Moving

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It only gets worse from here......

There's nothing more to say. And no time to say it.

Moving is DREADFUL!!!

Another Lady

So I'm out on our front porch a couple of weeks ago and up in the corner is another spider of questionable descent. Looks exactly like the one I saw last year on that same porch. Last year I made a couple of inquiries but got no specific answers but more or less assumed it to be a Black Widow or (according to the descriptions I read, an Australian Redback spider which made no sense as to why it would be here in North Carolina. I mean that's a LONG swim.) She was quite unique looking. That's what caught my attention in the first place. Like someone had splashed three drops of blood on her back. But there are NO descriptions of Black Widows with red on the back, so it was most curious to me. Husband caught her in the bug jail and we took her FAR away. I didn't have the heart to kill her, as she was really quite a remarkable looking lady.

And now here's another one. And I'm equally curious to find out what she is. So I find a site on the internet. The correspondence of which follows.


July 23, 2009 (Spider Question)

To "Peter Bryant"

Dear Mr. Bryant,

You have a great spider page on the internet. And since you seem to be quite knowledgeable I was wondering if you could answer this question for me.

See attached photo. This is the second one of these I've seen at our house. I'm assuming it's a Black Widow, because the abdomen has that red hourglass shape. (At least I assume it does. The one I found last year that I caught in a bug jail, had it.) But I've never seen a description of a Black Widow with red drops on her back? So is this indeed a Black Widow? Makes a very sticky web. From the description of an Australian Red Back spider I would have thought that's what this is. But I live in North Carolina, so that doesn't make any sense.

Any help would be appreciated.

You've got fabulous spider shots!

Giulia Pagano

(His:) Hi! Please contact my friend Lenny Vincent at Atypoides@aol.com < mailto:Atypoides@aol.com>, who knows a lot more about spiders than I do.
Thanks!

Peter J. Bryant, Ph. D.
Developmental Biology Center
University of California, Irvine
Irvine, CA 92697-2275
Phone: (949) 824-4714
Fax: (949) 824-3571
e:mail: pjbryant@uci.edu

July 23, 2009 (Spider Question)

Dear Mr.l Vincent

I was advised by your friend Peter Bryant (Please contact my friend Lenny Vincent) to contact you regarding my spider question. So this is all HIS fault. This is what I sent to him:

"...since you seem to be quite knowledgeable I was wondering if you could answer this question for me.

See attached photo. This is the second one of these I've seen at our house. I'm assuming it's a Black Widow, because the abdomen has that red hourglass shape. (At least I assume it does. The one I found last year that I caught in a bug jail, had it.) But I've never seen a description of a Black Widow with red drops on her back? So is this indeed a Black Widow? Makes a very sticky web. From the description of an Australian Red Back spider I would have thought that's what this is. But I live in North Carolina, so that doesn't make any sense.

Any help would be appreciated."

So, since he says you're the one in the know, I pass the question on to you. I have a love/hate relationship with spiders. They fascinate me and I have spent many hours studying them. Really. And taken many photographs of them. However, when vacuum day comes around - that's it! But I have gleaned much knowledge and appreciation of them over the years from observation of their amazing capacities. How many of us could grow a new leg in a molt had we the capacity? (Or if molt is not the right word, you know the one I mean. I'm not an entomologist, just your normal every day bug lover. And especially the Peter Ustinov documentary taught me the brilliance of the creature. And if you're unfamiliar with that documentary - find it!)

Anyway, if you could view the photo in the attachment and give me your words of wisdom, I'd appreciate it. Because I'm still trying to learn what a Black Widow looks like. If this is SHE - she's a real handsome lady.

Thanks for any spider wisdom you can impart.

Giulia Pagano


(His:) From: Atypoides@aol.com
Subject: Re: Spider Question
Date: Friday, July 24, 2009, 7:04 PM

Hi Giulia,

Looks like a black widow to me. Many of the immatures have the red along the dorsal surface. Yours looks like an adult which would make this an unusual case. I agree that it looks like an Australian redback. It would be interesting to know if you come across another individual with the same coloration.

Cheers,
Lenny Vincent


(Mine:) Re: Spider Question
To: Atypoides@aol.com

Lenny,

Thanks so much for your response. If this is an "immature" I'd hate to see what a grown up looks like! 'Cause this one's pretty hefty. As I said, this is the second one of these I've seen. The one last year, that I put a LONG way away across the road and into the woods, was exactly the same and both were found on our front porch. I guess they like to welcome guests.

Hey, I'd be HAPPY to sent her to you, postage paid. HA!

Take it easy.

Giulia


(His:) Hi Giulia,

Hey, if you are serious, I'd like to have it. I stick spiders in small vials filled with alcohol and placed in altoid tins. Those go in mailing envelopes. Let me know.

Cheers,
Lenny

(Mine:) Lenny,

Spiders in altoid tins - now THAT's a novelty. Hope you don't grab the wrong tin and pop one in your mouth by mistake!

Well now I have only two problems with sending her to you. One is - I really hate to kill her for no reason at all. Though if it would serve the purpose of scientific study....

BUT

There ain't NO WAY I can put this large lady in some little vial even if I had one. She's much to vial to put in a vial small enough to fit in an altoid tin. A big jar - yeah, maybe. Unless I squashed her first and then, what would be the point.... How do YOU get them in little vials?

So, unless this is probably the most unusual spider found in North America and needs to be examined for posterity, my tendency would be to take her off down the road across the stream, where I put the other one last year.

What do you DO with the spiders you have? Are you an entomologist? An arachnidologist? Or just bug crazy, like me? With an email address of atypoides I guess you're a specialist in them?

Giulia

(His:) Hi Giulia,

Yeah, I do specialize in spiders, when I'm not teaching. Yes, just let it go. and, in any case, I now know what it. It is the Nothern Black Widow, Latrodectus variolus. They always have a row of red spots.

Cheers,
Lenny

(Mine:)
Message contains attachments
IMG_2873.JPG (788KB), IMG_2869.JPG (1584KB)

Lenny!

Thanks for the Latin name. I looked her up and came across some great photos of her: Pippin Widows (http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.duke.edu/~jspippen/arachnids/nblackwidow080314-3006gate48z.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.duke.edu/~jspippen/arachnids/blackwidow.htm&h=470&w=600&sz=59&tbnid=op8KK1y1J27SbM:&tbnh=106&tbnw=135&prev=/images%3Fq%3DLatrodectus%2Bvariolus&usg=__5NXJkxWF6HAL8sU26eAl87KQZWw=&ei=NMFwSqGOBJCNtgfaoqH-DQ&sa=X&oi=image_result&resnum=7&ct=image).

If I find any more unique visitors, you'll be the first to hear.

Have attached a photo of one of my favorites, the black and yellow argiope. I'm particularly fond of her trampoline act.

Thanks for the many responses.

Giulia

--------------------------------------------
Here's the photo I attached to that email.



And I wonder why I don't have a lot of friends...... HA!

Comcast Episode

This event took place in 2005.
----------------------------------

An Actor’s Life Part XXX

We get a call from our agent in Knoxville to go for a Comcast audition in Nashville Nov. 22nd. They wanted real married people. They’d already gone to NY to look there, but wanted a "southern" type. They're too stupid to realize that NY actors can do southern accents. We’re told it’s supposed to shoot in LA on Dec. 15th.

So we go in half pretending to be southerners. And slow southerners at that. Cute, dry copy. “Frank & Janet Slowsky, DSL Customers.” He: “We come from slow. We like slow.” She: “With Comcast you download music and photos and bam, they’re right there.” He “I mean we’re not hares, we’re tortoises. Give me a little spinning ball time, a stuck loading bar, something...” She: “I mean his middle name is slow.” You get the idea.

They said there weren't call backs which was good, as it's a 7 hr. drive to Nashville. Arrived at the hotel and check in. As I'm making up and Rand is changing, guy comes to give us a mini fridge which was supposed to come with the room but wasn’t there. Timing is everything and we don’t have a lot of it. Get to audition 3:30. They have a lap top which is playing the auditions that were held in NY for all of us “southerners” to see. They all looked bad to me. Our audition goes well. Back at hotel, notice there are bugs in the room. Not good. Go to dinner. Come back, more bugs. Change rooms at 11 pm. Drive the 7 +hrs. home the next day in horrendous pre-Thanksgiving traffic.

Following week we are told there ARE call backs and they want to see us again. Great. Told to wear the same outfits we were in originally. They send new copy of scripts. Now the characters are turtles. “Open on a turtle and his wife in their living room.” Visions of having to wear hideous turtle outfits come to mind. Why does it matter that we wear the same outfit we did for the first audition? Hmmmm? We’re turtles! Leave Wed., another 7 hr. drive. Spend night in non-buggy hotel. Audition next day (Thurs.). Swedish director about 29 years old and about 4 other various sorts - the obese casting girl, the scruffy, un-shaven 25 year old, the young girl, etc.. They spend half an hour having us ad lib into the copy. They seemed to like us. Another 7 hr. drive home.

Get home around 8:00 pm. Phone rings. Agent says they have 6 Nashville couples they're interested in - we're at the top of the list. She says the production company may be calling later - if they’ve chosen us. We then find out it's a demo. And a voice over only . Turtles are gonna be animated characters like the Budweiser lizards. We’ll be doing the voices. Whomever gets it has to go to NY tomorrow (Fri). Rand tells our agent he doesn't fly. Calls back and forth. We're already exhausted. No calls from the production company. We figure we didn’t get it.

