One night when I was working at Lehi High, I returned home after some rehearsal or other, plopped my groceries on the counter, flipped off my shoes, grabbed the remote and stood in front of the T.V. choosing a channel. The usual routine. When suddenly I heard a muffled conversation coming from my room upstairs. The only light in the house was one I had turned on as I entered. It was so late. Who would be in my room right now? Having a conversation in the dark? I turned off the T.V. and the light. Why do we automatically reach to turn out the lights when we should be turning them all on? I got my phone out of my pocket and called my sister Paula who lived a block away, but she was not home. "There is someone in my house," I said calmly, frozen, about to pee my pants, "call me when you get home... if I'm still alive by then." So dramatic.
Of course I assumed it was someone horrible and I assumed they were robbing me...of my year supply of toilet paper or pinto beans. I owned nothing of value except my diplomas and my year supply of food (that would really only last me a couple of weeks). Even my underwear would befuddle the most perverted thief. What could they want? I listened again, they were speaking Spanish. I moved silently to the kitchen but I did not own a big knife so I pulled out two little steak knives...well, it was that or a wedding cake spatula. I moved to the bottom of the stairs. Were they... singing?
As I ascended the stairs I could tell that someone was indeed singing...in Spanish...in my room. But it sounded like they were under the bed. The nerve! Some sicko entertaining himself while he waited for me to arrive so he could...defile me? Take my dehydrated potato flakes? Whatever. No rapist would survive me. I read somewhere that if you just start laughing, it confuses them and they leave. I have an acting degree...I can turn laughter on and off like a faucet. I prepared myself to start laughing. Stair 11, stair 12, 13.... There was definitely someone singing quietly, in Spanish, in my room. The door was shut, but there were no lights coming from under it. It was pitch black.
I squeaked out "hello?" No answer. "HELLO?" The music stopped. I opened my bedroom door...now it was silent. NOW I was scared. "I've got knives," I said calmly as I entered the room, sorta wishing I had the spatula because I knew what to do with that. When I turned the corner I could see the closet light was on. But the door was shut. He was inside my little walk-in closet. I hoped he wouldn't come out dressed in my clothes. I was frozen, whoever was inside the closet was frozen. Time passed. I did NOT know what to do. I could not speak.
BOOYAHHAHAHWAHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!
My brother Andy burst from the closet and I nearly fainted.
I'm sure..knowing myself, that many expletives were shouted and something about "I could have killed you, you idiot...!!! WHAT are you doing in my closet?"
He was recording a CD.
He had written a new song, and he had set up the closet as a sound studio for a sample CD that he was making for his new album. "It has perfect acoustics," he said. "Do you want to hear my new song?" No. I want to KILL you with my steak knives...right after you clean up the pee I'm standing in.
Andy is Shelton #7.
My parents lost baby #4, a full-term little girl named Katie who lived six days and then returned to her Heavenly Father to wait for and help the rest of us. Her death created a little age "gap" between the seven living siblings that divided us into two groups "the older kids," and "the younger kids."
I am the oldest, then my brother Steve and sister Paula. We make up the older kids. Katie....then Penny, who heads up the younger group, followed by JoEllen, Andy and Brad (Blog Feb. 9). Steve Paula, Penny and JoEllen married at a respectable Mormon age, hehehe, and began raising beautiful kids with beautiful spouses. My parents were getting grand kids left and right. It was nice of them to divert attention from the three losers that were over 21 and still at home.
Andy and Brad served missions for the church, returned and "twiddled their thumbs" for a few years as we say in Mormon-land. They became those men in the church that we like to call "a menace to society." Walking around ignoring all that procreation potential while they figured out what they were going to do with their lives. O!...that's a little irreverent...and funny. They brought several girls in and out of my mom's house but not many returned. (So...maybe it was our fault.) I always felt bad for any girl that was introduced to my family. Especially because having three older sisters was like having three extra critical moms instead of just one nice one. Pick-a-little, talk-a-little...pick-a-little, talk-a-little!
We employed the "squint, head cock and frown" reaction, i.e...Andy: "Jan this is (name of poor girl)." Big smile. Jan: "Oh, hey! Welcome to the Shelton's!" (wait until she's looking somewhere else...squint, cock head to the side...frown.) She won't last long. Too skinny. Too fat. Too much hairspray. Too quiet. Too bold. Too...too...there's got to be something wrong with her if she's dating Andy.
I'm just kidding of course...I have enjoyed watching my brothers become who they are. I adore them all. But because I was on my way out of the nest when the two youngest were just settling in, I got to watch them from a distance of sorts. Andy Shelton often gets confused now with my husband Andy Hunsaker, who, because my Andy married a Shelton woman that had a few notches on her belt, is also sometimes called Andy Shelton which is hilarious! (But not to him.) Truth be told, both Andy's are very similar in age, personality and perspective. If you ask me, and you didn't, the world could use a few more Andys for so many reasons.
First of all, I always thought Andy Shelton would be a stand up comedian. He always makes people laugh. When he left on his mission, he let me proof-read his farewell talk and after the very witty speech introduction, in parenthesis it said "(wait for laughter...wait for someone to shout out YOU ARE THE FUNNIEST MAN ALIVE!)" People are always surprised about that because he's also very quiet in public. The Shelton girls do all the talking in this family. The men rarely utter an unnecessary word. They don't have to. ;-) (One word is all it takes to scare the pee out of someone apparently.)
So it was VERY surprising when he came home from Honduras, where he had endured kidney stones and a world-class hurricane, carrying a guitar and singing. I always knew he could carry a tune, but this was different. This was amazing. All those years I could have used him in musicals... turns out he's the most musical Shelton of the bunch, excepting our cousin Blake.
Just kidding. Made ya' flinch though, right?
While in Honduras, he bought a cheap guitar and taught himself how to play. He also decided to crack out the voice he'd been hiding. He discovered that he could also write songs. Who knew? Soon after he was home, instead of going back to college, he had gathered a few other musicians together and they had a good band. This is where I can empathize. He wanted to become a singer/songwriter but respectable Mormon men get married, get degrees, children, mortgages. Andy needed money to produce albums.
The awesome thing about my parents is that they "go with it." Of course it is not without counsel: "Are you sure you want to be an actor/musician? Nurses/doctors make so much more money. There are always sick people." What parent wouldn't see that artsy-fartsy avenue as a path of pain and heartache? People also need to laugh, they need music. So... our goodly parents stepped back and bought a lot of play and concert tickets.
www.andyshelton.com
Andy and Brad lived with me for a while when other siblings were building homes and living with my parents. I had a home with extra bedrooms and a basement so it worked out to put all the menaces under one roof. Brad was in college most of the time anyway and Andy was ...in my closet, apparently. I do not do single living well so I was secretly grateful for the company and the help. Neither boy married in Mormon-time, but eventually, in God's time they did, and WOW! Those girls were worth the wait!
Andy is always the first to help someone put in a lawn, or move, or do anything for someone else. His kindness is well-known. His sacrifices, a blessing to so many. God has given him a gift and he'll always have that gift. But his priorities have changed as good men always do. While he'd probably rather be traveling around the world with a band, right now he's the children's music leader in his ward (church group). When all he wanted to do was pick up a guitar, he went back to school. When what he really wants to do is create music, he is creating an amazing family and I have no doubt that he loves being a husband and father more than he loves writing music in closets. And that's why the first time I heard "Great-Grandaddy Knew" on the radio, I cried so hard my contacts fell out.
http://youtu.be/mvRgzuPwcLs
Andy's birthday is this week and I just wanted to tell him, with my little blog, how much I love him and what a great example he has always been to me. I have seen him wrestle with life's bitter chaos, but he is not ever conquered by it for long. He is the conqueror because he knows who he is and he always involves G.O.D. Good men always do.
God also needs good men to bring children into the world. Sometimes our greatest gift to the world will be our children and the gifts they bring to the world too. There is a DNA line that works its way through the Shelton family that is very dramatic. Most likely that strain of kids was meant to come to me, but when they got tired of waiting around in the pre-earth life, they started coming down to my other siblings. That's my theory anyway. Andy's oldest son is one of them. That kid might actually be the "funniest little man alive." That kid is going to change the world.
http://youtu.be/cngdioYD19o
So HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my brother Andy...the Modern Mormon Man. You are an example to the world. These days we could use a few more Andys.
http://youtu.be/Ol98v5bx42k
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
With Apologies to the Czech Republic
We called in a hunch and got someone arrested. We felt like cops. For about 30 minutes.
Monday night for family home evening we decided to go to a movie because we knew once school started again, we would be in Titanic hell. It was our last chance to play until closing night. We headed toward Hurricane, the next town north, because the theatre there is never full. But let's tell the truth, in Hurricane we can get a chimichanga at Lupita's before we go. It's a really nice town, on the verge of Zion Canyon, but Lupita's is the whole reason to visit.
We turned off I-15 onto Hwy 9 and Andy spotted a very old Mercedes 300 TE meandering down the road. It wasn't going particularly fast, but...the windows were completely covered in newspapers. Every inch of every window in the car, except the driver's side and front windshield, were covered in layers of newspapers. Weird, right?
With Andy's miraculous eyesight...he could tell that the papers were from Las Vegas which meant that whoever was driving the car was not from around H.E.R.E. Yikes, I'm turning into a townie. My mind raced...Las Vegas!...he could be a dozen types.
In the back window, slid in between the papers and the glass, was an 8.5 by 11 sheet of computer paper with 3 letters and 3 numbers printed on it. That was it. I guess it was intended to be a license plate but it was missing the state, the year, the date... it wasn't the yellow temporary sticker that we are used to seeing. I recognized the Helvetica Bold font and thought "if you are going to print your plate at home, at least choose something creative." I'm a judger when it comes to fonts.
The car swerved back and forth, which added to the mystery of it. Probably drunk. Or high. Yep. He was high. It was getting creepier and creepier as we imagined, in our little minds, this kind of person was going to Hurricane to "make a drop." Of course, by this time, we had given this person an entire personality and it was not favorable. We assumed it was a man, and we assumed the car was stolen. We assumed that it was full of meth or crack cocaine and we were about to become town heroes.
Still, why would a drug runner intentionally cover up his windows with newspaper? Andy told me that cops usually pull over drug runners because they are going exactly the speed limit, looks like a mom car and has a D.A.R.E. sticker on the bumper. Maybe this guy was thinking of reverse psychology: "if I look like a drug dealer, they'll think I'm really just a PTA mom delivering pink princess cupcakes to my daughters birthday party and I needed to shield them from the heat. In my junker Mercedes. With the bald tires and lack of plates. I hope they enjoy my font choice!"
We were convinced that this guy was probably smuggling illegal immigrants inside his seat too...like they do. Do they?
And so we got the nerve to pull up next to the creepy car and glance over like we were being friendly. I thought we might get shot, but Andy said he would do it safely. Safely? What was my option there? Up he went, slowly passing this guy and I glanced over, smiling as if to say "Hey Las Vegas, welcome to Southern Utah!" I took a split second look at the woman driving then turned my eyes back to Andy so as not to get shot. Andy was STILL looking at her. He was practically inviting gun fire.
Obviously Andy got a better look because he said it was a man with a long braided ponytail. Damn his good eyesight! He said the guy looked "foreign." Which means, he could be from Hurricane. Truly, if you haven't lived in St. George all your life and then some, you are a foreigner. He was holding a video camera in his right hand, hence the swerving. We imagined that he was surveying the area and sending information back to the Middle East somewhere. We were going to be the center of a nuclear war. I knew we should have taken those jobs in Salt Lake.
When we got to the light infront of Purgatory (the local prison) it went red. I was truly freaking out. I was on his side of the car after all. Andy said "act natural and call the county sheriff." Other options please....
So I dialed 411 and they connected me to the county sheriff dispatch who took my information and then asked me to stay on the line while she found someone who could pull him over. My heart was beating so fast! I was on the verge of giggling to passing out. She asked me to keep naming the local landmarks as we passed them...Red Cliffs RV Park, Walmart, Chevron...then suddenly a black cop car pulled up behind us, moved over to pass us. The dispatcher said "wave at the cop if you are the car making this call." So we both WAVED like he was our long lost cousin from Tooele. What idiots. The panicked, giggly feeling will do that to you.
