To Dream the Impossible Dream

          We all have them: those anxiety dreams where you didn't get that homework assignment done, or you have some sort of deadline but you are not sure what it is you are supposed to be doing. My mother says she still has this dream where she has to finish a paper with only a few minutes to spare. She has been out of school for nearly 40 years but still wakes up in a cold sweat.

          Every performer is familiar with a similar dream- the one where you have to go onstage last minute. For me, in most of these dreams, the entire cast has already been in rehearsal for weeks and I am being added at the last second. I have usually learned the arias in isolation, but I am not sure where they fit in or how I am to find my starting note. Other times I am stuck into a musical theater piece and I tell them I haven't had enough time to memorize the lines or even to read the synopsis. They always tell me that everything is easy to follow and that I should just improvise the plot. Still other times I have a huge injury onstage and I have to try and bandage myself while singing or speaking.

          The other night, I dreamed I was performing the role of "Moonbeam McSwine" in Lil' Abner. Moonbeam is not exactly a character that requires great wells of emotional depth or intense vocal preparation. She has a five line solo in the opening of the show all about how she sleeps out in the barn. Let me quote it here so as not to detract from the clever poetry of Johnny Mercer:

Howdy boys, I'm Moonbeam McSwine

Sleepin' out with pigs is my line

The fellas admire me but they don't squire me

Unless the weather is fine.

But I does alright when the wind blows the other way,

Which leads us to say it's a typical day in Dogpatch, USA 

          I know this solo because it was my very first role in musical theater in the eighth grade. It was my big singing debut in junior high school. I almost didn't get the role. The female characters in Al Capp's comic strip were infamously voluptuous, and, this may be a bit of a shock to those who know me now, but at age 14, I was not. I only got to sing my "big solo" because the girl who was originally cast dropped out. The choice of me as replacement was a move from looks to voice. In addition to the hot pants I wore and the pig tucked under my arm, I had to wear shoulder pads in my bra- (an undergarment I only owned out of sheer formality, definitely not out of necessity.)

          My memories of that show are both vivid and poignant. I know this is true for everyone in that production and for a lot of people who saw their friends in it. You always remember the first show you did, even if you don't continue performing. Our tight knit group of friends from growing up often sits around reminiscing about the time Emma stopped dancing in the middle of the choreography, only to stare dumbstruck into the audience while the rest of the chorus floated around her, (we have it on video). Then there was the night several props were forgotten and people had to read from an invisible scroll, and the time Maura accidentally walloped someone in the face when she was supposed to be signaling a plane. I remember the feeling of when we had completed our first show and all the exhilarated screaming and hugging as though we had accomplished something completely impossible. It seems now that this happens rarely and only after the most exciting (and/or challenging) productions. My friends and I can still sing those ridiculous songs from eighth grade and we all remember not wanting it to end. After our first cast party, we had three more parties because we couldn't get enough of it.

          In this particular dream from the other night, as in reality, I could belt out every word of this solo still, but in the dream, as in reality, I could not remember where it fit into the opening song. In my dream world I was again thrown in with a professional company who had been rehearsing the show for weeks. With every solo in the opening chorus, I became increasingly more agitated that at any moment my solo would be next and I would have to jump in with the orchestra- like catching a moving train. Then there were those lines from the middle of the show I was trying to remember all at the same time. I knew I was supposed to interrupt someone's dialogue, but with what? Where?!! Fortunately, I woke up before any catastrophe could happen.

          I have this feeling that this dream has directly to do with my excitement and anxiety surrounding a big opera role coming up. For now it is exacerbating all of those doubts that I suspect I am not alone in. These feelings are usually fleeting though. Only once in reality, did a conductor hold us to such a high standard, that I considered running down the streets of Italy in my 19th century gown instead of walking on that stage. I walked on that stage though. Sometimes that's all you can do.

In my mind I'm goin' to Parker's Barbecue

          I am part Ukrainian, but I guess you could say that I am also part Southern.

          As an adult, when about to visit my paternal grandparents in Bailey, North Carolina, I would always envision myself ahead of time, sitting on the front porch of their little white farmhouse sipping sweet tea in the summer breeze. In actuality, there is very little breeze inland in July and I would sit on the front porch and inevitably, there would be dozens of gnats flying into my eyes. The only way to avoid direct eye contact with said gnats was to keep moving. So, it would be 98 degrees with 100% humidity and I would end up walking brisk circles around the house like the village crazy... and when that got boring I would walk around the fields. At least it was good exercise...

          As far as entertainments go, aside from the local movie theater, Parker's Barbecue, (the gold standard for eastern Carolina vinegar-based sauce), and a small but increasing number of chain restaurants, the area is not exactly hopping. A singer friend of mine coincidentally grew up in the area. She says that in high school she and her friends used to hang out at the Arby's for fun.