Friday morning we awake to find our digital thermostat - and hence the heat - is not on. Call a heating man. He comes. Says we have a bad circuit breaker. He doesn’t have any in his truck. He can’t get the old breaker back in. He shows me how to re-wire a new one. I say that’s all fine, but if YOU can’t get it in, how am I supposed to. He doesn’t answer and leaves. I go to Landrum to get a new breaker - the only place nearby that carries them. The guy there tells me how it should snap in once wired. I spend a LONG time and finally manage to get the thing in. This on a ladder in back of the heating unit in the basement with a trouble light and zero room to move. Thermostat’s now on but heat pump isn’t working. Maybe it’s a fuse I think. Rand goes off and gets two fuses. Meanwhile I call another heating place. Guy says he’ll stop by later.

4 pm Agent calls and says we got the job. One train out of Spartanburg (20 min. away) at 11 something. Calls back and forth. Packing. Trying to arrange for 3 cats should we be gone longer than expected. With these people ya never know. Meanwhile I put the new fuse in and the heat seems to work. The other heating guy calls, I tell him it’s working, not to come.

Train sleeper is booked by them. 11:40 out of Greenville (an hour away). Great. We wanted to leave from Spartanburg which is closer. We have to find out about parking at the station. Never been there before. Station is supposed to be open at 9:30 pm. No answer. Many calls to Amtrak. Short term parking is only 24 hrs. More calls. Eventually find out "short term" parking is for up to 2 weeks. Main office didn't know that. Still no answer at the Greenville station. We manage to cook dinner.

Find out the train is running two hours late. Well, at least that gives us more time. Get there at midnight. Station is locked up, no stationmaster there. And you have to get the ticket before you can board the train (even if it’s pre-paid - which this one was by the prod. company.) One 76 year old woman had been sitting there since 9:30 in the cold. Eventually station master limps in - literally. He had just gotten out of the hospital. His relief never showed.



Get on the train, it leaves at 1:40 a.m. A sleepless night. Arrive 4 pm Sat. Jason, a typical young man of these days with no brains, says he'll meet us at the 34th St. entrance to Penn Station. He'll be wearing a baseball cap and have a BRIDGES sign. We look for the 34th St. entrance. There is none. Call him on his cell. Oh, he meant 33rd St. “Do you have the BRIDGES sign so we can find you?” No, he forgot it . We finally find each other. He cabs us to the studio. They're currently taping the NY couple they’ve chosen. We sit around for an hour. They call me up to read with the NY actor. I thought they wanted real married couples? Rand falls asleep on the couch. I spend an hour taping, then they bring Rand up. The director has to fly back to Sweden, he leaves as Rand comes in. We two tape 'til 9 pm sans director. Then a cab ride with Christmas music blaring on the radio and a ride over the worst cobblestone street in NY - I thought my teeth would crack. Arrive at Grand Soho ($300/night). Live music blasting in the lobby. Can't hear yourself think. We're totally exhausted by this point. Go to check in. The room is not paid for. Whadda ya mean the room isn't paid for?! They need a fax from someone saying something..... Fortunately the bright girl at the desk eventually found whatever it was that was necessary. Gave us a couple of free glasses of champagne.

Head out for dinner at 10:30. I could barely walk. Go to Italian restaurant and have one of the best meals I've ever eaten. Finally sleep - without motion. 2:15 train out the next day (Sun.). It’s drizzling. We find out they had booked a smaller room on the train for our return. Swell. They're small enough to begin with. Picture, if you will, my 6'6" husband on a small train sleeper. They ain’t what they used to be. Arrive Greenville 4:55 am Mon. Driving home in the pouring rain my speedometer stops working. Swell. Get to bed at 6:30. Sleep for a few hours, then I head off to unemployment in Hendersonville for my monthly review. And later in the day I get a call from our other agent saying I have an audition in Wilmington the next day for a Denzil Washington movie. Probably a one-liner. It's a 7 hr. drive. No thanks....

If this ad runs, and if they end up choosing us and not the NY couple or whomever, (they said they might want us back in mid Jan. to shoot the real deal) we could be sitting pretty because it's a huge campaign and will be shown across all venues, national, regional, cable, internet, etc. And it’s three different spots. If it doesn't - we’ve had one heck of a story to tell.....

Meanwhile I just took the car in to check the speedometer problem, heat pump stopped working again and we had the other guy in to fix it, and we’re waiting for four days in a row without rain so we can stain the decks which we power washed over a week ago now and are already dirty again. Never a dull moment in the Bridges household.

THE MOREL OF THE STORY

For the past several weeks I have been doing a Mushroom study, because it has been so damn HUMID down here, and what else can one do outside except take photos of things that grow in humidity. Like mushrooms. While being chewn alive by the thousands of miniature vampires (i.e. mosquitos) that inhabit the same woodland area. I consider it worth the numerous blood suckings that took place upon my person to get these incredible photos. Like Alice, I drank the liquid that made me shrink and walk amongst them. I had no idea of the diversity of the shroom population until I ventured forth. Some of them are rather sexual in appearance (many, in fact). I could imagine Georgia O'Keefe painting the insides of several. Can't tell you a thing about them, the names nor whether they're poisonous or benign. All I know is that they are incredibly beautiful. And have a very short life. Because like Dracula, once that sunlight comes out and dries the air, they wither. I call them forest flowers. (And all praise to Canon for their brilliant little miracle of a camera the 610A Powershot.)

INTERNET FUN AND GAMES

July 23, 2008
INTERNET FUN AND GAMES


Face it, the home computer/ethernet tech world is too complicated for us. A typewriter, file cabinet, plain old push button phone (remember those?) gives one far less headaches. So do paper, envelopes and stamps - in my book.

I’ve been having a great deal of difficulty getting on the internet lately and I’ve been on the phone a LOT with Bombay. First it was with the Dell people, now with the Windstream folk. One great thing about the latter is that they speak English VERY WELL. Unlike the former. And the Streamers really listen to you. Unlike the Dellies.

So I can’t get connected and I call the Streamers. I already know how to do a diagnostic test on their modem (the BLACK BOX). You don’t need an internet connection to do so. As long as you can bring up the browser window you can put in their ISP address. It takes you to their - I don’t know what it’s called...router page? It has a System Summary. There are two main Connection Summaries. They should be green. RED mean BAD. So if you see BADNESS you click on Tools and then Reboot. And you have to put in the code and then your modem lights up like a Christmas Tree with pretty flashing lights. You are re-setting the modem to factory defaults. (This is known as a soft re-set.) Why they would become un-set is not a question I’ve asked. (Of course there’s also a hard reset with a sophisticated pointed implement [pen tip] poked into the little hole in the rear. No comments please.)

After you’ve done that you click on Diagnostics and put in the appropriate Connection to Test parameters and it gives you the results. There’s the Connections in the Home; Connections at the Carrier; Internet Service Provider; and Internet Connectivity. Within those sections are a minimum of two and a maximum of four results. You want to see them PASS in pretty green. You don’t want to see the red (BAD) FAIL.

Since I would rather NOT have to talk to Bombay on a regular basis, I have written all these instructions down so I can do them myself. But it doesn’t really matter. There’s always something new wrong, or something new to learn to do.

So last week I can’t get connected and I run the tests and it says FAIL and I call. And it turns out that my Firewall (Zone Alarm) was suddenly blocking the internet . Why? Because they put in a new update, but the rest of the tech world hadn’t been informed and the update was not compatible with something else - Microsoft? I think. I’m told that a patch will be due out shortly. Swell. Meanwhile I’ve now learned if my service is down to first shut down my firewall, then my virus sweep and finally my spy protection. Which of course leaves me TOTALLY VULNERABLE TO ALL THE BAD PEOPLE OUT THERE.

That problem eventually gets solved. I think. Then once again I can’t get on the Net. I’m getting to know these guys real well by now. They use fake American names because they think we’re all too stupid to be able to understand, let alone pronounce their real names. I’ve talked to Kevin and George and Thomas. Whose real names were probably something like Kailash and Gobardhan and Jhareshwar. (The reason I know they’re made up names is because I asked and actually got an honest answer). Now before I call I first disengage all protective programs. If that doesn’t work I do a diagnostic test. One guy actually told me I knew more than he did! Fortunately most of them seem to believe and trust me when I say I’ve already done the test and give them the results. Perhaps they have notes on my file that say ATD (meaning this one Ain’t Too Dumb)

Well then I was told to go to Start and select Run and type in “cmd” and then ping Google. (I guess if you ping a known site and IT comes up, things should be working fine.) If this all makes absolutely no sense to you - WHY SHOULD IT? That’s my point. Why do we have to know all this STUFF??? It’s too complicated!

BUT, I now know it. And so I try to troubleshoot my own internet connection. Yeah. Everything starts to work fine again. Then it’s down. I run the test. FAIL. I call Bombay. I get a PASS. Great. Then it’s down again. Then it up. I feel like a boxer in a ring and I’m getting trounced. I begin to think I’m losing my mind. What is happening here? When I CAN get on it’s like molasses. So they tell me to do a speed check. Great. I learn a new bit. Got my very own internet Radar Gun, oh boy! Radar Gun says the speed is great. REALLY????? I put in one trouble ticket, then when they fix it, they close the ticket, only to have me open another one.

Meanwhile this is costing me HOURS AND HOURS of my time. And for what? So I can get some sappy “You’re my friend for life and if you don’t pass this on to 150 people in the next 45 minutes you’ll DIE!” forward???!!!! Or those reeeeeeaaallly cute Youtube rocking the puppy to sleep videos. AAAAaaaargh!