She told us to follow the cop car until the Mercedes pulled over, then to pull over ourselves and leave a big distance between us and them until his backup arrived. We were his backup! W...a...i...t. Both of us slid down in our seats at practically the same time. The cop turned on his lights, and the guy changed lanes in the middle of the intersection, without signaling, and pulled over just ahead of us. I knew he was looking back to see who he was going to have to kill, and it was going to be us. I put my sunglasses on.
We pulled over and stopped, watched the cop get out of the black car. Watched him lean down into the Mercedes. An hour went by (more like two minutes) okay it seemed like an hour, until the drug runner got out of his car and he had his hands closed over his head, elbows out. The cop frisked him, made him open all the doors of his car, trunk included, but even Andy was too far behind him to see what was in his car. Another cop showed up right then and we both yelled "backup!" and started giggling some more. What would we say in our speech to the people? Would anyone give us a medal?
The dispatcher called us back and said, "you are free to go now," as if she was watching us the whole time. Where were the CTU cameras? It must be Jack Bauer in the cop car after all. Maybe we should stick around and get his autograph. We were faithful, all six seasons. She continued, "the policeman has made an arrest." I didn't dare asked "for what?" But I was dying to find out. We felt a little disappointed and a lot relieved that they didn't need us anymore. We had done it. We had acted on an impulse and had gotten a bad-guy-foreign-drug-runner-international-terrorist arrested. We had helped the forces avert nuclear war. We saved the world. We were super citizens...for a minute.
Never judge a Mercedes by it's newpaper covering.
Once we got to Lupita's, hot chimichanga on the plate in front of me, the actual policeman that made the arrest called us! He did! I thought that was so nice of him. He wanted to thank us for making the call and thought he'd let us know that the guy in the paper covered car was actually from the Czech Republic. Well, I don't know my foreigners very well that's for sure. He was on a three month tourist visa and he had been driving from Houston, where he bought the Mercedes from someone who probably ripped him off because they gave him the ridiculous computer print out to use as a plate. He's Czech, he didn't know. But the car was actually registered in the name he had on his passport, and the plate's letters and numbers were the real deal.
He was headed to Zion Canyon, D.U.H., to rock climb. Double D.U.H. His car was full of climbing and camping equipment. The cop said is was a super nice guy, didn't speak English very well and was upset when they sited him for changing lanes in an intersection and not signaling when he did it. He's Czech, he didn't know. So the cop only gave him a warning. I would have done the same thing. The swerving, carrying a camera while you are driving...He's Czech, he didn't know. The camera was full of pictures of the great American southwest. I thought, you poor guy, don't kill your battery on Hurricane! Just drive another 30 miles, buddy. You haven't seen amazing yet!
The newspapers? He was out of money, so he was sleeping in his car and he didn't want people to rob him. Can't say as I blame him, still, the cop explained how creepy it looked here in the mild, judging, little-minded, state of Utah (yes, I'm talking about myself) and the guy...is Czech...he didn't know. He immediately took the paper out and apologized like crazy. There was no one buried in his seats, no drugs of any kind, and the glove compartment was full of all the right documents. He'd been saving and training his whole life to take this trip and some weirdos in Hurricane thought he was a terrorist and had him arrested.
We watch too much T.V.
Well...I feel bad and I don't. If you are going to drive a car in another country, rent, don't buy. Can't help wonder how many times that car broke down between Houston and Hurricane. Also, don't put newspaper in your windows, especially paper from Las Vegas. We thought you might be mafioso...or worse- some serial killer showgirl in drag. And if you're driving and video taping at the same time, you might want to google map that area and w.a.i.t. so as not to drain your battery before the real scenery arrives.
So I apoligize to the Czech's and the terrorists. (I'm a judger and T.V. has made me that way) But one last piece of advice....When you print out your own plate, just add the state, the date and use yellow paper. Oh, and Arial Bold next time. That's all. Hope you enjoy the memories you are about to have and can leave the one we gave you behind.
Sorry about that.
Monday night for family home evening we decided to go to a movie because we knew once school started again, we would be in Titanic hell. It was our last chance to play until closing night. We headed toward Hurricane, the next town north, because the theatre there is never full. But let's tell the truth, in Hurricane we can get a chimichanga at Lupita's before we go. It's a really nice town, on the verge of Zion Canyon, but Lupita's is the whole reason to visit.
We turned off I-15 onto Hwy 9 and Andy spotted a very old Mercedes 300 TE meandering down the road. It wasn't going particularly fast, but...the windows were completely covered in newspapers. Every inch of every window in the car, except the driver's side and front windshield, were covered in layers of newspapers. Weird, right?
With Andy's miraculous eyesight...he could tell that the papers were from Las Vegas which meant that whoever was driving the car was not from around H.E.R.E. Yikes, I'm turning into a townie. My mind raced...Las Vegas!...he could be a dozen types.
In the back window, slid in between the papers and the glass, was an 8.5 by 11 sheet of computer paper with 3 letters and 3 numbers printed on it. That was it. I guess it was intended to be a license plate but it was missing the state, the year, the date... it wasn't the yellow temporary sticker that we are used to seeing. I recognized the Helvetica Bold font and thought "if you are going to print your plate at home, at least choose something creative." I'm a judger when it comes to fonts.
The car swerved back and forth, which added to the mystery of it. Probably drunk. Or high. Yep. He was high. It was getting creepier and creepier as we imagined, in our little minds, this kind of person was going to Hurricane to "make a drop." Of course, by this time, we had given this person an entire personality and it was not favorable. We assumed it was a man, and we assumed the car was stolen. We assumed that it was full of meth or crack cocaine and we were about to become town heroes.
Still, why would a drug runner intentionally cover up his windows with newspaper? Andy told me that cops usually pull over drug runners because they are going exactly the speed limit, looks like a mom car and has a D.A.R.E. sticker on the bumper. Maybe this guy was thinking of reverse psychology: "if I look like a drug dealer, they'll think I'm really just a PTA mom delivering pink princess cupcakes to my daughters birthday party and I needed to shield them from the heat. In my junker Mercedes. With the bald tires and lack of plates. I hope they enjoy my font choice!"
We were convinced that this guy was probably smuggling illegal immigrants inside his seat too...like they do. Do they?
And so we got the nerve to pull up next to the creepy car and glance over like we were being friendly. I thought we might get shot, but Andy said he would do it safely. Safely? What was my option there? Up he went, slowly passing this guy and I glanced over, smiling as if to say "Hey Las Vegas, welcome to Southern Utah!" I took a split second look at the woman driving then turned my eyes back to Andy so as not to get shot. Andy was STILL looking at her. He was practically inviting gun fire.
Obviously Andy got a better look because he said it was a man with a long braided ponytail. Damn his good eyesight! He said the guy looked "foreign." Which means, he could be from Hurricane. Truly, if you haven't lived in St. George all your life and then some, you are a foreigner. He was holding a video camera in his right hand, hence the swerving. We imagined that he was surveying the area and sending information back to the Middle East somewhere. We were going to be the center of a nuclear war. I knew we should have taken those jobs in Salt Lake.
When we got to the light infront of Purgatory (the local prison) it went red. I was truly freaking out. I was on his side of the car after all. Andy said "act natural and call the county sheriff." Other options please....
So I dialed 411 and they connected me to the county sheriff dispatch who took my information and then asked me to stay on the line while she found someone who could pull him over. My heart was beating so fast! I was on the verge of giggling to passing out. She asked me to keep naming the local landmarks as we passed them...Red Cliffs RV Park, Walmart, Chevron...then suddenly a black cop car pulled up behind us, moved over to pass us. The dispatcher said "wave at the cop if you are the car making this call." So we both WAVED like he was our long lost cousin from Tooele. What idiots. The panicked, giggly feeling will do that to you.
She told us to follow the cop car until the Mercedes pulled over, then to pull over ourselves and leave a big distance between us and them until his backup arrived. We were his backup! W...a...i...t. Both of us slid down in our seats at practically the same time. The cop turned on his lights, and the guy changed lanes in the middle of the intersection, without signaling, and pulled over just ahead of us. I knew he was looking back to see who he was going to have to kill, and it was going to be us. I put my sunglasses on.
We pulled over and stopped, watched the cop get out of the black car. Watched him lean down into the Mercedes. An hour went by (more like two minutes) okay it seemed like an hour, until the drug runner got out of his car and he had his hands closed over his head, elbows out. The cop frisked him, made him open all the doors of his car, trunk included, but even Andy was too far behind him to see what was in his car. Another cop showed up right then and we both yelled "backup!" and started giggling some more. What would we say in our speech to the people? Would anyone give us a medal?
The dispatcher called us back and said, "you are free to go now," as if she was watching us the whole time. Where were the CTU cameras? It must be Jack Bauer in the cop car after all. Maybe we should stick around and get his autograph. We were faithful, all six seasons. She continued, "the policeman has made an arrest." I didn't dare asked "for what?" But I was dying to find out. We felt a little disappointed and a lot relieved that they didn't need us anymore. We had done it. We had acted on an impulse and had gotten a bad-guy-foreign-drug-runner-international-terrorist arrested. We had helped the forces avert nuclear war. We saved the world. We were super citizens...for a minute.
Never judge a Mercedes by it's newpaper covering.
Once we got to Lupita's, hot chimichanga on the plate in front of me, the actual policeman that made the arrest called us! He did! I thought that was so nice of him. He wanted to thank us for making the call and thought he'd let us know that the guy in the paper covered car was actually from the Czech Republic. Well, I don't know my foreigners very well that's for sure. He was on a three month tourist visa and he had been driving from Houston, where he bought the Mercedes from someone who probably ripped him off because they gave him the ridiculous computer print out to use as a plate. He's Czech, he didn't know. But the car was actually registered in the name he had on his passport, and the plate's letters and numbers were the real deal.
He was headed to Zion Canyon, D.U.H., to rock climb. Double D.U.H. His car was full of climbing and camping equipment. The cop said is was a super nice guy, didn't speak English very well and was upset when they sited him for changing lanes in an intersection and not signaling when he did it. He's Czech, he didn't know. So the cop only gave him a warning. I would have done the same thing. The swerving, carrying a camera while you are driving...He's Czech, he didn't know. The camera was full of pictures of the great American southwest. I thought, you poor guy, don't kill your battery on Hurricane! Just drive another 30 miles, buddy. You haven't seen amazing yet!
The newspapers? He was out of money, so he was sleeping in his car and he didn't want people to rob him. Can't say as I blame him, still, the cop explained how creepy it looked here in the mild, judging, little-minded, state of Utah (yes, I'm talking about myself) and the guy...is Czech...he didn't know. He immediately took the paper out and apologized like crazy. There was no one buried in his seats, no drugs of any kind, and the glove compartment was full of all the right documents. He'd been saving and training his whole life to take this trip and some weirdos in Hurricane thought he was a terrorist and had him arrested.
We watch too much T.V.
Well...I feel bad and I don't. If you are going to drive a car in another country, rent, don't buy. Can't help wonder how many times that car broke down between Houston and Hurricane. Also, don't put newspaper in your windows, especially paper from Las Vegas. We thought you might be mafioso...or worse- some serial killer showgirl in drag. And if you're driving and video taping at the same time, you might want to google map that area and w.a.i.t. so as not to drain your battery before the real scenery arrives.
So I apoligize to the Czech's and the terrorists. (I'm a judger and T.V. has made me that way) But one last piece of advice....When you print out your own plate, just add the state, the date and use yellow paper. Oh, and Arial Bold next time. That's all. Hope you enjoy the memories you are about to have and can leave the one we gave you behind.
Sorry about that.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
S.Y.L.!
When I got called to serve in Thailand on an LDS mission I was so excited to learn how to speak another language. BWAHHAHHA! I had no idea it would turn me upside down, spank me, chew me up and spit me out. It was a humbling experience. Every Friday was SYL (Speak Your Language)Day at the missionary training center. You could only speak the language you were learning. So Fridays, for the Thai missionaries should have been called Pantomime Day. For 18 months, you add vocabulary to your brain as fast as you can to decrease the communication barrier between you and the native population. You need 18 years. In the end, I was not a talented Thai speaker, but I became "fluent" because I received a lot of help from the Big Teacher in the Sky. There is no other way to explain it.
They say that English speaking missionaries come back spiritual giants (Andy served in Minnesota and this is true), Spanish speaking missionaries come back linguists (My dad served in Mexico and made a living teaching Spanish) and Asian speaking missionaries...just come back.
