said, "What went wrong? How did this happen? How did these two men become the only candidates that we have to chose from? Is it that no one else wanted the job, so we've got the bottom of the barrel?" The most qualified, experienced candidate was Hillary Clinton. For whatever reason, the DNC decided that they would not back her. I guess that, even in the 21st Century, there are just too many good old boys who are threatened by a strong, intelligent, qualified woman leader in this country. It is my fervent hope that, after the next President screws us even more into the ground economically, politically and socially, Hillary will run again in four years. It is my even more fervent hope that some of you will realize that it was not simply because she was a woman that so many of us wanted her to be President. It was because she would have made the best President. May God protect the United States of America. We're going to need all the help we can get.
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