Bigger Than Texas

I walked into the auditorium with a friend from Austin, and he gasped, "This is bigger than Texas."

My friend was really saying that he found it hard to believe there is an auditorium outside of Texas bigger than any auditorium inside Texas.  He found it was especially hard to believe that a place like Minneapolis has such an auditorium.

We were at a free orchestra concert.  Northrup Auditorium was built in 1929 as the central ceremonial site of the University of Minnesota.  Northrup is vast: It has 4,800 seats --- 2,000 more seats than Carnegie Hall.

The next event I attended in Northrup cost two bucks.  It was a solo concert by an 82-year-old nurse.  This nurse had once been a successful blues singer in her younger days, touring all over Europe.  Her name was Alberta Hunter.

Alberta sang for us.  She did not show her age; instead, she showed humility on stage.  She was nearly overwhelmed by seeing all the people who came out to listen to her after she had been out of the limelight for decades.

My next concert at Northrup was Bonnie Raitt and it cost way more than two bucks.  

I approached the concert with a bit of trepidation: friends of mine had been ushers at a concert by The Animals the previous week.  My friends said the audience grew restless and resentful because The Animals refused to sing their old classics.  They only sang their new music, which irritated the the audience who had come to hear the old classics.

However, Bonnie Raitt's audience was not restless, much less resentful.  They were absorbed.

Bonnie showed humility on stage.  She told us, with a tone of awe in her voice, that Koerner, Ray, and Glover were in the audience.  As far as I knew, these guys were just an ordinary folk trio playing a few venues in Minneapolis.  

I had no idea they had been around for a long, long time.  Bonnie told us that Koerner, Ray, and Glover had inspired her, had encouraged her, and had helped launch her career.

Then Bonnie pointed to someone else in the audience: her father.  She invited him up on the Northrup Auditorium stage.  She didn't give us his name, she simply asked him to sing a song --- without a microphone.  I was astonished that she would ask someone to sing without a mike in a vast auditorium.  Was this a prank?

It soon became clear that it was not a prank.  Bonnie's father's voice was clear and sweet and strong.  Then I remembered that there had been a Broadway musical actor named John Raitt....was he Bonnie's father?  

My astonishment turned to amazement: an old man’s un-miked voice filled an auditorium bigger than Texas.  It must have been John Raitt.

 - . - . - . - . 

YouTube video of Bonnie Raitt and John Raitt singing Irving Berlin's "They Say It's Wonderful" (3-minute video)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pmyBA2xPN4g&feature=related

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Crushing The Orchid

In spite of all the planning that couples go through, the moments I remember best about weddings are the awkward moments.

Like the outdoor ceremony where the couple had tied their wedding bands on their dog’s collar.  When the minister asked for the rings, the groom’s brother released the dog.  The dog did not run up to the bride and groom.  Instead, it took off running in the opposite direction and had to be chased.

Like the couple that was seated in large high-backed chairs facing the altar, and had to constantly peep around their chairs to look at their wedding guests.

Like the couple that had a mass as a part of their ceremony, in spite of being a bit shaky on when to stand/sit/kneel during a mass.  They were constantly looking over their shoulders at the wedding guests to figure out what they should be doing.

Like the bride who was getting married in an outdoor ceremony and let out an ear-splitting I DO so that all the guests could hear her.

Like the child who said in a loud voice, “Look!  My parents are getting married!”

Or being served dinner at a wedding reception and having the lights turned off so that we ate by candlelight.  It was such a lovely touch, until I found out years later that we were not supposed to eat by candlelight --- there had been an electrical blackout in the building. 

Or the maid of honor who gave a speech and instead of telling the guests how lucky she was to be the sister of the bride, she told the guests how lucky the bride was to have a sister like her.

“Victoria, do you take Richard to be your lawfully wedded husband?”  At that point, I could hear a woman five rows away from me say in a very loud voice, “Richard?  I thought his name was Robert.”

I found it awkward when I went to my first Muslim wedding.  The groom was a student at the school where I taught in Nigeria.  At the wedding, I discovered that something was missing, namely, a bride.  In fact, there were no women at all --- the bride was having her own ceremony in another part of the city.  The groom’s ceremony consisted of listening to speeches while drinking orange soda.  I thought I was going to see some spectacle, but it seemed more like a business meeting.

The most awkward wedding moment was when I arrived at the church and greeted the mother of the groom.  I gave her a great big hug, thereby crushing the mother-of-the-groom orchid pinned on her mother-of-the-groom dress.  I tried to straighten out the petals, but it didn’t help.