On my way home from Thailand, I was by myself. We had a layover in Narita, Japan. I was not excited to be returning. I had already extended my service and was living on borrowed time. I had been in a refugee camp and they needed me. I was very sad to be coming home. Back in pioneer time, we had to pick up our luggage and transfer it ourselves so I grabbed all five pieces of it, and started across Narita to find my next plane. It did not have wheels back then and it was so heavy. I had collected things, souvenirs, so as not to forget what I'd been through and to give to my family. They had paid for the experience after all. Those bags were heavy.
I walked about ten feet, would stop and shift it all, change hands, walk another ten feet, stop .... I thought for sure I was going to miss my flight. Being so loaded down, I must have looked ridiculous. Suddenly three HUGE American men came up behind me and asked me if they could help. They were three baseball players from the Chicago Cubs. No kidding. God had sent me some help and having been in Thailand amongst the tiny Thais, Vietnamese and Cambodians, these were officially the biggest humans I had seen in a long time. They relieved me of my luggage completely, and followed me to my next destination. They didn't ask me who I was, the black tag a dead giveaway, they just said "You goin' to Salt Lake?" I nodded and off we went.
I had the dreadful feeling that I was losing Thailand every step I took. Just by listening to these three men talk about baseball in their salty slang, I felt that I was losing my Thai minute by minute. It was like a bad dream. NO ONE was speaking Thai to me, why would they? No one was filtering their English either, but I was so grateful for the help I kept my mouth shut. I felt the "missionary" peeling off me like a sunburn as we walked across Narita.
Sadly, I have not spoken Thai to anyone but Thai restaurants servers...since 1988. I can lamely say "We'll have the Paht Thai and Yellow Curry, please." That's about it.
Simple things come back pretty easily, "like riding a bike" and maybe if Andy and I went to Thailand the language would start coming back, but because it's tonal, identical words are dependant upon the way you say them. "Hand" and "Pig" are the same thing but I can't remember which one drops in tone and which one lifts. S.C.A.R.Y. I would undoubtedly offend the Thai nation and end up staying in a creaky grass hut over a swamp full of alligators. I've lost something I worked like a dog to obtain. It's so sad.
This is true with artists as well. They need to feed their art - speak their language..so to...to... speak. Especially performing arts teachers. Because they get so busy, they are very lucky if they ever get to practice what they preach. We teach theatre, dance or music because it started out as a hobby for us and still is. I don't scrapbook, I don't train for marathons (o.k. I should), or garden (blog #?) but in my precious free time, I feed my disease, my bucket...my passion. Because if I lose the passion for it, no amount of steps that I take into my rehearsals will be enough. We need to act! We need to sing! We need to dance!
When I lived in Northern Utah, there were plenty of opportunities for us to do community theatre at night. I got to be Penny (You Can't Take it With You), Sister Robert Anne (Nunsense), M'Lynn (Steel Mags)....and I got to work with adults...speak adult for a few hours every day. Our social circles were the people we met in community theatre. I miss that so much! The people we invited to our wedding were people we met doing community theatre. In fact, all the years I was directing the community theatre in Lehi, every time we had a play, it resulted in a wedding. It turned out to be a great way to meet people! Safer than bars, cheaper than the internet, and you always know you'll have at least one thing in common. If you can still find a place to do it. Community theatre kept me sane and most of all, I was a better theatre teacher because I was a practicing member of the theatre community as well.
Time for a little S.O.A.P.B.O.X. Sorry...
There is not a city community theatre in St. George anymore. There used to be, and many people were involved in great shows and hundreds of patrons appreciated it from the audience. But it did not have a permanent home and eventually, after many years of trying to string it along with little support, it died. Theatres are more expensive than ball fields. (Did I say that out loud?)
I do not know the reason why St. George doesn't throw some money at their amateur theatre arts community. Tuacahn uses a few community members but they are a professional theatre after all. The college and high school's are bound to use their own students because it's educational theatre. Small independent break out groups occasionally appear, but without a home, they don't last long.
I laude the City of Lehi because when Hutchings Natural History Museum got a new home, the city gave the old museum to us artsy-fartsy's and we turned it into a working theatre. It only seats about 100 people, but it provides a huge service to hundreds and hundreds of citizens that are looking for that outlet for their families. Good Lehi volunteers still perpetuate the arts there and that makes me so happy. My earliest theatre memories are of a community children's theatre class.
JFK said the arts civilize us. Look at countries where the arts have died...what do they have? Constant civil unrest. The act of free expression then becomes a matter of national security. See how the old debater in me made that argument linear? I guess I'm just bugged that no one around here thinks that the common man needs an outlet for their art!
Andy started at the Valley Center Playhouse in Lindon, Utah. You know it? I think the good Renstroms still run it. You can spit from one side of the audience to the other. But who cares? They are the "theatre parents" of thousands of us because they fought to keep that little theatre open for the community for so many years.
Andy is now an Equity actor. All that means is that if he works again (which he hasn't much) they have to pay him union wages and abide by the rules of the Actor's Equity handbook. He gets his own dressing room, etc... He's fancy now. He is also an acting teacher, think of the influence he has, will have.
Last year he got to be a guest artist for Southern Utah University. He played Pseudolus in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. It was like a good anti-depressant. I could see it filling his bucket. His students flocked to see the show and were shocked at his performance. It gave them a new respect for everything that came out of his mouth every day. I prayed for another opportunity for him but one never came and not being able to participate in his passion was making him bitter.
Then Santa arrived.
Because he's "Equity" the catch is that he can no longer work for free. But if he is a faculty member, Equity was okay with that. The school needed to raise some money anyway and I had volunteered to add a "faculty fundraiser" to my schedule. But every time we tried to make it work, there were just too many people's schedules to work around. I knew if we waited til spring, it would never happen.
A Tuna Christmas has 22 characters in it, men and women, but it's written so that all of the roles are played by just two men. So I asked Andy and our technical theatre teacher, Josh Scott, to take on the project. Because it is an educational theatre, after all, I offered all the tech positions to our students. Part of the magic of Tuna is the quick costume changes. Some of them were less than ten seconds long and included wigs, glasses, shoes...the works. The real show was backstage so to speak. 14 awesome technicians, each with a singular duty, "shoe guy," "wig girl," "lighting guy," just like professional theatre. I chose our best 18 year-old Stage Manager to take the project because he needed to learn how to manage adults. He would use the opportunity for his scholarship portfolio later on. Josh's classes built the set, the art club painted it, a parent volunteer helped me with costumes and the faculty ran the house and provided concessions (which incidentally made a lot of money for the cause!) It was truly a collaborative project.
And it was soooooo fun. We rehearsed in our living room on Sunday nights and over the Thanksgiving holiday. We laughed so hard sometimes I did pee a little. I admit it. It made me happy to see those two acting off each other and developing all those different characters because they don't get the chance to exercise their craft very often. They are too busy spending their free time producing theatre for everyone else. I could see their buckets filling up. My bucket was filling up. It made me even happier to see our students and their families laughing buckets! Win, win.
I could have raised money in a different way, heaven knows I know how to do a cookie dough fundraiser. But the pay-off was different. Not only did we raise over $5000, we got to give a lot of kids a great opportunity, we got to teach by modeling good acting and we got to reassert the fact that our teachers are also real artists. Since Tuna, Andy and Josh have become community celebrities. We can't go anywhere without someone saying, "Hey, you're the Tuna guy...you were hilarious!" Tuna reminded Andy and I why we do this. Sometimes you forget. Especially if there is no other outlet around. Bloom where you're planted... and all that.
My point is, and I do have one, no matter what the talent, if we don't use it, we will lose not only the skills but the passion for developing our SELF and the ability to use it in the service of others.
Our spirits MUST be elevated regularly. If we are to meet our trials and tribulations with sanity, we must be whole. Empty buckets are funny. They can't give anything to anyone.
The bitterness of taking care of everything and everyone around you eventually seeps into the cracks and crevices of your good survival attitude. Eventually, at least for me, I'm dealing with depression because nobody cares, not even me, that I have an opportunity to do something for myself. No one will fight for your sanity. You are in charge of that yourself. Rogue bitterness at one thing, magnifies itself into bitterness about everything.
L.E.A.V.E. I.T. A.L.O.N.E. Bitterness' BFF is loneliness. It will be fine if you send it back from whence it came. I've seen so many people leave more important things behind because they didn't make time to fill their own dang bucket.
Eternal progression is REAL FOLKS. No souvenir you've ever collected is going with you to the next life. You can't take your money with you...fact is, you can't even take your bills. So what do you really want to do? What do you really want to see, to read, to play, to experience, to hear, what language do you want to learn?
Because there are a million reasons you should be speaking it!
.
They say that English speaking missionaries come back spiritual giants (Andy served in Minnesota and this is true), Spanish speaking missionaries come back linguists (My dad served in Mexico and made a living teaching Spanish) and Asian speaking missionaries...just come back.
On my way home from Thailand, I was by myself. We had a layover in Narita, Japan. I was not excited to be returning. I had already extended my service and was living on borrowed time. I had been in a refugee camp and they needed me. I was very sad to be coming home. Back in pioneer time, we had to pick up our luggage and transfer it ourselves so I grabbed all five pieces of it, and started across Narita to find my next plane. It did not have wheels back then and it was so heavy. I had collected things, souvenirs, so as not to forget what I'd been through and to give to my family. They had paid for the experience after all. Those bags were heavy.
I walked about ten feet, would stop and shift it all, change hands, walk another ten feet, stop .... I thought for sure I was going to miss my flight. Being so loaded down, I must have looked ridiculous. Suddenly three HUGE American men came up behind me and asked me if they could help. They were three baseball players from the Chicago Cubs. No kidding. God had sent me some help and having been in Thailand amongst the tiny Thais, Vietnamese and Cambodians, these were officially the biggest humans I had seen in a long time. They relieved me of my luggage completely, and followed me to my next destination. They didn't ask me who I was, the black tag a dead giveaway, they just said "You goin' to Salt Lake?" I nodded and off we went.
I had the dreadful feeling that I was losing Thailand every step I took. Just by listening to these three men talk about baseball in their salty slang, I felt that I was losing my Thai minute by minute. It was like a bad dream. NO ONE was speaking Thai to me, why would they? No one was filtering their English either, but I was so grateful for the help I kept my mouth shut. I felt the "missionary" peeling off me like a sunburn as we walked across Narita.
Sadly, I have not spoken Thai to anyone but Thai restaurants servers...since 1988. I can lamely say "We'll have the Paht Thai and Yellow Curry, please." That's about it.
Simple things come back pretty easily, "like riding a bike" and maybe if Andy and I went to Thailand the language would start coming back, but because it's tonal, identical words are dependant upon the way you say them. "Hand" and "Pig" are the same thing but I can't remember which one drops in tone and which one lifts. S.C.A.R.Y. I would undoubtedly offend the Thai nation and end up staying in a creaky grass hut over a swamp full of alligators. I've lost something I worked like a dog to obtain. It's so sad.
This is true with artists as well. They need to feed their art - speak their language..so to...to... speak. Especially performing arts teachers. Because they get so busy, they are very lucky if they ever get to practice what they preach. We teach theatre, dance or music because it started out as a hobby for us and still is. I don't scrapbook, I don't train for marathons (o.k. I should), or garden (blog #?) but in my precious free time, I feed my disease, my bucket...my passion. Because if I lose the passion for it, no amount of steps that I take into my rehearsals will be enough. We need to act! We need to sing! We need to dance!
When I lived in Northern Utah, there were plenty of opportunities for us to do community theatre at night. I got to be Penny (You Can't Take it With You), Sister Robert Anne (Nunsense), M'Lynn (Steel Mags)....and I got to work with adults...speak adult for a few hours every day. Our social circles were the people we met in community theatre. I miss that so much! The people we invited to our wedding were people we met doing community theatre. In fact, all the years I was directing the community theatre in Lehi, every time we had a play, it resulted in a wedding. It turned out to be a great way to meet people! Safer than bars, cheaper than the internet, and you always know you'll have at least one thing in common. If you can still find a place to do it. Community theatre kept me sane and most of all, I was a better theatre teacher because I was a practicing member of the theatre community as well.
Time for a little S.O.A.P.B.O.X. Sorry...
There is not a city community theatre in St. George anymore. There used to be, and many people were involved in great shows and hundreds of patrons appreciated it from the audience. But it did not have a permanent home and eventually, after many years of trying to string it along with little support, it died. Theatres are more expensive than ball fields. (Did I say that out loud?)
