Welcome to Act Three

March 27, 2008

Scott Fitzgerald said, “There are no second acts in American life.” I am not the first to observe how wrong he was.

In his own life, as he saw it, probably, Act One began when he was in his mid-20’s and had sold This Side of Paradise, his first novel. He never wrote or spoke of his childhood, and, although he was, in fact, a child at some point; his life began at Princeton with his relationship with Genevra King and then the fabulous, fraught Zelda. His reason for pessimism after his great early success may have been that, like so many celebrities before and after him, he reached for fame and got it too soon. He didn’t have the equipment to handle it. (There is also the matter of his alcohol addiction and his wife’s schizophenia. I cannot know for certain, but suspect that at the heart of his life’s tragedy was the 20th Century’s confusion of values – an individual’s pursuit of material possessions and fame at the expense of his nobler motivation to produce art.)

In the days when Fitzgerald made his famous remark, almost all the plays were written with three acts, the second one being the most difficult to write. It was where all the neatly arranged characters and situations in Act One got mixed up, jostled, and its people were challenged to begin to think in different ways. Everything would be resolved in Act Three, but Act Two was where the problems were. Let us think of life, any life, as broken into three acts. Take me, for instance, since this is my blog and I can do what I want with it.

My Act One was decidedly Childhood. Growing up in Fairhope, Alabama was unforgettable, growth-producing,, and a pathway to a good second act. I deal with Fairhope in great detail in my blog Finding Fair Hope. In that unique little town, I was made alert to life's potential through the advantage of an education in the Marietta Johnson School of Organic Education, where kids made things happen and things happened to kids. We were not talked at or talked down to, we were questioned, we were allowed (yea, encouraged) to ask questions, and at the end of the 12 years in school we knew who we were. We just couldn’t wait for more stuff to happen. (For more on this, read Meet Me at the Butterfly Tree, which is available online through amazon.com or iUniverse.com and local bookstores in Fairhope.)

Act One ended poignantly with a romance, a promise of things to come. I would no longer be a child, and I had the tools to grow into a productive adult; I just didn’t know it.

Act Two was Romance and Travel, with a smattering of comedy, melodrama, and adventures in the arts, particularly the theatre. Act Two abounds with stories – short stories, novels, character sketches, changes of locale, marriage(s), the raising of a child, divorces, deaths -- an infinity of challenge and growth. This would have been Scott Fitzgerald’s Act One, but, because I had such a rich childhood, all this stuff was Act Two for me. There are indeed second acts in American life.

Act Three is just at the beginning now; a chance to assess and apply what I’ve learned while at the same time learning more. A chance to work at perfecting the instrument. An awareness that it is now or never, so it’s gonna be now. Well, knowing the instrument doesn’t mean the same circumstances won’t recur, or necessarily that I’ll handle them differently. It just means I know they’re coming. I have chosen a scene change, back to the cold and challenging North, to begin this act.

There, I’ve done it again, glossed over things as if life were just a somewhat bumpy ride down an unpaved road. In Act Three I’ll learn to write it well, clarifying and not letting myself off the hook so easily. I’ll get onstage again, and I’ll work at it, and I’ll pull together people to work at Mrs. Johnson’s school. By the time I’m ready to leave Fairhope, Fairhope will notice that I’ve been here. The two little boys who are my grandsons will be young men, ready to take on the world, and if they’re lucky their lives will have three acts as well. Even if they become cynics, they still will not say that there are no second acts in American life. I hope that, like me, they will attempt to deal with the whole show with some humor, intelligence, and good will.

A Day on Shank's Mare

March 25, 2008

Yesterday my calendar was clear for adventures; the weather was right for walking, so walk I did, for a reason.

Before I moved up here I was intrigued by a craigslist posting on a beautiful, big apartment for rent by owner (no fee), cheaper than most, described in charming terms of the history of the area and the convenience of the location. The same place was posted again a few weeks ago, and yesterday I set out to find it.

I called the owner who informed me he was in a meeting and had no time to chat, but since I wasn't planning to move until November anyway, he suggested I keep an eye on the listings and look at it when I was househunting if he had an apartment available. In the meantime, his lyric prose gave a description of how to find the place, so I decided to hoof it from Hoboken and get a look around. There are neighborhoods and then there are other neighborhoods, and I've vowed that I will not live in a place that's depressing in any way.

The instructions to the place were something like "just walk or drive over the 14th Street viaduct, bear left, then take a right and another right, and you're in historic West Hoboken." I knew better than to walk to the 14th St. viaduct, but I didn't know what a problem I would have walking over it. I have a little phobia about bridges but I thought I was mostly over that, besides, how long could this viaduct be? Also, that's Jersey City on the other side -- so what's this "West Hoboken" business?