Finally we get a call from a local God bless America Southern drawling Streamer. He says “they’ve” been having some kind of trouble between Charlotte and Arkansas. He wishes he could get his hands on it to fix it, but it ain’t in his territory. But he THINKS it’s fixed now.

And you wonder why I’m afraid to leave my computer illiterate husband home alone with the computer when I go on a trip? He can’t even grasp the concept of a document being on the screen and still inside the computer at the same time, let alone what software vs hardware means. The fact that he can search for houses for sale on the Internet and compose and send a missives is a miracle.

These machines are miracles. When they work. But when they don’t.......

A Small Miracle & a New Friend

A couple of nights ago I was in my office and I heard a squawking. How odd, I thought. What creature would be squawking at 11 pm?

I opened the door to find Harlie, our black and white killer, under my office window and I figured I'd then find the squawker, which I assumed was a mouse. Wrong. It was a bird. Oh swell. Don't know what kind. Not a baby, I think, though small, maybe a Sparrow? Wren? But it had no tail feathers at all. Which could mean that they were all plucked off by the Killer. (What is it with me and birds this year? Is there a Chinese Year of the Bird?)

It was standing upright when I picked it up. It got out of my hand, briefly, Harlie went after it, I grabbed it again and brought it inside to examine. It lay in the cupped palm of my hand on it's back. It's chest was heaving and there was what looked like a pretty good hole right in the middle of it. Swell. Just swell. If you've ever had the misfortune to watch a cat with it's prey, they usually give it one nice chomp. Not enough to kill it outright, just enough to slow it down so that it can be "played with." God. Well, I thought, I'll just sit here with it, and hold it tenderly 'til it breathes it's last. I really didn't think its "last" would take too long. The breathing got shallower and shallower, the chest no longer heaving in spasming gulps of air. I've held wee creatures in my hand that were dying before. If you own cats, it's bound to happen. And always it's heart wrenching. The little eyes were closed, it's little feet motionless. But it continued to breathe.



Sometimes, when I'm emotionally strong enough, and I think the animal is going to experience a long, slow, painful death, I will put it out of it's misery myself. Don't ask the various means I've used, they're all hideous but mercifully quick. But I haven't been too chipper of late and was not up to that task on this night. Rand suggested putting the creature in Pam's head, and I thought what better place to put it then in the little nest that had recently been vacated by a family of baby birds (see blog below). I considered taking a picture of it when it was in my palm, but it was all too depressing and I considered it rather dishonorable to do such a thing to the poor creature. That much of a ghoul I am not.

I got the step ladder out and climbed up to peer inside Pam's head, and the nest had a HUGE spider web in it. One of those really messy funnel webs made by one of those really LARGE funnel spiders? - wolf spiders I think they are. Husband handed me a stick and I gathered up the web like a wand of cotton candy and then gently laid the bird in the nest. It opened it's eyes and looked at me. Did it understand I was trying to be kind?

I prayed for the little creature but didn't hold out much hope. Had visions of climbing the ladder the next morning and finding it all limp necked, probably with some hideous eight-legged monster gnawing on the hole in it's middle. Very depressed I went to bed.

The next morning came and I couldn't face the consequences, because the images I had conjured in my brain were just to awful to confront first thing. So I asked Rand to look at the remains. He stepped up on the ladder and looked inside the head. Said he couldn't see it very well, to please get him the flashlight. I did so. He said he still couldn't see it. WHAT?!!! I practically thew him off the ladder and bound up there. Peered in and... NOTHING. Blessedly NOTHING was there! Just the empty nest. I cannot tell you how grateful I was. How it could have survived the night, I don't know. It was surely a little miracle.

Now my only fear is that I'll find it somewhere nearby on the ground under a bush. That maybe it had managed to fly just a bit but landed under my Mums or something. And maybe Harlie will catch it again. But then maybe God wanted this little fellow to live for a while longer yet.

One must keep the faith, eh?

******************************************************************

On another note: another visitor stopped by the other day.

More Gifts

July 1, 2008 More Gifts


The birds were squawking outside the front porch. Why? Well, the cats were around. Or one cat in particular - our black and white, named Harlie (short for Harlequin.)
She’s a killer. Skinny as a rail - she looks half starved (though gets as much to eat as she wishes), and is faster than a speeding bullet. Has brought down many a bird, and THAT takes skill.

Something about this particular bird squawking caught my attention. It seemed more urgent than normal. Very insistent. Then my mind latched onto a happy possibility. A nest full of babies in my sister’s head.

This needs a brief explanation. My half sister, Pam, was a sculptress. Not as a professional, she didn’t try to make a living at it, though I think she could have. But she was married to an artist and just enjoyed drawing and sculpting. Constantly took classes in both. (We shared the same father, but she was 40 years? older than I. Another story - another time.) Anyway, she did a sculpture of herself which had hung on a tree outside their kitchen for many a year. And when she passed away, I asked to have it and was granted the privilege. It currently sits against our front porch wall. The top of the head is hollowed out. Last year there was a nest in it and so I was hoping that that might be the case again this year. (I had cleaned it all out at the end of last season.)


So I get the step ladder and climb up and look inside the top of the head. And sure enough there are four wee baby birds. They looked like they had just hatched. Have never seen babies this small.

I got to watch the growth process for two weeks before leaving on a trip North. Harlie practically lay up-side-down under the head with her mouth open just waiting for that first flight and the potential of a fluttering failure.

I figured they’d be gone by the time I got back. And they were. But these are the shots I managed to capture beforehand.

New Chiropractor

July 21, 2008

I’ve never been Rolfed. But I understand it’s quite unpleasant. Something about digging deeply into tissue. Something Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS, would dole out as a pleasant past time treat. “You Vill Tell Me Ewvreting I vant to know!”

No, that never appealed to my idea of alleviating pain. But currently I’m being Grastonated. Not merely satisfied with using one’s hands to do a deep massage, some skier who'd hurt himself, named David Graston, came up with state of the art stainless steel torture devices. The object is to break down scar tissue - which is bad for you because it inhibits movement and causes pain. But nothing like the pain of going through this process. Imaging someone taking the backside of a strong steel hunting knife - the EDGE, not the flat part - and rubbing it fast and as hard as they can at a 45 degree angle over various portions of your body. Which are already sore, because that's why you're going to get treated, right? Sound like fun to YOU?

The chiropractor, a sweetheart of a guy named Daniel Becker (828) 817-5524 (if you live in NC), told me that the pain level should be kept at 7 or under. Now I can take a lot of pain. We women have much higher pain thresholds then you men (generally speaking). After all, you faint when a needle goes in your arm. We open our pelvises and human beings pop out. But pain like this I have never experienced. Then again, I’ve never given birth, but I think I might prefer it.

He told me I might bruise from his work. That when tissue has been in a trauma state for a long while, capillaries pool around it. (I also have heard blood tend to pool around certain areas of a dead body - but what of that.) And when you press on this scar tissue those pooled capillaries tend to come to the surface. Well, yeaaaaah. If you press hard enough on your skin tissue, it’s gonna bruise. I looked like I should go to the battered woman shelter down the block when I got out of there. Thank goodness he wasn’t working on my face. I can imagine attempting to audition looking like my husband clobbered me with a baseball bat.

Buy hey, this guy was recommended (as was this technique) by two people I know. I’d call them “friends,” but now I’m beginning to question that. And they were helped by him. So it must work. Right?

He wants to see me two days later. TWO DAYS LATER? Oooookay. I am so sore when I walk into his office that I tell him he is not laying hands on those bruised areas. Oh he has no intention of doing that. Today he’s going to do manipulations. Ah. Good. I’ve had that done before. Doesn’t hurt at all. YES IT DOES. I’m not sure what he did to my neck, but it felt fine before I went in. Maybe after the Ibuprofen kicks in I’ll be able to sleep tonight. He took the shoulder that was bothering me (with the bruises now all over it) and manipulated my arm in ways that only a contortionist should know.
Let’s see if we can slowly rip it out of it’s socket! Ilsa, She Wolf, has NOTHING on this guy. This, apparently is known as Active Release.

He finally finishes and I’m not sure where my body went. I try to grin. It’s a bit lopsided. “Well, I guess you’ll want to see me again next week,” I say. “Friday,” he replies. “THIS FRIDAY???” “Yes.” Shouldn’t there be some healing time here? The bruises probably won’t even be gone by then. “It’s better to do it all up front. Otherwise it’s maintenance, and this is not maintenance.” He’s a sadist. Right? Gotta be. I must be mad, but I say okay. Well, this is as it should be. He’s the sadist, and I’m the masochist. Can’t have one without the other.

I ask him if I can play tennis after, assuming that I can’t. I mean every other chiropractor that has ever worked on me has told me to take it easy for the rest of the day. Not Herr Mengele. “Yes, go, it’s good to keep working muscles and tendons.” I almost cried.

Am SO looking forward to my next visit. What new and wonderful torture will he have in store? Read it all in the next chapter!

Chapter II

As you might imagine I was not particularly looking forward to my third visit. What new torture was going to be perpetrated by Dr. Mengele this day? I figured there wasn’t much left that could be considered new. WRONG!