I do not know the reason why St. George doesn't throw some money at their amateur theatre arts community. Tuacahn uses a few community members but they are a professional theatre after all. The college and high school's are bound to use their own students because it's educational theatre. Small independent break out groups occasionally appear, but without a home, they don't last long.
I laude the City of Lehi because when Hutchings Natural History Museum got a new home, the city gave the old museum to us artsy-fartsy's and we turned it into a working theatre. It only seats about 100 people, but it provides a huge service to hundreds and hundreds of citizens that are looking for that outlet for their families. Good Lehi volunteers still perpetuate the arts there and that makes me so happy. My earliest theatre memories are of a community children's theatre class.
JFK said the arts civilize us. Look at countries where the arts have died...what do they have? Constant civil unrest. The act of free expression then becomes a matter of national security. See how the old debater in me made that argument linear? I guess I'm just bugged that no one around here thinks that the common man needs an outlet for their art!
Andy started at the Valley Center Playhouse in Lindon, Utah. You know it? I think the good Renstroms still run it. You can spit from one side of the audience to the other. But who cares? They are the "theatre parents" of thousands of us because they fought to keep that little theatre open for the community for so many years.
Andy is now an Equity actor. All that means is that if he works again (which he hasn't much) they have to pay him union wages and abide by the rules of the Actor's Equity handbook. He gets his own dressing room, etc... He's fancy now. He is also an acting teacher, think of the influence he has, will have.
Last year he got to be a guest artist for Southern Utah University. He played Pseudolus in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. It was like a good anti-depressant. I could see it filling his bucket. His students flocked to see the show and were shocked at his performance. It gave them a new respect for everything that came out of his mouth every day. I prayed for another opportunity for him but one never came and not being able to participate in his passion was making him bitter.
Then Santa arrived.
Because he's "Equity" the catch is that he can no longer work for free. But if he is a faculty member, Equity was okay with that. The school needed to raise some money anyway and I had volunteered to add a "faculty fundraiser" to my schedule. But every time we tried to make it work, there were just too many people's schedules to work around. I knew if we waited til spring, it would never happen.
A Tuna Christmas has 22 characters in it, men and women, but it's written so that all of the roles are played by just two men. So I asked Andy and our technical theatre teacher, Josh Scott, to take on the project. Because it is an educational theatre, after all, I offered all the tech positions to our students. Part of the magic of Tuna is the quick costume changes. Some of them were less than ten seconds long and included wigs, glasses, shoes...the works. The real show was backstage so to speak. 14 awesome technicians, each with a singular duty, "shoe guy," "wig girl," "lighting guy," just like professional theatre. I chose our best 18 year-old Stage Manager to take the project because he needed to learn how to manage adults. He would use the opportunity for his scholarship portfolio later on. Josh's classes built the set, the art club painted it, a parent volunteer helped me with costumes and the faculty ran the house and provided concessions (which incidentally made a lot of money for the cause!) It was truly a collaborative project.
And it was soooooo fun. We rehearsed in our living room on Sunday nights and over the Thanksgiving holiday. We laughed so hard sometimes I did pee a little. I admit it. It made me happy to see those two acting off each other and developing all those different characters because they don't get the chance to exercise their craft very often. They are too busy spending their free time producing theatre for everyone else. I could see their buckets filling up. My bucket was filling up. It made me even happier to see our students and their families laughing buckets! Win, win.
I could have raised money in a different way, heaven knows I know how to do a cookie dough fundraiser. But the pay-off was different. Not only did we raise over $5000, we got to give a lot of kids a great opportunity, we got to teach by modeling good acting and we got to reassert the fact that our teachers are also real artists. Since Tuna, Andy and Josh have become community celebrities. We can't go anywhere without someone saying, "Hey, you're the Tuna guy...you were hilarious!" Tuna reminded Andy and I why we do this. Sometimes you forget. Especially if there is no other outlet around. Bloom where you're planted... and all that.
My point is, and I do have one, no matter what the talent, if we don't use it, we will lose not only the skills but the passion for developing our SELF and the ability to use it in the service of others.
Our spirits MUST be elevated regularly. If we are to meet our trials and tribulations with sanity, we must be whole. Empty buckets are funny. They can't give anything to anyone.
The bitterness of taking care of everything and everyone around you eventually seeps into the cracks and crevices of your good survival attitude. Eventually, at least for me, I'm dealing with depression because nobody cares, not even me, that I have an opportunity to do something for myself. No one will fight for your sanity. You are in charge of that yourself. Rogue bitterness at one thing, magnifies itself into bitterness about everything.
L.E.A.V.E. I.T. A.L.O.N.E. Bitterness' BFF is loneliness. It will be fine if you send it back from whence it came. I've seen so many people leave more important things behind because they didn't make time to fill their own dang bucket.
Eternal progression is REAL FOLKS. No souvenir you've ever collected is going with you to the next life. You can't take your money with you...fact is, you can't even take your bills. So what do you really want to do? What do you really want to see, to read, to play, to experience, to hear, what language do you want to learn?
Because there are a million reasons you should be speaking it!
.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Fully Committed
I've been gone a few days. I was on a bus. With other people's kids. We were traveling to competitions. To compete for scholarships, trips to New York, medals, trophies and bragging rights. I've had about 8 hours sleep in the last four days combined. But I find myself still vertical and breathing. That's good. Andy's horizontal...but he'll find his bearings soon enough.
It all started last Thursday morning, March 29, when we loaded up the school bus (and our truck) with some actors, some costumes, set pieces and a good dose of bravery. We set out to compete at the very first Region Drama One Act Play Competition. I say "first" because it's been a "festival" for the last fifteen years or so and (I hate to admit it) I haven't really cared about the quality of the work we produced because the judges are always generous to high school students. Unless your cast was still reading the script off the paper, we usually did pretty well. Superior, Excellent or Good. Hurray.
This year there was a trophy involved. A title.
"Region Champs." First, Second, Third Place.
Good marketing for a school of choice since 80% of our studentbody is from this region. So, since I'm in charge of marketing I thought we'd better go for it. And...who's kidding who.... a trophy changes everything. When there is competition, the quality of work is better. Goals are set, more kids get involved, work ethic doubles. Sure enough, across the region, that's what happened.
I cast 9 diverse kids in the One Act, one girl and eight boys of various sizes and types. I thought it was an interesting group of kids. Some veterans and some greenies too. They were simply awesome to work with. I cast passionate kids even though some of them were very young, passion was the only requirement. Being passionate opens you to direction. I needed kids that could work with me because sometimes, hearing "lets go back and take the suck out of that" at seven in the morning, makes you want to shoot a teacher dead. These kids would say "please give me notes," and "what else can I add to this or that character..." I'm an acting teacher and director... if I can't get what I want from them, fire me. The key is...choose the kids that will let you open them up so all you are doing is pulling those characters out of them as fast as they will let you. Easy.
The play was called "Fully Committed" which I find perfectly appropriate considering the fact that we rehearsed at 7 in the morning, after Titanic rehearsals and on Saturdays. No one EVER missed a rehearsal. (Trophy involved.)
It's the story of a girl that works in the reservation office of a chic restaurant. For 45 minutes, 40 characters "called in" and tried to get reservations, confirm reservations, change their reservations and lie about their reservations. Each boy played several characters and at least one woman. The lone girl had every other line. She had to remember when to say "How can I help you" vs. "thank you for holding" every single time she picked up the phone and she was downstage center and could not see the boys behind her. I CANNOT imagine having the brain power for that kind of exercise. I only have three brain cells left. YOWZA! I watched her every day in shock. She was fully committed and then some.
Those eight boys (and a brilliant stage manager that was doing live sound effects on stage) flipped in and out of character every time they picked up their phone. 40 characters! It was not only a blast to watch, it felt miraculous. At the competition, when the lights went down, I said my usual prayer "Heavenly Father, thank you for giving them talent, bless them now with focus, strength and confidence. Their best is still within them, help them find it." (If you are a teacher that doesn't pray...how do you get through it?)
"Their best is still within them."
Sounds bad, like maybe they aren't very talented, or haven't reached high enough. We tell the kids every day that if they don't give 100% of their talent every day at rehearsals, how will they ever know what their 100% is? Every day, as they push themselves, their 100% moves ...102 ...105 ...110 ... setting a new mark every day. If THEY decide to find out what they are actually CAPABLE of doing, if they decide to test their "sacred potential" as I call it, they will find it. And when that happens, look out!
So on THURSDAY, with the judges looking on, everyone decided to test their potential at the same time. I sat in giddy awe of my kids. Urgency, pacing, volume, not one line missed, the comic timing...all brilliant! I waited for someone to falter, but no one did. They were really listening to each other, working together as they rode the tide of that play. Final curtain. I took my first breath in 45 minutes, thanked God for his help, and got the kids back on the bus...with their First Place trophy sitting like a hood ornament on the bus heater. I got out my lists and started planning what to pack for the next days competition.
FRIDAY, March 30.
14 scenes and 8 monologues. All costumed, all blocked, all whipped up in the dark hours of the night and morning, between classes and caffeine. 45 more caffeinated kids. Region Part II, Individual Events Team. Orders of the day: Load the bus in costume, arrive at foreign school, endure the stares and laughs of a studentbody that isn't used to seeing kids in lace cravats and spats. Special Instructions: Find your round and test your potential or I will kill you." Just kidding! I think I said, "just have fun" but in my mind I was praying "H.F., their best is still within them, please help them find it."
One by one I watched the ballots come in. Brilliant! Everybody tested their potential. Best of all, everybody contributed to the First Place team trophy which somebody tucked under their arm and skipped it out to the bus for the ride home. Within about 5 minutes, after we lathered praise on them and did the school cheer (we have one, we really do) I sank into my seat on the bus thinking about how privileged I am to work with such amazing children of God, when suddenly, behind me, there was a conversation about who was better, Zach Efron or Justin Beiber. Ah... there they are. They were gone for just a little, now they're back. I pulled out my next set of lists and started planning the next day's bus trip...to LOGAN... to the Utah Musical Theatre Awards.
SATURDAY, March 31.
We slept for about three hours, returned to Tuacahn with our luggage, 51 kids, costumes, several adults, and a semi-negative attitude...about buses. EIGHT hours of driving (that I didn't have to do, thank goodness or we might have died by Cedar City), eight hours of teenage small talk, singing, oh... there was far too much singing, damn them! But to call an end to it would be to crush the very soul of the teenage performer. What if I took five Ambien and someone woke me up when we got there?
We got to Logan late because the old yellow dog only goes 35 MPH through Beaver and Logan canyons. Bless my good brother-in-law Joel for driving that old thing. He was truly testing it's twenty year-old potential. It did a good job. Everyone arrived in one piece and thanks to Bountiful High for switching us places so we could still rehearse on stage for a few minutes.
We went from the bus to the rehearsal, from the rehearsal to dinner, from dinner to the hotel to get into costume and from the hotel to the performance. We did not stop. Once I sat down in the dark auditorium filled with 2000 high school kids, I was done. The highlight of the evening was winning the "Audience Favorite Award for Best Musical." Again, not an individual award, but an award achieved by the entire team. I love that.
They got to perform "Brotherhood of Man" which is the big finale number in the show they were nominated for and I have not seen them perform it better. I was, again, in SHOCK. How is it done? Most of them had been with me all week...same bus...same competitions. Yet there they were...testing their potential right up until the very last note of the song. Then there was the "group button." The one where everybody on stage raised their jazz hands and says "OH YEAH! Bomp." Audience went nuts! How do they do it?!?! Hotel bed here I come.
SUNDAY, April 1. No joke.
On our way home, we had the privilege of stopping at Primary Children's Hospital and singing to a fellow classmate who has been in and out of hospitals all year. It was the perfect Sunday activity and her spirit renewed us! I'm not sure how many surgeries she has had, dozens, but again, when I am tired, God shows me the sweet irony of a thing and I am simultaneously spanked and lifted up. Back on the bus, spirits renewed, Ambien waiting. Eight hours later we pulled in to the school, again...only this time, we didn't have to come back for nearly 12 hours. "Oh Yeah! Bomp."
When you are going through a run like that you just take one step at a time, one question at a time, one issue at a time, but now I'm looking back thinking "HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?" Why was there suddenly a test of my own potential included in this babysitting deal? Did everyone arrive at home alive? Yep. Then yes...even I can test my own potential. The best of me is still within.