I have been haunted by that moment ever since.  I am going to a wedding tonight and I plan to be very careful when I hug someone.

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

I Need A Drink

                Doug's students at historic house in Kano

My elementary school teachers took us on field trips.

In 4th grade, we went to Lollipop Farm.  The “farm” had animals you could pet and even hand feed.  For us suburban kids, it was the first time we came face-to-face with a cow.

In 5^th grade, we went to the Saddle Rock Grist Mill, perhaps the oldest tidal grist mill in the country.  This was not the first time I had been to the mill.  The stables there had been converted into housing, and my parents were thinking of living in the stables, but we wound up in a suburban split-level house instead, much to my disappointment.

In 6^th grade, we went to the Museum of Natural History in New York City .  The focus of the trip was the fish exhibits.  After looking at models of fish, displays of fish, photographs of fish, and dioramas of fish, the class went to the museum cafeteria to eat the lunches that our mothers had packed.  I opened my lunch bag and found a tuna fish sandwich inside.  It was impossible to eat a fish after looking at fish.

I saw the other side of field trips when I became a teacher in Nigeria at a girls’ boarding school. 

We did a nice daytime field trip to a historic house.  The house was built around 1720, and had artifacts from everyday life.  I liked seeing the students light up when they recognized an object their grandmother had.

But I cut back on field trips after we went to a play at nighttime.

Nigerians are big fans of Shakespeare; a popular hobby is translating his plays into a local Nigerian language.  However, our field trip was not to a Shakespearian play; I took a busload of students to A Man for All Seasons.  Shakespeare’s plays are filled with activity and interesting characters and awkward situations.  A Man for All Seasons is a cerebral play.  The actors spent most of the time standing still on stage and talking. 

The Nigerian audience made a valiant effort to follow Sir Thomas More’s agonizing about his private conscience while doing battle with his public duties.  Most of the audience gave up and drifted into the dark recesses of the theater.  My students drifted there as well.

Uh oh.  I was supposed to be chaperoning these girls.  I had no idea what was happening in all that darkness, and I grew exceedingly uncomfortable.  I could no longer follow Henry VIII’s agonizing about the burdens of being a king.

Then I got an idea.

When lights came on at intermission, I chased the girls out of the recesses of the theater.  The girls were easy to spot because they were wearing their school uniforms.  I told them that the play was over.  It was time to get on the bus and go back to the dormitories.  Some girls tried to correct me and point out that the play was only half over, but I was adamant.

When the bus dropped them off back at the school, I heaved a sigh of relief.

I was so frazzled from the evening that all I could think was, “I need a drink.”  This was not just some trite line from a black-and-white movie --- I really did need a drink.  I headed for a bar.

I wonder if my 4^th grade teacher had headed for a bar on the day we went on a field trip to Lollipop Farm to hand feed the cow.

- . - .- . - . - . 

2-minute YouTube home movie of Lollipop Farm, Syosset NY, complete with sound of 8mm projector:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8kbxkYKbVV0

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

The Curse Of Cursive

My kindergarten teacher only taught me two letters of the alphabet: the letter "D" and the letter "O".  She never mentioned that there were more than two letters in the alphabet.  She never even taught me "U" and "G", so I could spell my name: D-O-U-G.

Looking back, I think what she needed was an identifying mark for me to put in the corner of my finger paintings so she could tell my finger paintings from all the other finger paintings in the class.  I am guessing that there was no Donald and no Doris in my Kindergarten class, so “DO” was distinctive enough. 

It was up to the first grade teacher to teach all 26 letters in the alphabet, both capital and small.  Now I could write Dick and Jane and Spot and Doug.  Things were going great until I hit third grade.

The third grade teacher told us that the system of handwriting that we knew, called printing, was inferior.  We now needed to learn a whole new system of handwriting, called cursive.  Suddenly, I had to think about shape (a capital cursive "A" does not look like a capital printed "A"). I had to think about connectivity (you were not allowed to lift your pen from the paper until the end of a word -- unless the word started with a capital "D").  I had to think about proportion (two-thirds of a small cursive “f” must be above the line and one-third must be below). 

Worst of all, the teacher graded me on how my writing looked --- not on what my writing said.

I went along with the program until sixth grade.  I was eleven years old, and I knew that I did not want people to look at my writing --- I wanted people to read my writing.  