He was running a bit behind by a fellow masochist and so told me to lie on what I call the Tsunami. Looks like one of those typical chiropractic manipulation beds where they do their adjustments. (Actually called an Intersegmental Traction Table



He told me to lie on my back and then kindly put a pillow under my head. Most people who put a pillow under your head do so in attempt to make you feel better. Not Dr. Mengele. Showed me where the adjustment dial was, which in order to reach I had to bend my arm out of it’s socket. “This will open the joints of your spine,” said he gleefully. Oh? Uh huh! Can’t wait! “Each time you press this switch up, it will increase the wave. (not his term). If you want to decrease it (why on earth WOULD you I could hear him thinking) press the switch down. If you start to hear a grinding noise you know it’s at it’s upper limit.” Or I am, I thought. And he’s gone.

OK. Imagine a ball, the size of a big man’s fist, rolling under your spine from your lower back to your neck. A hard ball. A very HARD ball. And each time you press the up button the ball gets bigger and thrusts your spine in more of a convex wave. I began to feel like I was on my back in a small dingy in a Force 7 Gale with a cannon ball running under my back. I thought, well, gee, then if this opens my spine I guess he won’t need to do any more adjustments. WRONG.

At this point I don’t remember the order to the torture. But I still got to kneel on the “beheading chair” in the guillotine position. That’s the only way to describe it. It might be considered a praying position but your butt’s sticking out too much for that. At least I don’t tend to pray with my butt sticking out, although your back is kept in a flat position. At least I think it was flat, before he mashed it into submission.

I kept trying to relax, but after my previous visit my neck was none too happy and an actor’s sense memory is very keen. So I was awaiting the disintegration of every vertabra in my back and that, yeah, kinda tensed me up. Snap Crackle Pop rice crispies!

I made the mistake of telling him my elbow was hurting. Stupid. I now have a new bruise going the entire length of the underside of my arm (that’s the soft part) to my elbow. I think that occurred AFTER he tried to manipulate my ulnar by bending my elbow BACKWARD. Great if one were double jointed. Perhaps now I shall be?



I didn’t really think he’d re-work any of the areas he’d already Grastonated because they were still bruised. HA. WRONG. The thing that really puzzles me is that I LET him???!!!!! Obviously I have a deep need for abuse somewhere in my psyche. I must feel guilty about having a happy childhood.

So now I’m sitting on the “bednch” (well it’s not really a bed, seems more like a bench don’t it) and he’s digging into my right ankle and it’s HURTING LIKE HELL. And I’m trying to distract myself. So I start singing. LOUDLY. I think he was rather surprised. His eyes looked rather bright. Was that surprise or glee? I’m sure mine were too. Bright with pain.

But there was more fun to come. He puts me on a wobble board. No, not one of those manual disks with a ball underneath that YOU can control. Are you kidding. That’s child’s play to this guy. No, this is an electronic cutie known as the I Joy Board . I’m telling you, all these devices were thought up by people who are into whips, chains and blindfolds. At least they had the decency not to name it the I Enjoy Board.

He asks me if I have a sense of balance. Stupidly I say yes. (I think I’m just beginning to learn that you want to lie to this guy whenever possible.) How can I even begin to describe this machine. Thank God I did have a sense of balance, is all I can say, else I’d be on my ass on the floor and he’d be manipulating THAT next. It’s your basic two foot long teeter totter that sits eight inches off the floor. You know, you put your feet hip distant apart and lean right and left and.... Only in this case you don’t do anything. Except hang on for dear life. He hands me the remote (not dissimilar to a car lock remote) and says, “This button controls the wobble, and this one is the emergency shut of. Make sure you point it down toward the ground if you want to shut it off.” Oh. Ok.

Yowza and we’re OFF! Holy Cow. Give me a hula hoop and I wouldn’t have had any trouble keeping it up on my hips. I mean I’m being WOBBLED. Well, big deal, you might say. Yeah, well, Dr. Mengele has only just begun. WHILE I’m being wobbled, he’s got his happy stainless steel hunting knife and he’s rubbing it as hard as he can on my ankle - I think it was. At this point all I remember is pain. AND then he asks me to do slow squats DURING the process. “If I want.” IF I WANT???? I’m not kidding here. Honest to God. I wonder if he’s as demanding on the octagenerians? I don’t even what to imagine what he does to folks thirty years of age and younger.

Well of course, being the patsy masochist I am, I do nice slow squats while he's scraping on my wobbling ankle tissue with all his might. I’m not sure I actually fully grasp the concept here, but I think it has to do with the wobble board and the squats making your muscles work in certain ways that he can only torture with his device that couldn’t be reached else.

Then he proceeded to work on certain of the areas that he’d previously worked on that were already bruised. I could easily now walk into the local battered women’s shelter and have my husband arrested should I so desire.

I hope I don’t have an audition soon. Because I’d have to wear pants and a long sleeved shirt. Really.

I asked him, (because he’d made the comment when I’d told him I’d had physical therapy elsewhere and they’d used sonar on me and it had hurt like Hell....actually burned, and he'd said if it were done properly it shouldn’t hurt) I asked what I thought was a very logical question given his previous response: "Why should one turn black and blue and suffer enormously during your technique then? Hmmm?

That was when he handed me the butcher’s knife and said, “Here, feel for yourself. The instrument will tell you. Scrape along here.” And he placed it against the lower part of my wrist. And I scraped. Then he moved it up eight inches to my forearm and said, “Now do it here.” And I did. “Do you feel the grittiness?” Oh yeah. Oh yeah, I did. And he said, and proved it by rubbing against the lower part, “if the tissue is well, it will not bruise. It is only when there’s scarring underneath that you’ll find the capillaries coming up.”

I asked him if HE knew what this all felt like. He said indeed he did, because when they were learning and practicing the technique they did it on each other. He was not looking forward to the arm pit area. I didn’t want to go there so I didn’t inquire about that. I just pray I don’t have any symptoms that lead me to that area.

The bottom line for all of this crazy agony is....it seems to really work. I may only feel this way at present because the pain of the techniques he’s using oer’pass the pain of my original complaints. Sort of like if you have an ache and you hit yourself in the head with a hammer you no longer feel the original ache. But I don’t think that’s the case. I may have discomfort because of the bruising but the interior parts of my body that were bothering me actually feel better.

Time will tell. And you can be sure I’ll relate it. I expect to end up with the ability to be able to do this. Well, at least pain free. Which one wonders if these contortionists are, eh?

Making a Hanging Decorative Cage in 42 Hard Steps

............
Do not attempt this if you are Bi-Polar, suffer from ADHD, AADD, have quit smoking or drinking recently or are contemplating a divorce.

Tools:

Tape measure
Marking pen
Jig Saw
Extension cord
Drill
Small nails
Hammer
22 small sticks
Patience.

1. Go to the woods and find eight small sticks as straight and equal in 2" circumference as you can.
2 Get a marking pen
3. Get a jig saw.
4. Get a tape measure.
5. Measure the sticks 6" long each
6. Cut them.
7. Go back to the woods to get more sticks because you didn’t put them in a vice while cutting them but simply held them in your left hand off the end of the front porch steps which made them very wobbly and uneven.
8. Cut them again.
9. Starting at one end of the sticks, with the marking pen mark four equidistant points along the length of one side. Don’t put the mark too close to the end or you will split the wood when putting in the nails.
10. Get the hammer
11. Attempt to start a small nail through each mark. When that doesn’t work...
12. Get the extension cord and the electric drill.
13. Remove the bent nails from the pieces of wood
14. Drill small holes through each mark
15. Hammer the nails through so that just a little bit of their tips are showing.
16. Go back to the woods and get 12 longer sticks (same 2" circumference)
17. Cut these to a 12" length
18. Mark the center point of each end
19. With the smaller stick as a base, held so that the nail points are facing up, hammer one long stick at a time onto each nail point. When the longer sticks fall off...
20. Go back and hammer the nails further through the base unit
21. Now try again to hammer the long sticks onto each nail point. Once accomplished,
you should have 4 short pieces with 12 long pieces sticking straight up from them
22. Because you forgot to drill a hole in the center of each end of the smaller sticks, do so now. When the longer sticks fall off,
23. Pound the longer sticks back onto their nail posts
24. Because you forgot to drill a hole through the sides of four of the smaller sticks perpendicular to the hole that holds the longer stick, but rather drilled into the end of all of them, go back to the woods and get four new pieces.
25. Follow steps 2-7
26. Follow Steps 10 & 15
27. Drill a hole perpendicular to the ones at the ends of four of the smaller sticks. Make sure they won’t interfere with a nail going through the other hole.
28. Follow Step 16
29. Follow Step 20
30. Now you are going to make two squares with the eight small pieces, hammering nails through the perpendicular holes.
31. Place the top square onto the vertical bars of the base unit and hammer the nails through the pre-made holes. When it won’t lie flush..
32. Go back to the woods and get another piece of wood to replace the one that is slightly warped.
33. Follow steps 2-7.
34. Follow steps 10, 15 &
35. Go to the medicine chest and gets some drugs to calm yourself down

Later:

You’ve finally completed the bottom part of the cage. Now it’s time to work on the top.

36. Get a pruner
37. Go to the woods and find some vines - watching out for the poison ivy and snakes. Bring back a healthy handful. (You’ve learned by now that you can never have too much of what you need from the woods.)
38. Cut two vines to about an 11" length
39. Wrap one vine around one corner of the top then draw it across the diagonal to the other corner and tie it allowing a good deal of slack. Do the same with the other vine.
40. Go back to the woods and cut another vine because you still didn’t have enough.
41. Make a small 2" loop around the top of the criss-crossed four corner vines.
42. As an added artistic touch, trail some of the left over vine around the cage

Voila!

And because you’re not too stupid - get a thin piece of green wire and wrap it around the vines. Because if the vines holding the cage should break, the 5,000 man hours you’ve spent trying to create the damn thing would all be for nought and then you’d have to hang yourself with the vines.