The thing is, we're not alone here. There were teachers from all over the state that did exactly what we did. Nobody came to Logan from the edge of Arizona going 35 mph, but they all prepared their teams, supervised the madness, gathered up their trophies and reveled in the genius of their kids...because the drama teachers in this state test their own potential every day, I don't know a single one that doesn't. Thanks to everyone that made all of those competitions possible, especially Vanessa Ballam who is my personal hero.
So congrats across the state to the thousands of kids that tested their God-given potential this past weekend and the 150 teachers that didn't kill anyone in the process. That I know of. Yet.
Our best is still within us and we are FULLY COMMITTED.
It all started last Thursday morning, March 29, when we loaded up the school bus (and our truck) with some actors, some costumes, set pieces and a good dose of bravery. We set out to compete at the very first Region Drama One Act Play Competition. I say "first" because it's been a "festival" for the last fifteen years or so and (I hate to admit it) I haven't really cared about the quality of the work we produced because the judges are always generous to high school students. Unless your cast was still reading the script off the paper, we usually did pretty well. Superior, Excellent or Good. Hurray.
This year there was a trophy involved. A title.
"Region Champs." First, Second, Third Place.
Good marketing for a school of choice since 80% of our studentbody is from this region. So, since I'm in charge of marketing I thought we'd better go for it. And...who's kidding who.... a trophy changes everything. When there is competition, the quality of work is better. Goals are set, more kids get involved, work ethic doubles. Sure enough, across the region, that's what happened.
I cast 9 diverse kids in the One Act, one girl and eight boys of various sizes and types. I thought it was an interesting group of kids. Some veterans and some greenies too. They were simply awesome to work with. I cast passionate kids even though some of them were very young, passion was the only requirement. Being passionate opens you to direction. I needed kids that could work with me because sometimes, hearing "lets go back and take the suck out of that" at seven in the morning, makes you want to shoot a teacher dead. These kids would say "please give me notes," and "what else can I add to this or that character..." I'm an acting teacher and director... if I can't get what I want from them, fire me. The key is...choose the kids that will let you open them up so all you are doing is pulling those characters out of them as fast as they will let you. Easy.
The play was called "Fully Committed" which I find perfectly appropriate considering the fact that we rehearsed at 7 in the morning, after Titanic rehearsals and on Saturdays. No one EVER missed a rehearsal. (Trophy involved.)
It's the story of a girl that works in the reservation office of a chic restaurant. For 45 minutes, 40 characters "called in" and tried to get reservations, confirm reservations, change their reservations and lie about their reservations. Each boy played several characters and at least one woman. The lone girl had every other line. She had to remember when to say "How can I help you" vs. "thank you for holding" every single time she picked up the phone and she was downstage center and could not see the boys behind her. I CANNOT imagine having the brain power for that kind of exercise. I only have three brain cells left. YOWZA! I watched her every day in shock. She was fully committed and then some.
Those eight boys (and a brilliant stage manager that was doing live sound effects on stage) flipped in and out of character every time they picked up their phone. 40 characters! It was not only a blast to watch, it felt miraculous. At the competition, when the lights went down, I said my usual prayer "Heavenly Father, thank you for giving them talent, bless them now with focus, strength and confidence. Their best is still within them, help them find it." (If you are a teacher that doesn't pray...how do you get through it?)
"Their best is still within them."
Sounds bad, like maybe they aren't very talented, or haven't reached high enough. We tell the kids every day that if they don't give 100% of their talent every day at rehearsals, how will they ever know what their 100% is? Every day, as they push themselves, their 100% moves ...102 ...105 ...110 ... setting a new mark every day. If THEY decide to find out what they are actually CAPABLE of doing, if they decide to test their "sacred potential" as I call it, they will find it. And when that happens, look out!
So on THURSDAY, with the judges looking on, everyone decided to test their potential at the same time. I sat in giddy awe of my kids. Urgency, pacing, volume, not one line missed, the comic timing...all brilliant! I waited for someone to falter, but no one did. They were really listening to each other, working together as they rode the tide of that play. Final curtain. I took my first breath in 45 minutes, thanked God for his help, and got the kids back on the bus...with their First Place trophy sitting like a hood ornament on the bus heater. I got out my lists and started planning what to pack for the next days competition.
FRIDAY, March 30.
14 scenes and 8 monologues. All costumed, all blocked, all whipped up in the dark hours of the night and morning, between classes and caffeine. 45 more caffeinated kids. Region Part II, Individual Events Team. Orders of the day: Load the bus in costume, arrive at foreign school, endure the stares and laughs of a studentbody that isn't used to seeing kids in lace cravats and spats. Special Instructions: Find your round and test your potential or I will kill you." Just kidding! I think I said, "just have fun" but in my mind I was praying "H.F., their best is still within them, please help them find it."
One by one I watched the ballots come in. Brilliant! Everybody tested their potential. Best of all, everybody contributed to the First Place team trophy which somebody tucked under their arm and skipped it out to the bus for the ride home. Within about 5 minutes, after we lathered praise on them and did the school cheer (we have one, we really do) I sank into my seat on the bus thinking about how privileged I am to work with such amazing children of God, when suddenly, behind me, there was a conversation about who was better, Zach Efron or Justin Beiber. Ah... there they are. They were gone for just a little, now they're back. I pulled out my next set of lists and started planning the next day's bus trip...to LOGAN... to the Utah Musical Theatre Awards.
SATURDAY, March 31.
We slept for about three hours, returned to Tuacahn with our luggage, 51 kids, costumes, several adults, and a semi-negative attitude...about buses. EIGHT hours of driving (that I didn't have to do, thank goodness or we might have died by Cedar City), eight hours of teenage small talk, singing, oh... there was far too much singing, damn them! But to call an end to it would be to crush the very soul of the teenage performer. What if I took five Ambien and someone woke me up when we got there?
We got to Logan late because the old yellow dog only goes 35 MPH through Beaver and Logan canyons. Bless my good brother-in-law Joel for driving that old thing. He was truly testing it's twenty year-old potential. It did a good job. Everyone arrived in one piece and thanks to Bountiful High for switching us places so we could still rehearse on stage for a few minutes.
We went from the bus to the rehearsal, from the rehearsal to dinner, from dinner to the hotel to get into costume and from the hotel to the performance. We did not stop. Once I sat down in the dark auditorium filled with 2000 high school kids, I was done. The highlight of the evening was winning the "Audience Favorite Award for Best Musical." Again, not an individual award, but an award achieved by the entire team. I love that.
They got to perform "Brotherhood of Man" which is the big finale number in the show they were nominated for and I have not seen them perform it better. I was, again, in SHOCK. How is it done? Most of them had been with me all week...same bus...same competitions. Yet there they were...testing their potential right up until the very last note of the song. Then there was the "group button." The one where everybody on stage raised their jazz hands and says "OH YEAH! Bomp." Audience went nuts! How do they do it?!?! Hotel bed here I come.
SUNDAY, April 1. No joke.
On our way home, we had the privilege of stopping at Primary Children's Hospital and singing to a fellow classmate who has been in and out of hospitals all year. It was the perfect Sunday activity and her spirit renewed us! I'm not sure how many surgeries she has had, dozens, but again, when I am tired, God shows me the sweet irony of a thing and I am simultaneously spanked and lifted up. Back on the bus, spirits renewed, Ambien waiting. Eight hours later we pulled in to the school, again...only this time, we didn't have to come back for nearly 12 hours. "Oh Yeah! Bomp."
When you are going through a run like that you just take one step at a time, one question at a time, one issue at a time, but now I'm looking back thinking "HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?" Why was there suddenly a test of my own potential included in this babysitting deal? Did everyone arrive at home alive? Yep. Then yes...even I can test my own potential. The best of me is still within.
The thing is, we're not alone here. There were teachers from all over the state that did exactly what we did. Nobody came to Logan from the edge of Arizona going 35 mph, but they all prepared their teams, supervised the madness, gathered up their trophies and reveled in the genius of their kids...because the drama teachers in this state test their own potential every day, I don't know a single one that doesn't. Thanks to everyone that made all of those competitions possible, especially Vanessa Ballam who is my personal hero.
So congrats across the state to the thousands of kids that tested their God-given potential this past weekend and the 150 teachers that didn't kill anyone in the process. That I know of. Yet.
Our best is still within us and we are FULLY COMMITTED.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Eight Steps
This week I spent my first big block of time directing the Titanic cast. Blocking, for those of you that enjoy plays from the audience, is when you (the director) tell the cast where to stand and move when they are on stage and WHY they are there, WHY and when they enter the stage, WHY and when they leave... (because I guarantee they do not decide these things for themselves when they are 14 - 18 years old). So this week, for example, I barked instructions to 10 DOZEN (very awesome) kids for three hours straight, until we had achieved the day's goal of getting everyone where they should be. We blocked 27 pages of a 138-page script.
I was going to attend my nephew's ball game this afternoon, but I had no voice left for cheering. And I was in a stupor. I didn't know my own name by Thursday afternoon. By Friday I was courting the angel of death. Tonight, after dragging my sorry butt back to the high school this morning, on a Saturday...for more rehearsal...I GET to chaperone Prom. Woot. I'm dying to pull on pantyhose right now. Can you feel my excitement. This must be the karma returning since I never went to Prom when I was in high school. I've been to FAR too many proms since.
The thing is, I wasn't at rehearsal by myself. The kids were there too. And they were at rehearsal before I was, and left bouncing their way to the parking lot because they are all headed to Prom. I can get up the stairs and in a dress...I think I can... I think I can. Did I shower today? That was so long ago.
We teach at a charter high school for kids that are interested in having a performing arts twist on their basic education. There are no auditions, no tuition. Our school's annual attendance rate is over 95%. Our kids like school. They chose to put their name in a lottery and get pulled out of a hat. Because we are a public school we must accept everyone that "get's pulled" until our desks are full. Our kids have just chosen to put their names INTO that hat. I consider that a kind of contract. They put their faith in me, and I earn that faith by doing my best.
I am the artistic director (the arts version of the athletic director). We don't have any athletics at our school. No cheerleaders, no drill team. We have P.E. of course, but our athletes are in the dance studio all day, or on stage all night. Our kids also wear uniforms, khaki pants and a polo shirt. Those are the three big differences between our school and a regular district school. The combination of being able to choose the school, narrow the focus of their education and narrow the clothing choices creates a kind of unity, an awareness of the privilege of education, higher expectations on both sides of the desk. I don't like everything about charter schools, but I like that.
Our school is divided into 6 "academies." The kids choose to take their elective credits in one particular subject. Originally it was to help us predict how many classes we would need in each area. If we would need to hire additional teachers or move faculty around, we could tell because our freshmen had to list their main interest on their registration form; Actor Training, Dance, Music, Musical Theatre, Technical Theatre and Visual Art. (Side note that you probably already picked up: Andy is the head of the Actor Training program here. Nepotism is alive and...well.) Next year we are adding an Honors Academy. Academics are taken very seriously here.
The side benefit of the academies is that it sent a message to the public that we are best equipped to teach a kid that is interested in the arts. Our arts teachers are professional artists as well as certified teachers. We are not really a school that can rehabilitate a student that has failed everywhere else. Though we have no way of preventing those kids from getting into the lottery, we have welcomed them with open arms and I have seen that miracle many times.
If a kid isn't coming to school, or isn't turning in work, we can know that information almost instantly. Every Friday morning we come together as a faculty and discuss what is being done to help the kids that are struggling. You will often hear "Is anyone getting any work out of so and so and if so, how are you doing that? I was bothered by that in the beginning. I wondered why the teachers cared so much. See, I worked in big district schools for 15 years and I NEVER thought I'd teach at a charter. My father was a regular district teacher for 35 years and the thought of leaving that system seemed a bit of a betrayal for some reason, even though, our school is public too.
Charters aren't popular with district schools. I guess everyone thought that having an arts charter would take away jobs or drain the talent out of the other schools in the county. Attending those school's plays has taught me otherwise. There are enough artsy-fartsy kids to go around.
In fact....
I would guess, that in the eight high school musicals last Fall combined, there were probably about 500 kids in costume across the county. 500 kids memorizing, focusing, singing, dancing, acting, being part of a team, accomplishing a goal, meeting a deadline, managing their time, taking a risk, opening themselves to criticism, being vulnerable in front of an audience, keeping their grades up to stay in that play, coming to school, showing leadership, making friends, making memories that will last forever. Sounds so cliche. But true. T.R.U.E.