I went up to my sixth-grade teacher and whined: do I really have to write in cursive?  She struck a deal with me: I would write in cursive in sixth grade, but once I graduated and went on to junior high school, I could print everything.

I looked forward to junior high with great anticipation.

From age twelve on, I never wrote in cursive again. Once I broke the chains, I was a happy writer.  Not only was I a happy writer, I was a focused writer.  My printing was very legible --- I was aware that other people could easily read what I wrote, so I had better write something worth reading. 

I lived cursive free until I joined the army. 

To get my monthly pay from Uncle Sam I had to salute, speak my serial number, and sign.  I would salute the commanding officer and say, “US52764669 reporting for pay, Sir.”  Then I had to write my name in the pay book in cursive; the army called this a “payroll signature”.

I still haven’t gotten rid of the cursive in my signature, but to me cursive is dead.  It died on the last day of sixth grade in 1955.  I don’t miss it one bit.

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

I Was A Teenage Angel

When I was in high school, I became an angel.  I was not the kind of angel with wings, halo, and harp.  Instead, I became a Broadway angel, the kind that bankrolls Broadway plays.

Actually, it was an off-Broadway play.

A high school classmate invited a bunch of his friends to a play reading in his parents’ living room.  The playwright, the director, and the producer of a play were there seeking financial backers.  I was thrilled to be in the same room as real theater people. 

The play was called “Angels of Anadarko”.  As portions of the script were being read aloud, I was swept up in the story about an immigrant family that moves to Anadarko, Oklahoma.  The family struggles to learn American ways while dreaming of striking it rich.

Shares in “Angels of Anadarko” were one hundred dollars each.  Ten of us high school students chipped in ten dollars each, and bought one share.  We became angels.

I went to see the play after it opened off-Broadway.  Although I only owned one-tenth of a share, I considered the play to be my own personal achievement. 

On stage was a modest Oklahoma house with a modest exploratory oil well in the front yard.  We watched the immigrant family struggling with American ways --- mainly, they struggled to learn the rules of baseball.  We watched the family dreaming of striking it rich --- sure enough, the oil well started gushing during the second act of the play.

I left the theater bursting with pride.

Then I read the review in The Village Voice:

I can imagine no useful purpose in an extensive analysis of "Angels of Anadarko", which is among the worst plays --- in production --- that I have had the misfortune to see in a legitimate off-Broadway theater.  Certainly no useful purpose was served by its being produced.  My personal feeling is that no one has the right to inflict this kind of incompetent trash on an audience in the professional theater, and it makes me angry.

The review made me angry.  But maybe I should have been proud instead.  Not only had my ten dollars helped finance a play, it had helped create the worst theater review in New York history.

. - . - . - . - .

You can read the complete issue of that Village Voice online (October 18, 1962).  To rub salt in my wounds, the week that Angels of Anadarko opened was also the week that Edward Albee's "Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?" opened.

http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1299&dat=19621018&id=lUtPAAAAIBAJ&sjid=1I8DAAAAIBAJ&pg=4084,4439512

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Hair Vs. Lauren Bacall

I was visiting my parents just outside of New York City, and I invited a friend from Seattle to come visit as well.  My brother and sister-in-law and their children were also visiting, but my parents found a way to squeeze in Nick, my friend from Seattle.

I picked Nick up at the airport, and brought him to my parents’ house.  As a joke, I introduced my sister-in-law, saying she lives out West in Cleveland.  

Nick, who grew up 2,500 miles west of Cleveland, was incredulous.  He asked my sister-in-law if Cleveland was really in the West, and she replied: “Cleveland sure ain’t in the East.”  I think she was speaking for herself, not merely going along with my joke.

Nick had two requests for his visit to New York City: he wanted to see a Broadway play, and he hoped to see a guy named George Feldman, the only other person he knew in the area besides me.  I told Nick I would get us tickets to a play.  However, since there were ten million people in the New York City area, it would be impossible to see George Feldman --- Nick did have his address or phone number.

Our first jaunt into New York City was to see an underground movie. 

Underground movies were low-budget artsy movies --- a new concept in America.  The film we saw was Chafed Elbows, which mixed some 35mm photos developed in a Walgreen’s drugstore with live scenes thrown in.  The film, whose main character was a man who once had a hysterectomy, was totally in bad taste.  It was produced by Robert Downey, Sr., whose wife played all of the 12 female roles in the film.