You might wonder why I took it upon myself to attempt such a task. Well because I had a decorative cage for years that I’d found at a tag sale or thrift shop (don’t remember which). But it eventually rotted and I thought, “Well, I can make one of those! Looks real easy! Just a bunch of sticks from the woods.” HA!

Live and learn I say.

Acting and Computers

Now here’s a typical actor story. Or perhaps it is only typical for us.

Around 2 pm the other day I get an e-mail for Rand from one of our agents (we have one in each of three states) saying he has an audition for the series Army Wives in Atlanta.

"HEY FOLKS,
AUDITIONS ARE THIS AFTERNOON AND TOMORROW MORNING ONLY! THE SOONER YOUR AUDITION GETS TO THE CASTING DIRECTOR THE BETTER. THIS EPISODE BEGINS SHOOTING NEXT WEDNESDAY 5/21/08 AND GOES THRU FRIDAY 5/30/008. PLEASE CALL ASAP FOR AN AUDITION TIME. PLEASE LET US KNOW BY REPLYING TO THIS EMAIL IF YOU ARE NOT GOING TO AUDITION FOR ANY REASON.

THANKS,
ALI (the name has been changed to protect the innocent)

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO LIVE OUT OF TOWN PLEASE CALL USE (sic) TO DISCUSS HOW TO GET YOUR AUDITIONS TO US."

He has asked them time and time again NOT to send audition notices via e-mail but to call. And to ensure such, he never gave them his e-mail address. That’s why they sent it to MY e-mail address, so I get to deal with it. We do not spend all day at our computers. We have a life. And sometimes, golly gee, the computer or the internet is down for a period of time and you can’t access your e-mail, so we feel it’s important to call your client. Especially when time is of the essence.

Why they insist on doing business this way and not picking up the telephone is....well, it’s apparently the way they do business here in the South. Or, to give the South a break, let us say - smaller markets. Never did we experience this with our NY agents when we lived there. Nor did they send out mass mailings saying HEY FOLKS. Nor did our NY agents tell us to remember to bring a picture and resume to the audition, “dress the part,” and try to memorize our lines. If you’re a professional, you know that - you don’t need a nanny. But I guess the FOLKS down here need nannying and live attached to their computers. The level of professionalism here is - well it’s...just a step above community theatre. (And I mean no offense to the community theatre world when I say that, but professionals know what I mean.) It’s a whole ‘nother world. The majority of the "talent" down is is non-union.

So, where was I? Oh yes. “AUDITIONS ARE THIS AFTERNOON” - well that lets US out. It’s 2:00 and it’s a three hour drive to Atlanta. But then there’s also...”TOMORROW MORNING ONLY!” Well of course he had a 10 am doctor’s appointment in Spartanburg. “FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO LIVE OUT OF TOWN PLEASE CALL USE TO DISCUSS HOW TO GET YOUR AUDITIONS TO US.”




That’s when the trouble began. We call. Normally in situations such as this you can put yourself on tape at home and then send it to the casting director. Neither of us, nor no one of our acquaintance, has EVER gotten a job this way, but hey, we’re actors, we ever live in hope and...ya never know!

OK. So we’re told that the way to GET YOUR AUDITIONS TO US is to send it through the computer. Oh? And how, exactly, does one do THAT pray tell. We’re not in our teens, nor are we Geeks. My husband is more or less computer illiterate, although he DOES know how to work in WordPerfect 5.1 for DOS. I am literate - to an extent. I more or less at least understand the language of today’s technology. And I can send my computer back in time by doing a reset and know how to troubleshoot my high speed internet connection. But fire wires are new to me.



I’m told that it’s very easy. But apparently I need QuickTime Pro in order to make it all work. So I purchase QuickTime Pro over the internet for thirty bucks. Download that, go to plug in my fire wire (which is still in it’s package from when I bought my digital movie camera last year, which the sales rep assured me I’d need for $25) and realize I have no fire wire port on my computer.

Time is rapidly running out here for the submission of this audition. Rand says NUTS to it and decides he wants me to put him on tape anyway and he’ll just mail the thing in to the casting director directly. So I tape him and it looks good. We then call our agent and say we’re sending it directly to the casting office ourselves and to please let them know. We’re told they will do so. They encourage me to get a fire wire port. I tell them I will.

CUT TO: several days later I’m on the phone with Bombay. And even though I was told at Office Depot that my computer did NOT have the capacity for an external fire wire port, I am assured by Dell that that is not the case and so I purchase what I assume will be a device that will enable me to use my fire wire. For $47.97.

It arrives a few hours before I am leaving for a ten day trip to Florida. Swell. I take a quick look at it and come to the conclusion that it is NOT what I was told it would be, and will NOT enable fire wire connection. And I do not at this moment have 45 minutes of extra time to talk to Bombay again to see about getting my money back.

CUT TO: I return from Florida and look at the Dell return policy. It says I have 21 days to return it. So I know I don’t have to rush. I received it May 23, so I’ve got until June 13th. I call customer service in Bombay on the 6th of June. They say their system is down and to call back in two hours. I then decide to call their tech dept. to make sure that I am indeed correct and was sent the wrong thing. Yes, it’s true. They informed me that they had misinformed me. The only way to get a fire wire connection on my three year young computer is to have my internal modem removed and to put in a fire wire card (or whatever the heck it’s called). And of course I could do this by myself...my friends in Bombay are quite happy to help walk me through the process. But first I would need to hire a translator.

By this point I really didn’t want to talk to Bombay again, so I had some Tandoori chicken for dindin and went to sleep.

NEXT DAY: I call customer service which is back up and running. I’m told that my 21 days elapsed YESTERDAY. That the period is based upon the day the item was shipped, not from the day of receipt. It doesn’t matter that I received it the day I went away to Florida and wasn’t here to discover that it was the WRONG hardware piece. I pointed out to them that I did attempt to call them yesterday. “Yes, but you see there is no record of your call.” I KNOW THERE’S NO RECORD OF MY CALL, BECAUSE YOUR COMPUTERS WERE DOWN! “I’m sorry but that’s the policy.” “OH. SO YOU'RE TELLING ME THAT BECAUSE YOU GAVE ME MISINFORMATION TO BEGIN WITH AND SHIPPED THE WRONG ITEM, AND BECAUSE YOUR COMPUTERS WERE DOWN, I'M GOING TO LOSE MY FIFTY BUCKS??!!!! I did make a call to the tech department about it yesterday, PERHAPS THEY HAVE A RECORD OF MY CALL!.” “I will speak to my supervisor, just one moment please.”

I’ve given Dell about $6,000 over the years. And they’re about to lose me as a customer.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. My supervisor says they will make an exception this one time....” And I feel happy now. Why do we allow our lives to be run by machines and foreigners.....

They sent me a UPS label so I could return it for free. Only - not really, because they deducted the original shipping fee from my rebate.

So for a five dollar fee I got to talk to strangers in a strange land, learn that my computer does not have fire wire capacity and thus I am not able to send auditions to my agents via computer.

Which means, I suppose, I will soon have to buy a new computer with VISTA (an operating system with which I am unfamiliar and have not heard good things about) and transfer all of my files to IT.

Life was a lot simpler and more pleasant in the old days. And my office was a lot neater because computers take much more time than good old file cabinets and now I must deal with both.

Foundling

Every year the Blue Ridge B-B-Q festival parks itself in Harmon field in Tryon for a weekend. We went the first year we were here. $10 to park, $10 to get in the park and for what? Bad music, high priced trinket hawkers, kiddie rides and mediocre BBQ. Sorry, folks, just our opinion. But they did have a fairly nice fireworks display. Of course we were in the shuttle that takes you back to the parking lot and it was raining when we saw it - but it was better than anything else we had seen there that evening.

CUT to dinner two nights ago. I hear the familiar sound of booming outside our windows at 10 pm. Ah, must be the festival fireworks. I made a mental note and determined to go park at the post office nearby to watch the next night.

And indeed, we did do that last night. But as the "works" were slow to start, we decided to walk down the road a bit to get closer to the field for a better view. Ended up in 7th Day Advent church parking lot. Rand began walking around the left side of the church, but something caught my eye on the right side. I suspected what it was and when I got close enough my suspicion was confirmed.

There, hopping about, was a goodly sized baby bird that obviously hadn't mustered it's flying abilities yet. I heard mama somewhere emitting a chirp or two. I went over and picked it up. Just as I did the fireworks display began. Poor thing. I had it gently enclosed between my two cupped palms for the entire display with the loud pops and bangs and booms and bright flashing lights. And I clucked at it and whispered to it, ssshhh ssshhhh, ssshhhh, it's all right. And it's little heart was beating about it's breast and it was trying to get free from my safe hand held hollow. But eventually it calmed down.

When it was all over I was able to hear mama chirp once again. I tried to put him in the crook of a tree from which I had seen her fly (I'm assuming it was mama for birds don't usually talk at night), but he just flopped out of it. And so I let him be. With three cats at home, taking him there seemed a foolish idea. And we watched him hop hop hop off.

I stopped by that parking lot on the way back from church this morning and happily (in one sense) did not see him. I hope he made it.

(Baby Blackbird photo submitted by Jim McGee)

Biker Trash

I have an uncle, Michael, only a few years older than myself. He and his wife, Jeannie, are bikers. Not as active as they used to be, due to bad backs, etc., but still.... One of the places they sometimes hang out is the Cheyenne Saloon in Palatka (their home town). Ah, the tales I've heard...