108 kids auditioned to be in our spring play "Titanic: The Musical." Because we have so many artists that came to our school to be involved in musical theatre, we do a "NO CUT" show once a year. Basically, if you audition, you get cast. We do it to encourage some of the younger kids to try out without the horror of not seeing their name on the cast list. It takes the risk out of auditioning. it doesn't guarantee where your name will be on the cast list...but you'll be on it somewhere, provided you have the grades to audition. Those younger kids will be your leads one day and we don't take that lightly...we are constantly on the lookout for a future Jean Valjean, a Tevye, Dolly, Pippin...
Last Fall I attended a forum on the educational arts at a teaching conference in Chicago. In one of my classes, teachers from all over the United States were complaining about the economic downturn and how it obliterated their arts budgets. In some cases, whole arts programs were canceled. Everyone in the room was trying to learn how to raise money so that they could produce plays, or get more kids involved in plays. Some of them had been assigned to direct a play even though they taught math or science during the day. Schools that don't have the money for a drama teacher, will sometimes offer a small addendum to a sucker teacher that will create the miracle after school.
I listened in horror. There was a school that had never produced a musical, too expensive. Another guy talked about not having the money to have a tech class during the day. He was coming in on the weekends to build his sets and he even taught himself how to sew out of necessity. On the flip side there were many teachers that were geniuses at creating excellence with no money at all. These ideas were what we all came to hear and they were flying around the room, feeding us. Imagine if those teachers had the money to just TEACH, and not be a fundraising machine too.
I work in a state where the arts are "not dead yet." I work in a school where the kids are expected to audition and they come out in droves. I work with kids that are filled with joy when they learn how to sing harmonies with their buddies. Sometimes I tear up at rehearsals because the "Ah hah" moments are happening at light speed and en masse. It's one thing to see a single kid get a concept, it's entirely another to watch it happen to 106 kids at the same time.
So "Titanic..." has 112 cast members (a couple of them lied about grades, a couple dropped and a couple were added). We will add the help of about 40 student technicians, making the total team, 152 members strong...or weak if you look at it that way. Some will. What that means is that we are going to have to come up with 106 Edwardian style costumes (1912), complete with hats, all the brass buttons and Navy uniforms we can find in the desert, 2012. We are going to have to build and sink a ship on a flat piece of concrete. We are going to have to load it in and light the Amphitheatre after a concert on Saturday night and open the play three days later. We are going to have to teach the 40 of them that have never been in a play before, how to do that too and do it to our expectations.
There are 8 steps between my office and the back door of the theatre at our school. Every day at 3:05 I take those eight steps into rehearsal. Usually, I take eight steps back because I've forgotten something, script...keys....whatever...but eventually I make it into the auditorium. On that eight-step journey I say to myself "if you don't give 100% of your talent, how can you expect your kids to do the same? You are not dead yet." And no matter how hard the day, how S.U.C.K.Y. I feel or how tired I am...I have eight steps to get my poop in a group before I have to lead by example. I know this for sure - whatever attitude I bring into the room, will be the attitude of the rehearsal. I set that temperature. If I am not willing to bring life and passion to the game, how dare I ask them to?
But who cares how hard it is to be a drama teacher?! I knew...nobody held me at gunpoint when I signed the contract. I try to always remember that my kids CHOSE to be at this school and CHOSE to be in rehearsal with ME. On the first rehearsal of Titanic, we learned the final number to Act One Scene One. That sound!!! Imagine it! 100+ kids singing 6-part harmonies to a Maury Yeston score. It was glorious. And they knew it. Eyes opened wider, kids sat up straighter and looked around. Did they hear that right? That sounded good. Wow! That satisfaction of doing something well...that feeling of knowing you learned something, you gave 100% and it paid off! They will reach back to remember and reach forward to grab at that feeling their whole life! What a great drug of choice. Imagine if every kid in the world had an opportunity to set that standard in their systems while they were in high school instead of searching for it in less productive ways. Yet I fear...that this opportunity is disappearing around the country.
For the time being, I will make it a priority to bloom where I'm planted and help my kids do the same. Eight steps. Every day.
This week I reached for the 100%. Was it as easy as taking those eight little steps? Oh hell no. But I like to think this eight-step program helps "re-set" me. It does. I've had to do it for years. If I didn't, I'd surely be dead already. But I'm not.
I'm not dead yet.
I was going to attend my nephew's ball game this afternoon, but I had no voice left for cheering. And I was in a stupor. I didn't know my own name by Thursday afternoon. By Friday I was courting the angel of death. Tonight, after dragging my sorry butt back to the high school this morning, on a Saturday...for more rehearsal...I GET to chaperone Prom. Woot. I'm dying to pull on pantyhose right now. Can you feel my excitement. This must be the karma returning since I never went to Prom when I was in high school. I've been to FAR too many proms since.
The thing is, I wasn't at rehearsal by myself. The kids were there too. And they were at rehearsal before I was, and left bouncing their way to the parking lot because they are all headed to Prom. I can get up the stairs and in a dress...I think I can... I think I can. Did I shower today? That was so long ago.
We teach at a charter high school for kids that are interested in having a performing arts twist on their basic education. There are no auditions, no tuition. Our school's annual attendance rate is over 95%. Our kids like school. They chose to put their name in a lottery and get pulled out of a hat. Because we are a public school we must accept everyone that "get's pulled" until our desks are full. Our kids have just chosen to put their names INTO that hat. I consider that a kind of contract. They put their faith in me, and I earn that faith by doing my best.
I am the artistic director (the arts version of the athletic director). We don't have any athletics at our school. No cheerleaders, no drill team. We have P.E. of course, but our athletes are in the dance studio all day, or on stage all night. Our kids also wear uniforms, khaki pants and a polo shirt. Those are the three big differences between our school and a regular district school. The combination of being able to choose the school, narrow the focus of their education and narrow the clothing choices creates a kind of unity, an awareness of the privilege of education, higher expectations on both sides of the desk. I don't like everything about charter schools, but I like that.
Our school is divided into 6 "academies." The kids choose to take their elective credits in one particular subject. Originally it was to help us predict how many classes we would need in each area. If we would need to hire additional teachers or move faculty around, we could tell because our freshmen had to list their main interest on their registration form; Actor Training, Dance, Music, Musical Theatre, Technical Theatre and Visual Art. (Side note that you probably already picked up: Andy is the head of the Actor Training program here. Nepotism is alive and...well.) Next year we are adding an Honors Academy. Academics are taken very seriously here.
The side benefit of the academies is that it sent a message to the public that we are best equipped to teach a kid that is interested in the arts. Our arts teachers are professional artists as well as certified teachers. We are not really a school that can rehabilitate a student that has failed everywhere else. Though we have no way of preventing those kids from getting into the lottery, we have welcomed them with open arms and I have seen that miracle many times.
If a kid isn't coming to school, or isn't turning in work, we can know that information almost instantly. Every Friday morning we come together as a faculty and discuss what is being done to help the kids that are struggling. You will often hear "Is anyone getting any work out of so and so and if so, how are you doing that? I was bothered by that in the beginning. I wondered why the teachers cared so much. See, I worked in big district schools for 15 years and I NEVER thought I'd teach at a charter. My father was a regular district teacher for 35 years and the thought of leaving that system seemed a bit of a betrayal for some reason, even though, our school is public too.
Charters aren't popular with district schools. I guess everyone thought that having an arts charter would take away jobs or drain the talent out of the other schools in the county. Attending those school's plays has taught me otherwise. There are enough artsy-fartsy kids to go around.
In fact....
I would guess, that in the eight high school musicals last Fall combined, there were probably about 500 kids in costume across the county. 500 kids memorizing, focusing, singing, dancing, acting, being part of a team, accomplishing a goal, meeting a deadline, managing their time, taking a risk, opening themselves to criticism, being vulnerable in front of an audience, keeping their grades up to stay in that play, coming to school, showing leadership, making friends, making memories that will last forever. Sounds so cliche. But true. T.R.U.E.
108 kids auditioned to be in our spring play "Titanic: The Musical." Because we have so many artists that came to our school to be involved in musical theatre, we do a "NO CUT" show once a year. Basically, if you audition, you get cast. We do it to encourage some of the younger kids to try out without the horror of not seeing their name on the cast list. It takes the risk out of auditioning. it doesn't guarantee where your name will be on the cast list...but you'll be on it somewhere, provided you have the grades to audition. Those younger kids will be your leads one day and we don't take that lightly...we are constantly on the lookout for a future Jean Valjean, a Tevye, Dolly, Pippin...
Last Fall I attended a forum on the educational arts at a teaching conference in Chicago. In one of my classes, teachers from all over the United States were complaining about the economic downturn and how it obliterated their arts budgets. In some cases, whole arts programs were canceled. Everyone in the room was trying to learn how to raise money so that they could produce plays, or get more kids involved in plays. Some of them had been assigned to direct a play even though they taught math or science during the day. Schools that don't have the money for a drama teacher, will sometimes offer a small addendum to a sucker teacher that will create the miracle after school.
I listened in horror. There was a school that had never produced a musical, too expensive. Another guy talked about not having the money to have a tech class during the day. He was coming in on the weekends to build his sets and he even taught himself how to sew out of necessity. On the flip side there were many teachers that were geniuses at creating excellence with no money at all. These ideas were what we all came to hear and they were flying around the room, feeding us. Imagine if those teachers had the money to just TEACH, and not be a fundraising machine too.
I work in a state where the arts are "not dead yet." I work in a school where the kids are expected to audition and they come out in droves. I work with kids that are filled with joy when they learn how to sing harmonies with their buddies. Sometimes I tear up at rehearsals because the "Ah hah" moments are happening at light speed and en masse. It's one thing to see a single kid get a concept, it's entirely another to watch it happen to 106 kids at the same time.
So "Titanic..." has 112 cast members (a couple of them lied about grades, a couple dropped and a couple were added). We will add the help of about 40 student technicians, making the total team, 152 members strong...or weak if you look at it that way. Some will. What that means is that we are going to have to come up with 106 Edwardian style costumes (1912), complete with hats, all the brass buttons and Navy uniforms we can find in the desert, 2012. We are going to have to build and sink a ship on a flat piece of concrete. We are going to have to load it in and light the Amphitheatre after a concert on Saturday night and open the play three days later. We are going to have to teach the 40 of them that have never been in a play before, how to do that too and do it to our expectations.
There are 8 steps between my office and the back door of the theatre at our school. Every day at 3:05 I take those eight steps into rehearsal. Usually, I take eight steps back because I've forgotten something, script...keys....whatever...but eventually I make it into the auditorium. On that eight-step journey I say to myself "if you don't give 100% of your talent, how can you expect your kids to do the same? You are not dead yet." And no matter how hard the day, how S.U.C.K.Y. I feel or how tired I am...I have eight steps to get my poop in a group before I have to lead by example. I know this for sure - whatever attitude I bring into the room, will be the attitude of the rehearsal. I set that temperature. If I am not willing to bring life and passion to the game, how dare I ask them to?
But who cares how hard it is to be a drama teacher?! I knew...nobody held me at gunpoint when I signed the contract. I try to always remember that my kids CHOSE to be at this school and CHOSE to be in rehearsal with ME. On the first rehearsal of Titanic, we learned the final number to Act One Scene One. That sound!!! Imagine it! 100+ kids singing 6-part harmonies to a Maury Yeston score. It was glorious. And they knew it. Eyes opened wider, kids sat up straighter and looked around. Did they hear that right? That sounded good. Wow! That satisfaction of doing something well...that feeling of knowing you learned something, you gave 100% and it paid off! They will reach back to remember and reach forward to grab at that feeling their whole life! What a great drug of choice. Imagine if every kid in the world had an opportunity to set that standard in their systems while they were in high school instead of searching for it in less productive ways. Yet I fear...that this opportunity is disappearing around the country.
For the time being, I will make it a priority to bloom where I'm planted and help my kids do the same. Eight steps. Every day.
This week I reached for the 100%. Was it as easy as taking those eight little steps? Oh hell no. But I like to think this eight-step program helps "re-set" me. It does. I've had to do it for years. If I didn't, I'd surely be dead already. But I'm not.
I'm not dead yet.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Bloom Where You're Planted
I don't have any garden space but I've tried planter boxes and pots of every size. I just don't know how to get stuff to grow in this climate, in a pot. My mom and dad have a yard that resembles the Garden of Eden (like I was there) but I can not grow a tomato that you could cut through. Governor Leavitt visited my dad's house one year and he looked out back and said "you don't have a yard, you have a farm." So you'd think after years of mandatory weeding and watering, I would be a genius with some dirt and a pot. Ha!