Nick and I were suitably astonished by Chafed Elbows.  Nick, however, was disappointed that we did not watch this underground movie while underground; it was shown in a small theater at street level.

We walked out of the theater, and heard a voice call: “Hey, Nick!”  It was George Feldman.  The odds were ten million to one that we would bump into him on a New York sidewalk, but bump into him we did.

Our second jaunt into the City was to see a Broadway play. 

I was torn about which play to see.  The City was plastered with posters for a play called Hair, which billed itself as "America’s First Tribal Love-Rock Musical".  I had no idea what a tribal love-rock musical was.  So, I got tickets to Cactus Flower because it starred Lauren Bacall, the husky-voiced actress who appeared opposite Humphrey Bogart in many movies.

It was a thrill to see Lauren Bacall live on stage.  But as the play dragged on, I got the impression that everyone in the theater was there to see Lauren Bacall live on stage.  The play was pretty forgettable.

Eventually I would get to see Hair, and realize that I should have purchased tickets to that show instead of a piece of theatrical fluff like Cactus Flower.

Hair addressed contemporary issues.  Claude is one of the main characters, who wears tie-dye clothes and sports long hair.  He spends most of the show agonizing over getting drafted.  At the end of the play, Claude appears on stage, hard to recognize because he now wears a military uniform and his hair is short.  He declares, “Like it or not, they got me.”

The cast of Hair then sings a song with the poignant lyrics: “Inside something there is a rush of greatness.  Who knows what stands in front of us.”

Within a few short years after Nick’s visit to New York City, both Nick and I would be wearing military uniforms and our hair would be short.  Like it or not, they got us. 

We were in the Army, at one point stationed at the same fort, waiting to see what stands in front of us.  Waiting to let the sunshine in.

- . - . - . - . - . - . - . -

The last six minutes of Hair (the film, not the play)...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhNrqc6yvTU

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

If The Viet Cong Invaded Hershey, Pennsylvania

It was the morning of the third day of being inducted into the United States Army.  I knew that this was the day I would lose my moustache.

We would be marched to the post barber shop where all our hair would be cut off and our faces shaved clean.  The Army was going to destroy my moustache.

I decided I would beat the Army to it.  On that third morning, I shaved off my own moustache.  The post barber still cut off all my hair.  After the barber, we were marched to the post photographer, who took photos for our Army IDs.

I missed my moustache, and yearned to get it back.  I found a set of Army regulations and looked up facial hair.  The regulations said that a soldier can have facial hair only if he has facial hair on the photo of his ID.

How could I get around this Catch-22?  I looked at my ID with my clean-shaven photo.  I noticed that the birth date on my ID was off by one day. 

I took a risk and started growing a moustache.  As soon as I thought the moustache was long enough to show up on a photo, I went to post headquarters and demanded a new ID with my correct birth date.  A new ID meant a new photo, and now my newly-grown moustache was on my ID. 

I was safe.  Or was I? 

The Army made us watch a Scary Training Film about Communists.  It was in black-and-white, poorly acted, and reminded me of a junior high science film.  

Communists took over a town in the middle of the night.  The next morning, people were thrown in jail without trial, and lots of other bad things happened.  The Communists were easy to identify: they had uniforms, they carried rifles, and every last one of them sported a moustache.

My moustache was legitimate because it was on my Army ID, but it put me under suspicion.  Nevertheless, I continued to wear a moustache.

A friend of mine told me about the time he applied for non-combat status.  Then it became clear why the Army had shown us a film about Communists taking over a town

My friend did not want to go to Vietnam and kill people.  He wanted to become a medic and go to Vietnam and heal people.  He went before a board led by the adjutant general, where he was grilled about his beliefs, culminating in the Big Question.

My friend was from Hershey, Pennsylvania.  So, the Big  Question the board asked him was: “What would you do if the Viet Cong invaded Hershey, Pennsylvania?” 

He did not really answer the question; he just said that Hershey was in no danger of invasion.  They granted him non-combat status anyway, and he served as a medic in Vietnam.

After his time in the Army, my friend went back to Hershey. 

I always wondered if the Scary Training Film and the Big Question had an impact on him.  I wondered if he spent any time watching out for boats coming up the Susquehanna River --- boats filled with Asian-looking men, in uniform, carrying rifles, every last one of them sporting a moustache.

- . - .- . - . - .

Here is another Scary Armed Forces Information Film: "How To Spot A Communist" (one minute long):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkYl_AH-qyk

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com