I took the bus to the viaduct and then set out on what my mother used to call Shank's Mare -- a quaint way to describe going on foot. Cars whizzed by me on one side and on the other, I could look down at the warehouse district of Hoboken, and the train tracks, all of which promise to be an exciting new neighborhood when the developers jump through all the hoops of permits and variances. A cinema palace and several major luxury condos will go up there. I walked and walked, telling myself this was better exercise than any treadmill, and trying to avoid looking at either side. I would swear that viaduct is close to a mile long. I didn't have a panic attack, but I couldn't wait to get to the other side.

When I did get to the other side, it was hardly a "bear-left-bear-right" situation before I reached my goal. I had to walk down the side of the highway, Paterson Plank Road, and then there was a nice traffic cop who helped me across the street. I went a few blocks up the hill and saw where the apartment was: on the other side of a busy children's park and two blocks over. All were just the other side of the sign that signified I was in Union City.

I had heard that Union City was originally known as part of Hoboken, but at this point it's pretty ridiculous. It's a clean, working-class neighborhood, with nice kids in the playground, but lacking in charm or esthetic appeal. The actual building had been pictured in the Internet listing, so I knew what it looked like from the outside. I walked around the block looking for signs of a grocery story or restaurant or cozy vest pocket park -- some indication that this would be a neighborhood I could live in. I saw nothing. Now, if I hadn't walked too far already I might have been in the mood to search, and I'm sure I would have found a business district within walking distance, but I had seen enough.

I was not going to walk home, no way. I asked the friendly cop where the nearest transportation to Hoboken was and he didn't know. I headed toward something that looked like a station, and indeed I was right. There is an elevator to the train, and it is only two stops to the Hoboken Terminal. That was fine with me; the little Light Rail trains are very pleasant, and I would soon be in Hoboken, even though I would be about 10 blocks from home. At least I wouldn't have to face walking on the viaduct again.

Now I've eliminated one of the possibilities about where I shall move next. West Hoboken is not for me. I'm going to look at fringe neighborhoods in Jersey City and in that strange little loft in the area designated as "Almost Hoboken" which is just across the Jersey City line, down among the warehouses but very convenient to the Terminal.

Got to get to work on this. After all, I've only got six months.

Spring Cleaning of the Spirit

March 23, 2008

Time to think things over. Time for renewal. Time for little green things to start to grow in my mind and heart. Spring.

I've been in Hoboken for four months. I don't think all that much about where I've been, but there were a few projects there I left incomplete. I had written a second book about Fairhope, and, unable to get a publisher, had an idea I might rewrite the first book, incorporating the best of the second book into it. It's time to run this by a couple of publishers and see if anyone is interested. Run it up the flagpole, as we used to say, and see who salutes.

Then there is the matter of selling my Fairhope house. This may take a good deal of time, years maybe, since the few buyers who are out there seem to be looking for new construction, which this one definitely isn't. I had in mind that as soon as the house sold I'd put the proceeds into a lovely condo here, but now that I think about it, that isn't such a good idea. I have to think about what kind of a person I am, and the kind of person I am is one who likes to live in different places. I may as well face it. I lived in Fairhope for 19 years, during which time I lived in six homes, one of which I built myself and left after four years. The house I landed in, the one I called "The Captain's House" (because it was built by a bay boat captain who lived in it some thirty or forty years) I sincerely thought would be my last house.

Then one day I woke up wanting to move to Hoboken.

So, there is truly no telling where I really want to live, and I'll probably need to live in several places around here before I can make that decision. No need to rush on this. Even when The Captain's House does sell, I'm better off using the money to rent a more appealing apartment than this one while I consider the place I may want to live in next. My lease is up in mid-November, and by then I'll have had plenty of time to look around. I'd just better stay away from the Open Houses for the beautiful Hoboken condos that are for sale all around me.

In the meantime, I've just got to keep body and mind together and pay my taxes.Next week I have a lot of medical appointments, and one with a tax accountant. My X-ray revealed normal bone density but some kind of injury in that shoulder that has been bothering me for months. I start physical therapy Wednesday. That same afternoon I have an appointment with the gastroenterologist about scheduling a colonoscopy. I am of an age; I've just got to get myself cleaned in every way.

In the meantime, what does all this have to do with a spring cleaning of the spirit? It's Easter, for one thing, a day when we think about the resurrection of the spirit. A day when we plan for growth in all the good ways we can. The cleaning may come later, but today is a pretty good day to start making plans.