          This past weekend I flew unexpectedly to North Carolina. My Grandma Mavis passed away this past Friday. It was not a shock. She was 91 years old and had been in a nursing home since almost immediately after my grandfather died 3 years ago. I flew down and met my parents for the funeral, knowing in a weird way that the major ties to the place were now gone. Even though it may just become that place where I used to visit my grandparents, I still have this idea that I will visit there again. We do have some family there and my dad grew up there for a short time.

          It's a strange thing about places. I am very fortunate in that I have done a good amount of travelling in my days. The demands of pursuing a singing career have put my tourist travels on hold a bit of course. I distinctly recall though, that feeling of when you happen to find yourself falling in love with a place in your travels. In the back of your mind, you expect that you will one day get back there. So far, there have been many of these places for me, but I suspect that this is a bit like all the books I have fallen in love with. I often think that I will get around to reading certain novels again, but simply don't have time to re-read when there are so many other stories out there.

          My Granda Mavis's story was essentially a happy one I believe. Her mother died when she was only seven years old and as the only girl in that generation, she had to help in the care of her two younger brothers. At some point she suffered facial burns in the house but none of this hindered her from becoming a secretary for the FBI, an accomplished farmer, (even driving a tractor when that was seen as un-ladylike) and taking up painting in her 70's along with completing several art courses.

          She got married for the first time to a widower, my Grandpa Jack. They were married just a few months before my parents were. So no, Grandma Mavis was not my biological grandmother, but she was the grandmother I had on that side. It is pretty amazing that a woman married for the first time in her 50's should have 35 very happy years with her husband as well as inherit children and grandchildren. As a perpetual late bloomer myself, I find her picking up of the paintbrush a la Grandma Moses quite inspiring too.

          On this past weekend's trip, I think that in the rush I did a pretty good job of savoring the place where my grandparents once lived. My immediate family also savored the pork barbeque, hush puppies and slaw. At the repast, (at Parker's of course), Mavis's family was astonished that "those two skinny women at the end of the table, [my mother and I], could put back so much food".

          Well, you've got to savor certain things when you can, because you don't know when you will go back again.

Quoth the raven, nevermore

          This past Saturday evening, I returned home from rehearsal and was informed that there was a bird in our bathroom. The details of how this actually came to be are still a bit fuzzy for me, but from what I can understand, my roommate was doing laundry in the basement and she cannot be sure, but she seems to have passed the bird on the back staircase unknowingly. What Hilary does know, is that the creature followed her into the house from the back staircase because upon reaching the top of the stairs, it flew through the kitchen, and then into the bathroom, at which point she closed the bathroom door behind it. 

          We think the bird had to have come from the basement but how the bird managed to get up two flights with no one noticing is remarkable. The first floor apartment below us has a back door but Hilary says that no one had opened it while she was there. After all, with it being 12 degrees in Boston on Saturday I don't believe our downstairs neighbors were looking to lounge on the back deck.

          So, this is how it stood upon my return: our only bathroom was occupied, so to speak. Hilary, who I come to find out is a bit afraid of birds, had already called Animal Control. When she dialed the number listed, she got the mayor's office and when she told them she thought she had dialed animal control, they said "We're closed." They said they might be able to send someone, but they couldn't be sure when this would happen. What if this had been more urgent? I guess rabid animals are only a problem on weekdays.

          We decided that someone just needed to calmly go in, move the shower curtain, move the window curtain, unlock the window and open it. I decided that I was up for the challenge. She told me she'd already called my boyfriend who was on his way anyway to pick us up for a friend's party. But, I'm no slouch- we didn't need a man to come swooping in to our rescue! Hilary told me I should probably put on leather gloves, in case it pecked at me, and a hat in case it flew in my hair. I was alarmed at these possibilities since neither had occurred to me. I decided I would agree to these precautions.

          So there I was in my knit beret and driving gloves, heading into our very small bathroom with Hilary holding a giant sheet standing in the hall behind. I opened the door. I did not see our feathered friend at first, but then I looked above to the shower head. I had pictured a sparrow. It was no sparrow. It was not as big as a crow, but it was no sparrow. It was brown with what seemed to be a very large curved beak. It immediately fluttered across to the other side of the shower, (which, by the way, was very loud), at which point I closed the door and started deep-breathing. I made another attempt at going in and opening the window, but did not last much longer before hyperventilating again. I made a third. This time he started flying toward the door. I closed the door. I decided that this was no longer a feminist issue. Brendan would be able to handle this much better than I. His parents have a parakeet.

          Having completely justified my wussiness, when Brendan arrived, there were now three very frightened beings in the house. He suggested we go in with a little bit of bread and make a trail of sorts toward the window after he had opened it. Brendan went in, armed with bread pieces. He closed the door and very calmly narrated the events as he saw them, as one might to an infant.