I've long longed to get on the back of a bike with my uncle. It's been a dream for years. And finally two weeks ago when I went down to Florida to visit, that dream came true.

Too cool. And they took me to the Cheyenne saloon and bought me the tank top you see me wearing.

What a joy. And what a learning experience. Now when I'm in my car and see bikers it's from a whole 'nother' perspective.

Maybank's Pond (Sept. 2006)

I awaken and lazily look out the shuttered window past the porch rail to the pond beyond. A piece of grace upon first opened eyes.



I got back from rehearsal at 11 pm last night. Was wise enough to leave a lamp burning in the house, how else would I ever put key to lock in the gorgeous utter blackness of my first night here.

Worked on my script while cooking dinner, during the eating thereof, then after as digestion took place. The crickets paid no never mind to my rantings. They just sang their hearts out while a distant dog barked.

To sleep around 3 am - a note left saying as much to SHE, who had worked for Mr. Maybank for 42 years was it? and was due at 8:30 the next morning.

The pungent scent of Lysol assaulted my nostrils around noon, I guess. Time has no sense when you’re rehearsing a play. I shuffle out and there’s Wessie in the middle of the kitchen ironing Mr. Maybanks’ shirts.

I make some coffee while she makes talk. She is not a silent one. She gives me lessons in more ways than I can name. Deep learning of the soul variety that’s far from mundane.

But that came later. First was: “Is that your raft?” Not her words exactly, I can’t remember them, only the feeling of them. I had brought my blow up raft with me, for I was told by both He and She that swimming was de rigeur in the “Lake.”

“You’re not going out there with that raft, are you?”

“Well, uh, yes, I had planned to.”

“Uhhh huh, you don’t wanna go out there alone, you might get a cramp.”

I told her that I was a very good swimmer, was used to swimming across lakes.

“You shouldn’t go out there alone!”

Then she regaled me with horror stories of BIG fish - big bass and big carp. If THEY didn’t eat me, there were water moccasins and terrapins as big as cahrtahrs. “Terrapins?” She had such a thick accent I had her repeat that one several times. Actually I had heard her correctly, just had never heard that word before. “What’s a Terrapin?” I asked.

“There’s one on the dock,” she replied. My brain went scuttling. I had walked down to the dock yesterday before rehearsal. There was a metal sculpted turtle on it as I recalled. Ah! “You mean a turtle?” Oh yes. But not just little ole painted turtles - these were as big as cahrtahrs. “What?” “Cahrtahrs!” Ohhhhhhh, car tires.

Ooooohkaaaaay, so if the carp and bass and moccasins and turtles as big as cahrtahrs didn’t get me.... “Don’t walk down there in those things,” she admonished. I had on my flip flops. “You gotta watch out for those fire ants. They kilt a cow in Greenville. One bit me right here...” and she proceeded to show me a rather nasty scar on her wrist.

Yes, Wessie was full of horror stories. But also stories of angels. But more on that later.

Now I’ve been here a week and have paid a certain amount of attention to what Wessie has said. I’m sure there are carp and bass and turtles - moccasins...well, fire ants - yes...but...

So I spend a glorious hour or so in the morning floating on my stomach on the raft. I’m toward the far side when I notice some movement at the pond’s edge. OH MY. Is that? ... Yes. There is a VERY LARGE turtle lumbering into the water. VERY large. Not quite cahrtahr size, but maybe a mini spare tahr size. To give an example, place you hands on your elbows and make a circle with your arms. Uh huh, that’s the size. Oohkeeeydokey. Terrapin. I hope. Let’s hope it not a snapper. I know from snappers.

I watch him/her go into the water on the fahr sahd and then he/she bobs back up. Big head. Big body. Uh huh. Ok. I think, since I just put nice bright nail polish on my toes this morning, I’ll just keep my feet out of the water.

Time for lunch. It’s a bit windy. Not stupid me, I don’t leave my raft on the dock where it might get blown off into the water. No. I lay it carefully up on the lawn. Go up to the house, am eating my sandwich looking out the window and see something odd in the pond. What is THAT? Oh. Dismay sets in instantly. I know what THAT is. Oh swell. Yes, indeedy, THAT is my raft which has blown into the middle of the pond.

After lunch I go back down and sit longingly on the dock in my bathing suit gazing at my raft, trying to will it back to the dock. Where’s Uri Geller when you need him? The wind is blowing it hither and yon. Mostly yon. I have my script with me and am going over lines as I send silent wishes for the wind to change direction. My prayers are unanswered. The raft, most of the time, is hovering right where that terrapin entered the water.

I am beyond frustration. I make a determination. If that raft has not been blown over to my side by 4 pm I’m going to swim out and retrieve it. Gulp. With moccasins and carp and bass and Big Turtles. After all, Frank has said he’d swum in the pond. And when I’d asked the Mrs., “Can you swim in the lake?” she’d gleefully said, “Oh yes!” YES? At this point I suspected both of them probably swam in that “lake” MANY years ago, perhaps when it was first dredged, before the carp and bass and moccasins and terrapins.

The wind is increasing. The clouds are scuttling and that damn raft is NOT moving in my direction. And tomorrow is my day off and I’ll want to float and it’s now 4 pm.

OK! I put my shower cap on because I don’t want to get my hair wet. So now I’m standing on the dock in a bikini and a shower cap and my accursed raft is not far from where that terrible terrapin tiptoed in. But This is IT! I’m going in no matter WHAT!!

I ease myself down the dock ladder, knowing there’s a spider under one of the rungs because I saw it earlier. I do not like spiders. Yup...there she is. She tries to melt into the rung but I see her.

The rung beneath the water is slippery with algae and mung. Yeah, right, y’all have been swimmin’ in the “lake” a LOT have you? I don’t think so. If people had been going up and down that ladder on a regular basis - no mung on the rung.

I thrust myself away from the spider and the mung into the TERROR. Noooo, I will not let my feet go down any length. Please, God, do not let me touch bottom. Bottom. Oh God. Who knows what lurks on the bottom beneath me? Carp and bass and water moccasins and....

I kick hard, plunge my feet into the murk, hands and arms flailing, creating as much noise and disturbance as humanly possible. No graceful crawl is here, no gentle backstroke, just plunging loud terror. A pterodactyl startled by my noise takes off from somewhere nearby. Well, I suppose it might have been a heron. Who knows what Wessie would name it.



It seems to take forever to get across the pond and the amount of energy spent creating such a disturbance is enervating. I reach the raft...finally...it’s up-side-down. I curse it and right it and desperately attempt and finally achieve getting my body onto it. All limbs out of the water - nothing available any longer for munching creatures, thank God! My heart is exploding in my chest, my breath hard to catch. I’m not in my 20s any more. Double it. No, almost triple it. Am I really that old? Yeah. Pant, pant. But extremities are out of the water. That’s the most important thing. Who cares if I have a heart attack.

Finally my heart returns to normal. The wind picks up, the sky darkens. A storm is coming. OK. Fine. So much for floating blissfully in the lake. Excuse me. No. POND. But...there’s a bit of smugness too at my self proclaimed bravery.

Oh, and yeah, Wessie of course was right about almost everything. I went to snip some pretty wild flowers in my flip flops and suddenly felt nasty stinging on my feet. Yoweee! Ants. And they’re red. But small. Ok. I brush them off. Both feet have been bitten. No big deal, they’re just ants. Mmmm, noooo, these suckers really bite. Fine. I put some antibiotic on them and on the bottom of my foot where I had removed a one inch piece of the dock which had splintered off and lodged itself under my skin.

So we’ve seen the terrapins, experienced the red ants, I’ve watched the fish jump - but please, I don’t need to see the moccasins.

But my this is a glorious place. There’s a lizard that makes his home under the ceramic fox on the stoop where the “not so secret” key is hidden. How do I know? Because whenever I go to the door he scurries under it. And there’s that magnificent heron. Is it? Or could it be some delicious pre-historic pterodactyl that abides in the area Wessie told me the bass spawn. And if Wessie tells me something - I believe her. Because I have seen the terrapins and felt the fire ants. And she has told me stories of love and kindness that have made me weep. And her own struggles she shrugs off emotionless. Even the story of the angel at her hospital bed. It had a skeleton head, but a normal body - with wings. And she recognized it as an angel and knew God was protecting her.

We are given these moments in time. I have been given this play, this cottage and this Wessie. And I am grateful for them all.

Tonight as I left for rehearsal seven wild turkeys fled across the driveway into the field. How precious they were to me in their terror. Reminding me of my own in that pond and the Northern life I left two years ago where the wild turkeys also roamed.

A New Friend

Today I made a new friend.









I was out whipping (my term for weed wacking) in the back yard and came across this little fellow. Yup, he too went in the bug jail for a time. We had a lovely few hours together.

The Bug Jail

April 24, 2008

I was playing tennis at Harmon Field the other day and went to pick up a ball by the back fence. Bent down and HALLO! A snake on the other side by the garbage bin slithered away under it. A goodly size he was (about 2 feet I’d say), but no Copperhead this - just a cute Garter Snake. Two days later when I was back playing again I went to examine the area, but couldn’t find him. Then an hour later there he was, all coiled up sunning himself watching the game. (First photo is on the way to the courts, taken last year...couldn't just leave you with a picture of a garbage can after all...sorry there's no snap of the snake but he was shy.)

Last summer I reached down to turn on the outdoor water spigot at the house. Had my hand on it when I saw the Copperhead lying coiled directly under my hand. I mean he was 4“ away. I very gently moved away and said a very large “Thank You Jesus!” Why that snake didn’t strike I don’t know.