Spring Blog Break

March 19, 2008

Today I start a little Easter vacation, beginning with a matinee of November, David Mamet's political satire, with my grandson Elias. In an hour I board the bus for Manhattan where I'll meet him and take him for a quick lunch (Will he want to try Junior's again? Will he want to go somewhere different? Will there be time before the show?)

He's going to enjoy the play. I vacillated between this and The Seafarer, an Irish play about a poker game with the devil himself, deciding this would be easier for him and would launch him into political discussions, his latest learning area. He doesn't have television at home, so we can watch The Daily Show and The Colbert Report here before turning in. The Seafarer will close at the end of the month, maybe I can catch it by myself next week.

Tomorrow I'll go home with him, either in the morning or afternoon, depending on what he wants to do. Knowing kids, I expect him to want to do everything we did the first time -- soup to go from The Soup Man (he loved the New England Clam Chowder) -- and Indian food the next day at the Karma Kafe buffet. I really want him to try an Italian place, but there is time for that in years to come.

I'll stay in Kingston with the family until Sunday and resume blogging next week.

Hope you all have a happy Easter. I recommend spring breaks.

A Speech for the Books

March 18, 2008

I waited with anticipation to hear Barack Obama's address to the nation about race, brought about by the unsettling clips and sound bytes of Jeremiah Wright, said to be Obama's spiritual advisor. The fact is, this is the speech Obama had to make; it is the reason for his being in the position he is in. It is the first real test of his ability to articulate the issues that continue to divide the country and to bridge that chasm with wisdom and calm.

I said to myself, "If he can't do this, he doesn't belong where he is." In fact, I've heard the man enough times that I knew in my heart that he could. I couldn't wait to hear what he would say.

He was able to remind us of the beauty of our Constitution and to explain our own flaws in its interpretation without sounding pedantic or preachy. His speech was historic in its elegance and its insistence on the perfectibility of our nation's goals. He was at his best, and his best is as good as we've seen in many generations.

The speech will be jawboned to death by the talking heads who are called upon to interpret all the political minutia of this extraordinary campaign. It's not for me to add more to that pile of -- shall I say minutia again? -- so I'll refrain. I for one am grateful that we have such a man to address this and other issues that divide this country in the kind of way to make those issues comprehensible. It is not an easy task in this day of obfuscation, prevarication and outright mendacity. It may not meet with universal approval, and it may not effect any particular change. This speech was a a beautiful first step in his long road to imbuing the electorate itself with the courage to change.

When all is said and done, it was just a speech. But it was a speech given by the only one on earth entitled and equipped to make it. I wish him many such platforms in the future, to make other such speeches, to articulate his unique and inspirational vision. I actually hope he'll get the bulliest pulpit of all -- but if not, this one time at bat has proved him worthy of an important position in the country and the world.

And on another subject, let me say this: I am so grateful that the politicians this year have universally put aside the ending that has been used for that last few political campaigns to end every single speech: "God Bless America!" I'm glad I haven't heard that one lately, and I hope I don't hear it any time in the near future.

But just between us, I often find myself saying "God bless you," when I hear Barack Obama speak.

A Great Day for the Wannabe Irish

March 17, 2008

Because it's you-know-who's day and all that, and because Hoboken takes it upon itself to celebrate the day beginning two weeks in advance, I am driven to record some stuff about Ireland and the Irish. In Hoboken, they may even need to be reminded that this is actually St. Patrick’s Day.

The many aspects of Irishness give us a magic lantern to illuminate our lives with a glimmer of poetry and the distant chime of music. There is that haunting wistfulness in our somewhat Irish hearts that prompts an elegant turn of phrase. It was Daniel Patrick Moynihan, who, upon learning of the assassination of Robert Kennedy, said, “You’re not Irish if you don’t know your heart’s meant to be broken…”

I could praise Ireland’s homely, soul-filling food like corned beef simmered for hours with cabbage and potatoes or caraway-scented soda bread, or its heart-wrenching characters like those portrayed in the classic film The Quiet Man (rent it if you haven't seen it yet).
Ah, there are many beautiful movies that transport us to the Emerald Isle -- Once is still on my must-see list. I could say something about walking about in chilly Dublin on a grey April day in 1971 -- please don't remind me you weren't born yet -- and finding a beautiful restaurant-pub called where the Irish coffee warmed us to our toes and changed our bleak impression of the gritty, grey little city. (I could also tell you of our immense disappointment at both the offerings we saw at the Abbey Theater that year -- a student production of Synge's "Deidre of the Sorrows," which we forgave because it was indeed a student production, and the unforgivably poor mounting of The Playboy of the Western World the next day.)

Even world renowned institutions stumble from time to time.