This year I decided just not to waste money on anything green. I'm so bitter. I want a real garden space. Andy and I have started driving around looking at single family houses...again. And it all started because of our pilgrimage to the St. George Parade of Homes.
We have gotten tickets to attend the "home show" every year. For those of you that are reading this outside of the United States, a "Parade" of homes is not like the kind of parade where you walk down the street or play in a marching band. This is put together by a group of home construction companies that build a house, have it furnished and decorated to the nines, and then open them up for people to come and tour them, like a museum. A museum where people live. Fancy, faaaancy people. This year there are 28 homes on the tour. We visited 19 of the 28.
"To dream! Perchance to wake..."
This year, after miscarriage #8, I should NOT have gone.
But did I listen to my good sense? No. Since we had a blessed Saturday off, we put on some good shoes, filled up the gas tank (choke....) and set off on our little mini-daycation. We ate lunch out with our "Dixie Direct" card - never leave home without a coupon card - and set off to see how the real people live in St. George. Why do I torture myself so?
One home on the parade had a 1950's diner inside of it. Another had a tub that received its water from a hole in the ceiling. There was a bedroom that had a glass-encased office on one end and on the other end was a wall that could be opened completely to the pool and yard. Almost like camping... at the Marriott.
My favorite thing was the shower that was like a car wash. There were about eight shower heads coming out of various places 360 degrees in the room. I imagined standing there, turning on all eight faucets and waiting for the St. George water pressure to build up enough to reach me in the center of the room. It lacked an automated chamois rub. Disappointing.
Along the bathroom wall of one house were three or four tiled insets like permanent shadow boxes. There were about 8 inches square. One of the little holes contained a tiny little cactus, growing in a teeny, tiny fishbowl laid on its side in a bed of tiny purple pebbles. I did write "J + A" in the perfect pebble bed. It was just calling out to me like when I lived in Japan and people would rake their pebble yards...the temptation was too much. I left secret messages all over Japan. Maybe I should plant cactus....?
One house had a big television in the kitchen that rose up from under the counter top...in case you want to keep up with Rachel Ray as you make your dinner. The first thing I thought when I looked at the cut edge in the granite counter was "if that was at my house, in two weeks it would be stuck shut. There would be so much food in that ditch you'd have to sit on the floor and open up the bottom cupboards to watch T.V."
There was the house with the glass stairs. G.L.A.S.S. stairs. I really thought twice about going down them but sucked my stomach in (like that would make me weigh less) and gingerly descended into a theatre room that sat about 24 people on leather Lazyboys all around. A.H.mazing. Andy stayed at the top. He said he'd take my word for it.
There was a secret pantry in one home that could double as a fallout shelter. If there was a nuclear war, I'd want to be in that room for sure. It was huge and shelved from top to bottom. You had to know that it was there, otherwise, you would think the door was just a couple of kitchen cabinets. I loved that they had a circular dining room, practically made of glass that overlooked the backyard. All it needed was a T.V. that could raise up out of the counter...wait...
There were smaller homes. One of them had about four bedrooms in the basement and a small kitchen there as well. Perfect for eight to sixteen Tuacahn students. We could only afford the mortgage if we stuffed that many kids in there. Just call me Miss Hannigan. Could I shut the door at the top and pretend they weren't there?
There was also an entire house that made Andy claustrophobic. His shoulders just skimmed the Newport Beach artwork on either side of the hallways as we went through it. It was beautifully decorated, like Martha Stewart herself had flown in (and maybe she did). Did they forget that they live in a desert? Or were they just pining for a coastline? Whoever they were...they were very tall and thin people. They probably got that way from wallpapering the 12-foot ceilings in that house. Good luck scraping that off in 2017. Do NOT call me.
I forget which house it was that I tripped and nearly killed myself on the stack of rugs in the living room. I guess it's like double or triple-matting a picture in a frame. These people could not choose which rug to use so they used two or three and stacked them up creating that matting effect. That was popular this year as was the wall-paper (here it comes again, our moms will be so happy).
My question is...is there an economic crisis in our country, and if so...where is that happening?
Because it isn't happening in St. George, Utah. Or maybe all the people that kept their cash in their mattresses are finally dipping into it to build homes here. We could see that the home sizes decreased from years past, but when you are a school teacher, and you see the prices are down from 3 million to 2 million... it still cuts you through to the core. Really? It makes you want to shout "someone taught you! And they are living across the railroad tracks in West Side Story! er...on the west side!"
I don't deny them their American Dream. I'm all about the free enterprise system. I just want to know why I was so attracted to teaching? I knew better! Having grown up with a dad that taught...did I think the paycheck would be different for me? He worked three jobs for decades to keep us alive. I went into this teaching thing with FULL knowledge. D.U.H.
Truthfully I never thought I would teach, or would teach for very long. I thought I would get married and all my troubles would be over. In New Rochelle... or Levittown or some (where that's green) musical theatre place like that. But not only did I become a teacher, I married one! Looks like I might end up running a boarding house full of little girls.
We have our Hunsaker Hotel (see blog #?). It's a townhouse, which I guess is the politically correct word for CONDO...eeeeeeeek. It's an "end-unit" so...we live on the end. Bonus: we only share a wall with neighbors on one side. It has a vaulted ceiling in the living room with three huge windows. I used to love those windows because the light would stream in and the dogs would stretch out in the sun on "Sun"day mornings. But, that was before they built the unit next door. Now we get about 11 minutes of light at 10:30 in the morning which is of no use to anyone because we're never in our home at that time of day. Except on Saturdays and if we're out of bed by 10:30 on a Saturday morning it's because we have already been at rehearsal since 8. Who scheduled that? ;-)
Our home is warm and comfortable. It holds a collection of furniture from that past 20 years of producing plays. But somehow it works - it's sort of Broadway Bohemian, if you will. For example, there are three lamps in the living room, one we bought for Black Comedy, one for You Can't Take it With You and the last has a shade from Stage Door and a stem from The Miracle Worker. You get the idea. I'm always fine with it, until I go through the Parade of Homes and we come home "Bitter At the World. Party of Two."
My bitterness today also stems from a pot full of purple snapdragons that I planted in front of our house to celebrate our decision to go on birth control. It was a really traumatic decision for me...admitting that we needed to move on... that kind of thing. I just wanted something to LIVE. So I broke down and bought some gorgeous, half grown, snapdragons. I love them. They were growing like gangbusters in just a couple of days. Until yesterday. When we drove in after work I noticed that someone had "picked" them all. I hope they took them home and gave them to their mom. I just came inside and had a little pity party. Dang.
I sat right down and fumed. I was mad. Then I looked at the one thing in my house that I bought at the trendy store, just for me. It is a wooden cutout that stands on a shelf, you know the kind. They usually say "Families are Forever" or "Return With Honor." Mine is just as cheesy now and it says "Bloom Where You're Planted." Deep breath.
At first, I rebelled against that trite cliche, thinking "I might as well have a house covered in mauve wallpaper." But I kept seeing it in craft stores when I was shopping for shows or in the JoAnn's ad. As if to say "THIS MESSAGE IS FOR YOU JAN!" So when I saw that it was just $2.94 at Tai Pan, I bought it.
So after the Parade of Homes this year, I walked into my little space again, limped around and lamented my lot as usual. Old furniture, small townhome. No yard, fridge door is tied shut. If I'd only gone to law school we might have nice things. Then I dragged my eyes to the little wooden sign..."Bloom Where You're Planted." Get yourself together I thought. That dang fridge makes a mighty cold Diet Coke I thought. And that yard is mowed by someone else. I can put my feet up on the furniture and not even think about it twice. The best thing is, if there are guests staying at the Hunsaker Hotel, just give me one trash bag and the Swiffer and I'm feeling ready in minutes. Just don't look in the garage. (Two-car garage BTW - Woot!)
I am blessed. What more could I need? We feel safe here. We have incredible neighbors. I don't want to clean a bigger house. I don't want to owe money to a pool boy, or have tiny cactuses growing in pebble beds in my bathroom. Cactuses hate bathrooms! And I don't have time to plant a garden.
Our life is a Garden of Eden. It is a virtual FARM full of blooming... kids. And we... are going to be fine because we are great kid farmers.
I think the world is glorious and lovely as can be
The birds and bees and blossoms bring sweet messages to me
I sing and sing and sing and sing a song of joy and love
I sing and sing and sing and sing my thanks to God above.
This year I decided just not to waste money on anything green. I'm so bitter. I want a real garden space. Andy and I have started driving around looking at single family houses...again. And it all started because of our pilgrimage to the St. George Parade of Homes.
We have gotten tickets to attend the "home show" every year. For those of you that are reading this outside of the United States, a "Parade" of homes is not like the kind of parade where you walk down the street or play in a marching band. This is put together by a group of home construction companies that build a house, have it furnished and decorated to the nines, and then open them up for people to come and tour them, like a museum. A museum where people live. Fancy, faaaancy people. This year there are 28 homes on the tour. We visited 19 of the 28.
"To dream! Perchance to wake..."
This year, after miscarriage #8, I should NOT have gone.
But did I listen to my good sense? No. Since we had a blessed Saturday off, we put on some good shoes, filled up the gas tank (choke....) and set off on our little mini-daycation. We ate lunch out with our "Dixie Direct" card - never leave home without a coupon card - and set off to see how the real people live in St. George. Why do I torture myself so?
One home on the parade had a 1950's diner inside of it. Another had a tub that received its water from a hole in the ceiling. There was a bedroom that had a glass-encased office on one end and on the other end was a wall that could be opened completely to the pool and yard. Almost like camping... at the Marriott.
My favorite thing was the shower that was like a car wash. There were about eight shower heads coming out of various places 360 degrees in the room. I imagined standing there, turning on all eight faucets and waiting for the St. George water pressure to build up enough to reach me in the center of the room. It lacked an automated chamois rub. Disappointing.
Along the bathroom wall of one house were three or four tiled insets like permanent shadow boxes. There were about 8 inches square. One of the little holes contained a tiny little cactus, growing in a teeny, tiny fishbowl laid on its side in a bed of tiny purple pebbles. I did write "J + A" in the perfect pebble bed. It was just calling out to me like when I lived in Japan and people would rake their pebble yards...the temptation was too much. I left secret messages all over Japan. Maybe I should plant cactus....?
One house had a big television in the kitchen that rose up from under the counter top...in case you want to keep up with Rachel Ray as you make your dinner. The first thing I thought when I looked at the cut edge in the granite counter was "if that was at my house, in two weeks it would be stuck shut. There would be so much food in that ditch you'd have to sit on the floor and open up the bottom cupboards to watch T.V."
There was the house with the glass stairs. G.L.A.S.S. stairs. I really thought twice about going down them but sucked my stomach in (like that would make me weigh less) and gingerly descended into a theatre room that sat about 24 people on leather Lazyboys all around. A.H.mazing. Andy stayed at the top. He said he'd take my word for it.
There was a secret pantry in one home that could double as a fallout shelter. If there was a nuclear war, I'd want to be in that room for sure. It was huge and shelved from top to bottom. You had to know that it was there, otherwise, you would think the door was just a couple of kitchen cabinets. I loved that they had a circular dining room, practically made of glass that overlooked the backyard. All it needed was a T.V. that could raise up out of the counter...wait...
There were smaller homes. One of them had about four bedrooms in the basement and a small kitchen there as well. Perfect for eight to sixteen Tuacahn students. We could only afford the mortgage if we stuffed that many kids in there. Just call me Miss Hannigan. Could I shut the door at the top and pretend they weren't there?
There was also an entire house that made Andy claustrophobic. His shoulders just skimmed the Newport Beach artwork on either side of the hallways as we went through it. It was beautifully decorated, like Martha Stewart herself had flown in (and maybe she did). Did they forget that they live in a desert? Or were they just pining for a coastline? Whoever they were...they were very tall and thin people. They probably got that way from wallpapering the 12-foot ceilings in that house. Good luck scraping that off in 2017. Do NOT call me.
I forget which house it was that I tripped and nearly killed myself on the stack of rugs in the living room. I guess it's like double or triple-matting a picture in a frame. These people could not choose which rug to use so they used two or three and stacked them up creating that matting effect. That was popular this year as was the wall-paper (here it comes again, our moms will be so happy).
My question is...is there an economic crisis in our country, and if so...where is that happening?