Also last summer I saw my first Black Widow. I’m one who is constantly enthralled by creatures and can spend hours studying them. This lady happened to be right on our front porch by the front door. I noticed her because there was a splash of red on her back, and that made me curious enough to get the Bug Jail.

The Bug Jail, I should explain, is perhaps my favorite gift from my husband. (See photo.) We’ve caught many a creature - large and small - in it. From a wee Walt Disney field mouse that was attempting to leap up the stairs in our house in Millerton, to bats. Yes, you heard me correctly. Bats eventually get exhausted from flying round and round if they get caught inside the house, and they will finally land somewhere. Usually on the top molding near the ceiling. All you do is place the open Bug Jail over them and Voila! My favorite creature that I’ve caught with it is a Luna Moth. Of course all creatures I eventually free.

But back to the merry Widow. She was quite large. I had no idea what she was never having seen one before. And I couldn’t see her belly, just her back. Looked up what she might be on the internet and all descriptions seemed to indicate she was an Australian Redback. That didn’t make any sense. So I called a zoo and left a message for an entomologist.

Meanwhile I kept her in the bug jail. Eventually she created a web and hung up-side-down and I noticed the red hourglass on her abdomen. Yup. Had to be a Black Widow. Quite a specimen she was. After I saw her tummy I decided to let her go. So husband and I drove off with her and HE let her go into the woods far away. (I was too chicken to open the cage top.)

Wind Chimes

April 18, 2008

I love ‘em. But they need constant attention. Or seem to. Either the clapper falls off or the metal tube falls off or the part that wafts in the wind and makes the clapper bang against the tubes falls off or the whole bloody thing falls off the hanger onto the ground.

I have about six or seven outdoor chimes and several indoor. The outdoor ones range from a single bell with a huge clapper, to the gorgeous Woodstock Chimes with precisely tuned tubes.

Yesterday I began the process of fixing two of the latter. The wood is very weathered and I first sanded them down and then put spar varnish on . Really a fun task when you do it without first removing the tubes. They get in the way JUST A BIT. One had fallen off it’s hanger AND lost a tube. The other had lost it’s flapper and banger. Clapper and flapper? I’m sure these things have proper names but I don’t know what they are.

So. I had already bought string that I thought was more or less the same width as that on the chimes. First I tackled the one that had lost it’s flapper and banger. I got a very large needle and eventually managed to get the damn string through the eye. At the top center of the circular wood part (from which hang all the tubes) is a drilled hole. (From this hole dangles the clapper and flapper.) I tried to get the needle down through it. The needle eye was too large and it got stuck. I attempted to force it. The hole was too small. I got a pair of pliers and pulled. And pulled. The needle eye was TOO LARGE and the hole was TOO SMALL! Okay. It really WON’T GO THROUGH. I get it. Now I have to try to push it back out. Swell. I did. It wasn’t easy as I had really jammed it in there good and hard.

I then proceeded to get the battery operated drill in order to make the center hole large enough for the needle eye to pass through. Slapped the battery onto the bottom and began to look for the correct bit. Odd. I THOUGHT we had drill bits for it but I guess not. I only found phillip and flathead heads for screwing. Screw it! Then the battery fell off and knocked over an open jar of paint remover which I had used to clean the varnish off the brush. Aaargh! I knew this entire procedure would take patience. I just didn’t know how much. So then I wiped up all the terpentine.

Back into the garage cubby to get the extension cord and the electric drill. Figured out what size bit I’d probably need and proceeded to drill the hole larger. A wee bit larger. Finally got the needle with the string down through. Now - how to secure it at the top? Contemplated just making a big knot to keep it from going through the hole but opted to tie it around a small nail first. Not terribly pretty but functional. Had kept the old string so I had a template of sorts for the new one as far as length and where to tie the middle knot under the banger (clapper).

Then had to drill through the center of the banger (another round piece) to increase it’s size so I could get the string through IT, tied a big knot under it to keep it in position and tied the clapper on. Voila! That only took about half an hour.

Onto the next one. This was a bit tougher. The whole cording system at the top was different. So once again I drilled a larger hole so I could get the needle through, then added a new hole. But I could NOT get the needle eye through. So instead I managed to poke the string down through, then threaded the needle, pushed it through the tube holes and then poked it up through the other hole at the top. Make sense? Of course not. Ya had to be there. Then I found some old carpet tacks, put them in the holes, wrapped the string around them and hammered them down. Voila! That took about a half an hour.

So. I spent at least an hour and half sanding them, staining them, varnishing them and an hour fixing them. Think they might make it through the summer?

Oh, and PS - Husband told me of course we have drill bits for the battery operated drill. Yup. I just didn’t see ‘em.

Mrs. Warren Closing

Feb. 17th CLOSING

Spent the day packing up before and after the matinee. Pussies will be glad to be home and able to go outside once again.

I am sad to be saying goodbye. Even though I won’t particularly miss doing this role, I’ve met some good people here and it’s a wonderful place to work. Our director, Preston, was just a joy and a hoot - self effacing, dry wit, a laugh riot, incredibly bright and wonderfully wacky. He’s multi-talented, thoroughly professional, and a tremendous supporter of the arts in the community. Greensboro is lucky to have him, and I feel fortunate to have worked with him

I believe we are the second highest grossing show for a three week run. And this was the first time a Shaw play has ever been presented at Triad Stage. A credit to Mr. Shaw and our production I daresay.

I was rather teary when I got to the theatre today. Nothing like trying to put on false eyelashes when you’re crying. In Act III, during my long absence from the stage, I took down all the photos and cards, dangling beads, etc. from around my dressingroom mirror, washed up the makeup brushes and put away most of the makeup. It looks so barren when you do that. The entire room loses all persona and goes back to being a blank.

The staff and crew are gearing up for the next show (they have been for the past week). You’re about to be part of their past. And you really feel it. There’s a huge psychological change that occurs. You’re not only saying goodbye to everybody you’ve been with for the past 7 weeks (in this case), but you’re saying goodbye to the character you wore six days a week. Long runs are particularly hard to let go of.

You’re off to - who knows what. If you’re lucky, another job. If not, back to being unemployed. I can count the number of jobs I’ve had consecutively in this business on one hand. That statistic is not changing in this instance. It is said that 90% of professional actors are out of work at any given time. We must be nuts to be in this business.....

Ta.

The Story of Rebecca

The Story of Rebecca
2/16/08


Some twenty-two years or so ago, when I was a regular as Marsha Talbot on “As the World Turns,” I received various fan letters addressed to me in care of the studio (ABC). I always personally answered my fan mail. Not that I got that much of it. Some actors actually have services which handle all fan mail, as I guess they get mail bags full on a weekly basis. My popularity was not such that I needed to hire such a firm. Having the role of a killer I’m sure did not endear me to many. And I was short lived on the series because of my evil ways.

Anyway, I once received a letter from a young girl by the name of Rebecca Hockman, who lived in Russell, Kansas. (I’ve still got all the correspondence between us in one of the boxes in the basement which we’ve never unpacked. When we move, if we can ever find a house we love, it will have a place once again.) She included her picture and was very enthusiastic about my performance as Marsha. She saw everything I was trying portray in the character, and understood that this was a case of unrequited love. Wish I had all the correspondence at the ready, then I could track it better, but... as I recall I responded and thanked her. I don’t know how much time went by, but then she wrote me again and sent me her college thesis, which happened to be on George Bernard Shaw. I thought it very odd that someone would send me their thesis - what the heck was I supposed to do with it? But once again I wrote her back and I can’t remember what I said, but I suppose it was complimentary. Never having gone to college myself, and never having writ a thesis, who am I to judge? The fact that somebody thinks I’m worthy of examining their learned material is enough to elicit a pleasant response in my book.

We had moved (my husband to be and I) to Millerton, NY - a small town 90 miles north of New York City, but had kept our NY apartment at the time. One couldn’t live that far away and commute in every day to do a soap. The previous letters I had sent to her I mailed from the city sans return address, natch. But this last letter I dropped in the Millerton post office.

As I recall several months went by. I was upstairs in our bedroom one afternoon and the phone rang. It was Rebecca. “How did you get my number?” I asked rather horrified that she had. “I saw the postmark on your last letter and it said Millerton, NY and I looked you up in the phone book.” Aaaaahhh. I’m beginning to get a little creeped out. Could this be a weird star stalker? She’s smart enough to get my phone number. Hmmm. She thanked me for my responses to her communique and then went on to inform me that she had just taken a summer job as an au pair to a couple in a town, oh, I don’t know, about 25 minutes from me. Ooooooohkaaaaaay. All red flags at that point went up. I was still gracious as I recall, but told her the truth: that this news was rather disturbing to me and that I did not appreciate the fact that she had called and to please NOT call me again.

My husband (to be) was HORRIFIED and immediately had our phone number unlisted.

OK. Years go by. Not sure how many. Then suddenly a letter comes - again from this same girl. Only she’s older now. I don’t remember much about this letter except that she said she was all grown up now and wanted to apologize for her youthful ways and thank me for my several kindnesses. I seriously considered writing her back but thought I’d just open up a can of worms. AND then she’d know I still lived in Millerton. The very fact of my response would indicate such - because that’s where she sent it - so I decided against replying. But it always bothered me that I did that because....well because that’s the kind of person I am. Because I know what it’s like not to have a response.