Since the turn of the last century, the English-speaking stage has been sparked by the talents of Irish writers. From John Millington Synge and Sean O'Casey (and those with Celtic roots, like Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw) through today's Brian Friel, Hugh Leonard, and Conor McPherson, we have the Irish to thank for many evenings of unforgettable theatre. At my own theatre in South Alabama, Jubilee Fish, many remember our haunting productions of Da, and the poetic Sea Marks by Gardner McKay, presented in the 1990’s.

This was before I appeared in Fairhope’s Theater 98 production of Dancing at Lughnasa, playing the role of Kate, the elder sister. This one was directed by a man whose name is quite similar to Sean Thornton, the John Wayne character in The Quiet Man.

When left to their own devices, the Irish have lots to give us besides potatoes and shamrocks. Just writing this, I am hearing the lilting Gaelic music that has become so popular in the last ten years, and I think of all the Irish singers of Irish songs over time. Hollywood celebrated generations of Irish tenors, including Dennis Morgan, who, it turns out was actually of Swedish descent, with the real name of Stanley Morner. But there is that lilting voice and that open face that spoke of Ireland to us nonetheless.

Reading this, you may suspect I have a modicum of Irish blood myself. Have a cup of Irish coffee today and think of me. You just might find me in an Irish bar in Hoboken, wearing that boa of dyed-green chicken feathers I bought for the parade two weeks ago. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

A Day of Latte, Theatre, and Baseball

March 16, 2008

Yesterday came as close to a perfect day as I have had in Hoboken. To begin with, the day was sunny and crisp, with clouds in the sky and temps in the low 50's, as opposed to raining and bonechillingly cold. That first promise of spring is what makes definite seasons appealing.

I was to meet with the chairman of the board at Panera Bread for coffee at 2:30 P.M. This was to make up for my default on the original date at Amanda's for a fund-raiser the day I got sick. I would know him by his black leather jacket and black baseball cap. Of course, easily 2/3 of the guys in Panera were so attired -- it's pretty much the Hoboken uniform -- so it looked as if I'd need to look for someone who was looking for me.

I looked at the coffee meeting as pretty much a job interview for the rest of my life, but I tried not to make too much of it. I have had many such one-on-one meetings, and all I have to do is not talk too much, listen a lot, and flash just a bit of my biography, judging my audience as to how much to reveal at once.

That's pretty much how it went. I ordered a chai latté; which sounds prissy but is actually delicious and pretty much good for you except for the calories. I felt it would be comforting, too, and take the edge of a first meeting. It must have been a good choice, because when my companion came toward me, he had the same thing for himself on a tray.

I tried to tell him how good I would be for Hoboken, and how much I enjoy the little city so far. He learned of the Marietta Johnson School of Organic Education, of the Single Tax Colony of Fairhope, Alabama, of the Jubilee Fish Theatre and the Little Theatre of Geneva. He tried writing stuff on his Blackberry, but it got zapped and I promised to send him some material. He suggested that he'd tell his wife about me and that she might contact me about getting involved with the local Friends of the Library. We talked about our children, and I told him about my grandsons. I told him about 13-year-old Elias, who regards himself as a black sheep of the family because he isn't Liberal (he's a Ron Paul supporter). I told him about Andy, who at age 10 has been cast as Bottom in A Midsummer Night's Dream.

We nursed our chais for about an hour and a half and then I walked him home to the house he owns on Garden Street. I went home and readied myself to attend the plays about baseball to be performed by the Mile Square Theatre that night. Then the phone rang and it wasn't Alison confirming Elias' visit for the matinee of November on Wednesday. It was Kathryn, my new friend who had been reading my blog and wanted to tell me how much she liked it. We set up a date for early April, and may go to Pennsylvania to canvass for Obama.

When I got to the theatre, I was already high. There was that pre-show excitement of an audience gathering. There was the anticipation of my first chance to view and new theatrical troupe and see what they had. In the fund-raising event, seven one-acts about baseball were performed by 18 actors. A glance at the program made me wonder why they hadn't doubled some of the roles. I don't know the answer, but it didn't hurt the evening, and may have made it better. Each of the plays was a little gem, and all the acting was excellent. Baseball itself is a good backdrop for a play, and the playwrights all rose to the challenge. Hoboken claims to be the birthplace of baseball, so baseball plays are a natural. These were gutsy little comedies, some with a hint of fantasy. It was a superb evening.

Somewhere in the program was an envelope in which I was invited to put a check. I'll put that aside until I have a little extra money, which may be next month. Then there were the questions: "Interested in volunteering? Want to serve on our Board?" followed by a contact number. Ah. Yes. Here I go again.

The next production will be a summer outdoor version of The Comedy of Errors. Wonder what I'll be doing on that one.