Because it isn't happening in St. George, Utah. Or maybe all the people that kept their cash in their mattresses are finally dipping into it to build homes here. We could see that the home sizes decreased from years past, but when you are a school teacher, and you see the prices are down from 3 million to 2 million... it still cuts you through to the core. Really? It makes you want to shout "someone taught you! And they are living across the railroad tracks in West Side Story! er...on the west side!"
I don't deny them their American Dream. I'm all about the free enterprise system. I just want to know why I was so attracted to teaching? I knew better! Having grown up with a dad that taught...did I think the paycheck would be different for me? He worked three jobs for decades to keep us alive. I went into this teaching thing with FULL knowledge. D.U.H.
Truthfully I never thought I would teach, or would teach for very long. I thought I would get married and all my troubles would be over. In New Rochelle... or Levittown or some (where that's green) musical theatre place like that. But not only did I become a teacher, I married one! Looks like I might end up running a boarding house full of little girls.
We have our Hunsaker Hotel (see blog #?). It's a townhouse, which I guess is the politically correct word for CONDO...eeeeeeeek. It's an "end-unit" so...we live on the end. Bonus: we only share a wall with neighbors on one side. It has a vaulted ceiling in the living room with three huge windows. I used to love those windows because the light would stream in and the dogs would stretch out in the sun on "Sun"day mornings. But, that was before they built the unit next door. Now we get about 11 minutes of light at 10:30 in the morning which is of no use to anyone because we're never in our home at that time of day. Except on Saturdays and if we're out of bed by 10:30 on a Saturday morning it's because we have already been at rehearsal since 8. Who scheduled that? ;-)
Our home is warm and comfortable. It holds a collection of furniture from that past 20 years of producing plays. But somehow it works - it's sort of Broadway Bohemian, if you will. For example, there are three lamps in the living room, one we bought for Black Comedy, one for You Can't Take it With You and the last has a shade from Stage Door and a stem from The Miracle Worker. You get the idea. I'm always fine with it, until I go through the Parade of Homes and we come home "Bitter At the World. Party of Two."
My bitterness today also stems from a pot full of purple snapdragons that I planted in front of our house to celebrate our decision to go on birth control. It was a really traumatic decision for me...admitting that we needed to move on... that kind of thing. I just wanted something to LIVE. So I broke down and bought some gorgeous, half grown, snapdragons. I love them. They were growing like gangbusters in just a couple of days. Until yesterday. When we drove in after work I noticed that someone had "picked" them all. I hope they took them home and gave them to their mom. I just came inside and had a little pity party. Dang.
I sat right down and fumed. I was mad. Then I looked at the one thing in my house that I bought at the trendy store, just for me. It is a wooden cutout that stands on a shelf, you know the kind. They usually say "Families are Forever" or "Return With Honor." Mine is just as cheesy now and it says "Bloom Where You're Planted." Deep breath.
At first, I rebelled against that trite cliche, thinking "I might as well have a house covered in mauve wallpaper." But I kept seeing it in craft stores when I was shopping for shows or in the JoAnn's ad. As if to say "THIS MESSAGE IS FOR YOU JAN!" So when I saw that it was just $2.94 at Tai Pan, I bought it.
So after the Parade of Homes this year, I walked into my little space again, limped around and lamented my lot as usual. Old furniture, small townhome. No yard, fridge door is tied shut. If I'd only gone to law school we might have nice things. Then I dragged my eyes to the little wooden sign..."Bloom Where You're Planted." Get yourself together I thought. That dang fridge makes a mighty cold Diet Coke I thought. And that yard is mowed by someone else. I can put my feet up on the furniture and not even think about it twice. The best thing is, if there are guests staying at the Hunsaker Hotel, just give me one trash bag and the Swiffer and I'm feeling ready in minutes. Just don't look in the garage. (Two-car garage BTW - Woot!)
I am blessed. What more could I need? We feel safe here. We have incredible neighbors. I don't want to clean a bigger house. I don't want to owe money to a pool boy, or have tiny cactuses growing in pebble beds in my bathroom. Cactuses hate bathrooms! And I don't have time to plant a garden.
Our life is a Garden of Eden. It is a virtual FARM full of blooming... kids. And we... are going to be fine because we are great kid farmers.
I think the world is glorious and lovely as can be
The birds and bees and blossoms bring sweet messages to me
I sing and sing and sing and sing a song of joy and love
I sing and sing and sing and sing my thanks to God above.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Have Your Cake and Make It Too
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| Brad and Ashley, 2009 |
I am the cake lady.
Wedding cakes are the darndest things, aren't they?
A pile of flour, sugar and fat, all dressed in its Sunday best and waiting for the bride and groom to take one bite out of it and then walk away. As if to say, "Who cares about the cake? Get us to the honeymoon!"
Cakes run from a few hundred dollars to thousands, tens of thousands. They take anywhere from four hours to 4 days to create. I have created sugar flowers that take weeks to prepare one petal at a time. So why do we spend so much time, effort and money on something that is probably going to stand in a back corner, and has 2 million calories, and might get thrown away by catering in the end?
Please write in if you have an answer.
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| I'm not great at piping. But for Brashley we added "Est. Feb. 7, 2009" and lots of personal words and nicknames they had for each other. It was very personal, even though we were also going for elegant. |
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| Oldest wedding cake. White icing gone brown. |
I think it's very ironic that someone like me, that's had chronic miscarriages and didn't get married until she was dying her gray hair every month...has been responsible for dozens and dozens of wedding cakes. Humphf! Cheap superstitions. Lotta good it did me.
I've been to a few weddings. But it all started back in 1976 when I got a cake decorating kit for my 12th birthday. What was the first cake I decorated? My own, of course. I only remember that it was lavendar and that I had one distinct thought "I think I've overdone it." There you go....life theme emerging.... It's just that it was so fun to squirt that little frosting flower on...everything.
I built my first wedding cake when I was 18. It was for my very funny cousin Jim and his gorgeous wife Laneeda. That was 1983 and the only reason I remember is that I have a picture of myself standing next to it, wearing the dress I wore for high school graduation. We used plates and columns for that cake, but I don't think I put any kind of stabilizers in it. It had maroon buttercream roses and it was leaning at the start. It finally fell over - well, I caught it before it hit the ground. We turned my handprints to the back.
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| Jared and Heather Peck, Early 90's? |
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| Brian and Melody Hadfield, late 90's |
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| Megan Houston, 2011 |
There are so many cake shows on television now and after watching Cake Boss and visiting the store in New Jersey I decided I should take a class in fondant and sugar roses. I'm really glad I did.
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| Practice roses from class. These are time consuming but so fun. |
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| This cake was my final project for my fondant/ gum paste class. I was acting in Musical Comedy Murders for the summer so I took this one to the last night of the show. Good timing. |
I have encouraged brides to stay away from fondant because it doesn't taste very good. But Andy and I learned how to make it with marshmallows from watching You Tube videos. Seriously! If there is something you want to learn how to do, it will probably be on You Tube.
Fondant still, however violates my policy of taste first, beauty second. My philosophy about the cake is the same philosophy I have about life. It doesn't matter what it looks like on the outside as long as it is amazing on the inside.
Here is one of my favorite cakes because it was amazing on the inside. The bride came to me and said "we don't like cake can we do cheesecake?" I had never made homemade cheescake before so we were pretty excited to have that assignment!!! WOOT! We made about 12 cheesecakes just to make sure we could pull it off on the big day. (We didn't have to practice as much as we did...but we had to try every flavor or course.)
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| Cakes for friends. Amanda Gerry, 2011 |
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| Cheesecakes! Good choice. |
What I didn't know was that I would need carpel tunnel surgery a few days before the wedding. My sisters bailed me out of course by listening to me bark instructions for cheescake making, and I spent the weeknights before the surgery making white sugar roses so we could just assemble it on the day of and not have to pipe anything. That would have been P.A.I.N.F.U.L. It all worked out. I love the colors too. Her husband is in the military - hence the red, white and blue.
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| Wendy and TJ cutting the cake |
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| Close up Wendy and TJ |
Incidentally, by feeding each other, the bride and groom are symbolizing their commitment to provide for each other. Wendy and TJ own a very successful comedy improv club/school. They spend their life making other people laugh. Must have been that cake.
The best thing about cakes is that it brings people together. I love to decorate a cake at my moms house. She has a kitchen in her basement and everyone gathers to see it happening or to help out. I love that.
This is a cake we did in the basement kitchen for my brother Andy and his ultra-chic wife Sarah. Thank goodness she was ahead of her time. I thought it was going to be the ugliest cake because I was used to using a ton of flowers and buttercream ruffles, etc... She challenged me and I'm so glad she did. The colors were green and brown and we used these tiny green orchids and a single bead of chocolate. So elegant in the end. Good job Sarah.
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| Andy and Sarah Shelton, 2007 |
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| Laurie Wells, 2010? LOVE these colors! |
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| Tuacahn High School, 10th Birthday, Homecoming 2009 |
I owe a lot of my happiness at Lehi High to the Andersen family. So when Emilie was getting married I could not let anyone else do her cake. It was right after I had taken that fondant class and I was feeling ballsy. She was the fondant wedding cake guinea pig. We made 15 pounds of fondant with french vanilla marshmellows (so it wouldn't be white-white) and 20 pounds of buttercream to lay underneath it (for taste). The wedding was in northern Utah so we drove the ingredients from St. George to my moms basement in the back of our little car and attempted to assemble our first fondant wedding cake in a kitchen that doesn't have any appliances or utensils. We ended up leaving the buttercream in the fridge in St. George and so we started over there - putting us WAY behind. It was like a Food Network Challenge only for real and what a nightmare. I have a whole new appreciation for what they do.
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| Step One. Bake it all and get it in the freezer. |
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| Step Two. Slice them in half and fill them with yummy stuff. This cake was called Rasberry Lemonade and you could smell it from the next block down. It had about 8 lemon rinds in it. The red dots that you can see on the top of the cake are thick heavy straws (inserted down into the cake) from Maverick (the gas station by our house). The secret is, make good friends at the Maverick. Thanks Janet! |
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| Step Three. Dirty Ice |
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| Step Four. Decorate. Fix the topper that you broke taking it out of the packaging. |
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| Travel to the venue and pray. Smile that it made it in one piece and I am still upright after 24 hours of teaching myself how to do a fondant cake. |
Did I do my own cake? Yes I did. It took my mind off things. It really relaxed me and it was cheaper of course. I always felt bad that by getting married at such a late age, I should try to do as much of the wedding as I could on my own. I am the family cake lady after all and that certainly doesn't excuse me from doing my own cake.
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| Jandy's Cake. Garden themed for the venue. You can sit a cake on just about anything. |
We were scheduled to get on a plane and fly to Miami that night, so when the karaoke got away from us and we realized that it was past time to leave, we cut the cake, ate the traditional bite and left. Andy didn't even get to have a piece. TRUST me, at the time I could have cared less. ;-)
My mom saved the top layer for us which we stuck in our freezer and a year later, we thawed it our and realized that the pins that were stuck in it, should have been taken out, because they had rusted. So we thought twice about having a piece on our anniversary! Dang cake. Oh well.... it would have been really ridiculous of me not to have one.
Andy and I have a cake website that is a work in progress. You can visit it at www.jandyscakes.com
It's not much right now, but as soon as we finish the next show...!!! HAHAHAH isn't that the truth.
Though it took me forever...I have had a great time finding all the pictures for this blog! Thanks for helping me everybody.
So why do we spend so much time, effort and money on something that is probably going to stand in a back corner, and has 2 million calories, and might get thrown away by catering in the end? For me, the wedding cake symbolizes the first meal we will have together as a family so the wedding cake is really a celebration of creating a new family isn't it? I don't know about you, but when our family gets together there is always food. Once in your life, you shouldn't care about how much it costs or how many calories it has and it should be four or five feet tall and covered in sugar.
I used to feel really bad that I didn't become a doctor, and I can't fix your car when it's broken, build you a house and DO NOT let me cut your hair or draw your blood...but if you need a wedding cake, I will be there for you. My life's lesson for this journey through time via the wedding cakes in my life, has taught me that every member of a family has important gifts to give, or in my case, to give back. I've been given so much.
Even though my siblings and cousins are all married now, I'll never be out of business...that's for sure. Check out the next generation! WOOT!! 16 wedding cakes waiting to happen. I can't wait!
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| Jan's wedding, 2006. All the Shelton grandkids (at the time) ;-) |
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