So now here I am in Greensboro doing “Mrs. Warren’s Profession” and a PACKAGE arrives one day addressed to me in care of Triad Stage. Return address says Rebecca Jamison in NYC. What on earth? I open it up and there is a letter from, yes, this same girl (who has changed her name). She says she has always fondly remembered my kindnesses to her and always hoped to see me on stage one day. She has enclosed a copy of her first book, a biography of Grayson Hall. http://www.graysonhall.net/

It happened that she has friends in Lexington (about 20 minutes away from Greensboro) where she was going to spend some time in writer’s seclusion working on her second book, and they learned of the Triad Production and saw my name.

She said she was planning to come to see the production!

Fate was obviously throwing us together once again and how could I not now embrace it? - twenty-two years later. I wrote her back saying I would meet her in the lobby after the show - that I’d sign her program if she signed her book that she sent me. I really didn’t know what to expect, but not being an idiot I “googled” her and found out a certain amount of information before I responded saying I’d meet her. She currently works for the EPA. At this point in life I didn’t really think she was a star stalker. That and the fact that she managed to get herself published (no mean feat) told me she was legitimate.

I had told several people of this prospective meeting. I mean it’s quite a story - how could one not desire to share it. And they were all curious as to how it would turn out.

So many things were running through my mind. And no doubt hers as well. I would love to have known hers. My thoughts were: how should I present myself? Should I be the “actress” and flounce about, leave my false eyelashes on from the show and be oh soooo theatrical dahling? Or should I just be myself - which is anything BUT that. I never do well attempting to be someone I’m not, but I did opt to leave on my base makeup from the show (tissued off as much as possible) and put on a little eyeliner and mascara. For there is always the fear that being one’s self will disappoint.

We had invited our director over for a drink before the meeting with Rebecca was set up, so Rand went home to be there for Preston. Obviously I had allayed his fears, for he felt no need to come to the lobby to check her out first. But dear Trent did. Just to make sure nothing amiss would happen.

And thence I headed down the elevator to the lobby. I recognized her immediately with her red hair because I had seen pictures of her (while googling). She was with two friends.

I would love to be able to tell a wild tale now of how she was totally weird and groped me and then pulled out a gun and attempted to fire it, but the firing mechanism went awry and so I wrestled her to the ground....

But no. It was just a very nice, normal meeting and she’s a lovely, ingenuous person. Her friend Kivi (I think that’s her name) assured me that she wasn’t some nut case. We had a pleasant chat for about 20 minutes or so. Kivi asked if I minded if she took a couple of photos of the two of us. Of course not. I put my arms around Rebecca and noticed she was trembling with excitement?/nervousness? at finally meeting me I assume. I made a joke about it - trying to ease her nervousness. Gee, I’ve never had anyone tremble in meeting me before. Let me tell you, it’s rather special. I suppose “Stars” must experience this sort of thing all the time. Feeling totally unworthy of generating such a response I then began to wonder whether I could possibly live up to her expectations. Nothing could be worse to my mind than ruining an image someone has of you. Maybe that’s why Garbo was so mysterious. Better to keep the mystery than reveal the reality of the mundane. Sort of like a bar a closing time when they turn on the lights....

Anyway...I led them up the back way to the parking garage through the theatre administrative hallway after our get together. And as we parted I expressed the above-mentioned fears. For in my parting words I said: “I hope I lived up to your expectations.” Twenty-two years is a long time....

Rebecca's blogspot by the way is: http://rjadventuresinnewyork.blogspot.com and if you want to learn all about Grayson Hall read her very informative book: Grayson Hall: A Hard Act to Follow. (In many ways Grayson's career reminds me of my own....the struggling part anyway.)

Mrs. Warren February 15th

Feb. 15, 2008

Nelda and Marie, two tennis playing friends from our town, came to see the show tonight. And they treated us to a fabulous 11 pm dinner at the Green Valley Grill. If you’re in Greensboro, I highly recommend it. The food is fantastic and we just had a splendid time.

On another note: audience members who arrive late to the theatre are usually seated at an appropriate moment during the play, not in the middle of some important scene. It’s to insure that neither the actors nor the audience is disrupted/interrupted. In this particular theatre we were told that they were not put into the seats they paid for, but some seats set aside for late comers at the back of the house. They could always move to their regular seats after intermission.

Anyway, on one or two occasions the ushers did not have them wait in the back of the house but on the sides. Which wouldn’t be too bad if we didn’t have to make entrances from the voms (Vomitorium: A passageway to the rows of seats in a theater.). But Rand and I came down from the dressingrooms for one of our entrances and there were two or three people lined up against the wall watching from the vom area.

How can I describe what an actor does prior to making an entrance and why it’s so important NOT to be confronted by audience members at that time? There is a little ritual we go through - some of us - not all, prior to making an entrance. It’s a very personal moment and very private. You might think of it in terms of those athletes who cross themselves before beginning a game or an event. It’s a prayer to the Muse in a sense, and in such you open your soul to all vulnerability of expression. You are about to abandon your “self” and dive into another “self” instantly. You are preparing your emotional being to become another. You are altering your own mind set and putting on the clothes of another soul. It’s a secret that can’t be described. It’s like you have to change the molecules in your body to dance to a different rhythm that is not you, but that OTHER creature. And you do all of that preparation in those moments before entering.

Jon, the lad playing the juvenile male lead would do push ups against the wall prior to our entrance to pump himself up. I would giggle and say “You’re not going to get me!” in a soft ad lib as we ran on stage together. Toward the end of the run I teased him by doing a couple of push ups against the wall myself. Prior to our entrance, Rand and I would just look at each other in a special way that had 21 years of marriage behind it and all the internal thought processes of the characters we were playing. I would twirl my parasol and he would smirk. That’s all it takes sometimes, and you’re there, in the moment in that instance.

But my point here is that it’s a PRIVATE moment. And it’s not for strangers’ eyes. And when strangers are there - it’s totally off-putting, very upsetting and unsettling because it disturbs your routine. You can’t be YOU. You aren’t free to contact the Muse. I would liken it to watching a magician set up his magic trick. If you see how it’s done it destroys the magic. And what we do is magic.

It’s the same reason I lost sleep over having to greet the audience every night at CentreStage. After the curtain call they demanded that you stand in a receiving line of sorts and meet and talk to your audience. Still in costume! NOOOOOOO. It smacks of community theatre and destroys the magic. Not that there’s anything wrong with community theatre. Not a bit. But it is NOT professional theatre. There is a great distance between the actor and his audience in professional theatre. In community there is less of one, where you’re slapping your friend on the back and saying, “Hey, Bob, that sure was a great job ya did!” It just ain’t the same and there’s no way you can explain this to a layman. You might say it’s the difference between someone doing it for fun and those that make their living at it. The difference between playing pro basketball and playing it in the back lot.

Would you go up to a pro ball player and say, “Yeah, I played ball in college. Boy, I remember that game where I...” As if your experience in any way could equate with theirs. No. You don’t do that with athletes. But you DO do it with actors. The minute you tell someone you’re an actor they say one of three things. Usually at least two. They say, eventually, “I used to act in college. I was in X...production, playing...X role.” (They are attempting to identify with your experience here.) Or - “I have a nephew in NY who’s done very well in theatre. His name is X...do you know him?” Or - “What famous person do you know?” Frankly I don’t care about your college experience in “You Can’t Take it With You,” I don’t know your nephew, and I’m insulted when you ask me what “famous” person I have worked with.

People who aren’t in the theatre - laymen (civilians we call you) - haven’t a clue. Maybe this will give you one.

Mrs. Warren - February 14th

Feb. 14, 2008

Allan stuck his finger out at me tonight on one of his lines and I responded by making a fake chomp at it with my teeth. Wonderful! You never stop discovering new things. Even up until the closing performance. That’s part of what makes it all worthwhile and keeps the fun going. Else you “phone it in” as I have seen man an actor do, and the audience knows when you’re doing that.

At this stage - with only three performances left, one begin to think about things a little differently. If you loathe the show you’re in, you can’t wait for it to be over. And many a time you actually mark Xs on your calendar with glee. A countdown to the end of misery. I’ve done that on occasion. But usually it has to do more with when you’ll be rid of a miserable director, than the play itself. You can’t WAIT for him to be out of your hair. Usually directors leave the day after opening. Though there are times when some wretch will come back and give you periodic notes in a long run. Usually that’s left to a competent stage manager to do. And some of THEM can be pretty obnoxious too, when they want to play director and think they ARE. But that’s another story. Our Stage Manager, Catherine, is just a joy.

Anyway, one tends to start cutting up a bit more when you know you’ve only a few performances left. You suddenly take more chances. This is, after all, your last opportunity to perfect it, or try something new. For in a few days it will be history. The waves will roll in and high tide will demolish your pretty sand castle. It will only be a memory in the minds and perhaps the hearts of those who witnessed it.

Thoughts also stray to those regions of: “I wonder when I’ll work again? Will they have me back? Have I made any difference?”

I always used to think that I had made lifelong friends during a show. For the camaraderie is not terribly unlike that of a soldier in a war, I would imagine. Intense times and emotional revelations and sharings. You allow yourself utter vulnerability on stage with a stranger and that tends to bond you. Or so I always thought.

I was one that often fell in love with my leading man because when I was on stage with him I WAS in love with him. (My character was.) It took me many years to realize that I was simply in love with the character he portrayed and not the actor himself. It also took me many years to realize that the camaraderie I felt with fellow cast and crew did not create a watertight bond as I would have wished. Oh you can pick up where you left off should you work together in another show or meet them on the street. But rarely does anyone get a permanent place in the address book.