          "Ok, he's just afraid of me. When I get close, he flies away. Ok, I'm moving the curtain back. Oh wait, where'd he go? Oh, he's on top of the medicine cabinet. I'm opening the window. I'm spreading out the bread. I'm just going to sit down for a minute until he goes back to the shower to avoid me. Ok, everything's fine buddy..."

           The bird made no immediate effort to fly the coop but with the window open and Brendan's safe exodus from the bathroom complete, we decided we had better leave and head to the party. (Don't think that this decision wasn't strongly motivated by the fact that I was beginning to really need to pee). So with some trepidation about leaving the window fully open, we decided that no one was going to break in through a second floor window above a snow bank, and if they did, they might still find that our home was being guarded by a bird.

          And sure enough, when Hilary returned later that night, she found our guest was still feeling quite at home on top of the showerhead. Fortunately, Hil had used the bathroom at the party before she left. As we suspected, it wasn't until daylight that the bird figured out that the window opened to the outside. Poor thing. No one said he was a smart little fella.

          We suspect that this all happened due to a hole in the basement wall which the dryer vent has recently detached from. This marks just another thing on a small list of to-do's that the management has yet to handle, along with fixing their phone line so we can even call them. I tried to fix the dryer vent myself but I lack the necessary tools, not to mention the handy gene.
Fortunately, the bird was kind enough to only defecate in the shower. I have had other houseguests who weren't even so well housebroken.

As close to 80's hair band as opera gets...

          I often find myself telling people that no, I did not come from a musical family. And in the strict sense of the definition, this is true. My mother played some piano and a dusty 45 year old trumpet sits in the basement because she could never get it to sound like anything other than “a dying cow” according to her parents. She also was asked, rather cruelly, to lip-synch during her eighth graduation because she was “throwing the whole choir flat”. My father can basically carry a tune. My brother had a passion for music and the recording process, but after his voice dropped, a range of about three notes. There were tales of how several of my great-grandparents were good singers, one of whom was a cantor in the Ukrainian church, which was and is always sung a cappella. It wasn’t until recently that my Dad came across a second cousin at a funeral who had had a professional singing career in Raleigh for many years, that we discovered a pocket of his cousins were musicians. The aptitude was certainly not evident in my immediate family.

          I definitely did not hear much opera as a child, if any, until my great-aunt Josephine exposed me to it as a pre-teen. And yet, all that seems to have mattered was that I grew up in a household that cared about many different kinds of music. I can remember all of us sitting in the car until the end of Don McLean’s “America Pie” was finished on the radio. My father has an eclectic record collection, mostly made up of jazz, blues, and folk recordings, but also Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven and a good amount of Stravinsky. We watched a lot of movie musicals with my mom, but my mother turns up her nose at most popular music in the same way she prefers Masterpiece Theater (a.k.a. British soap-operas) to American sit-coms. (“I am not interested in the struggles of middle-America”). The only exception for a good song in her mind is that it be good for dancing. “Old Time Rock and Roll” by Bob Seegar is one that will get them both on their feet every time.

          So it is this penchant for PBS that brought us several musical excerpts that might have inspired a pursuit of opera. I was exposed to one oratorio. My Mom’s favorite recording; The Morman Tabernacle Choir’s Handel’s Messiah, once got caught in the car’s tape player for six months after Christmas. The Nutcracker also has had a profound effect on me, or was it Mikhail Baryshnikov? Only recently was his 1977 version for PBS made available again on Amazon. (Before this, there was the running joke that if my house were on fire, I always knew the exact location of my beloved VHS copy and it would be Micsha and me running out the door.) Just as important to my music memories was something that I no longer know if we still own. Because my mom is not one to listen to an album in its entirety, preferring only her favorite tracks on repeat ad nauseam, (see also: Feliz Navidad all December long), with the invention of the VCR in the 80’s, she had a video of her favorite song clips from TV. These will not be your typical 80’s hairband selections. Both of my parents stopped paying attention to any pop music basically past 1969. They couldn’t name a single Led Zeppelin song, and when I once asked my mother to name 3 artists from the 80’s, after 10 minutes she could only come up with Michael Jackson and Bruce Springsteen. Rather, it was this video that I watched repeatedly as a toddler and that infiltrated my formative years. It featured a clip of Jeanette McDonald and Nelson Eddy singing “Indian Love Call”, a smattering of Cajun music from the film “The Big Easy”, and a recording of Joe Williams singing “All of Me” in the film of the same name featuring Steve Martin and Lily Tomlin dancing to the closing credits. It also featured this, which, now having found on YouTube can surely be explanation unto itself of just why I became an opera singer.

Samuel Ramey: Ol' Man River with chorus

          This is not technically opera repertoire, but surely there can be no one else quite like Samuel Ramey. Even now, having just re-discovered this, I am sitting here with my hair blowing back in shock and amazement at that damned instrument of his. HOW DOES HE DO IT? Known to his college roommates and beyond as “The Voice” Ramey is famous for possessing a huge bass for the very lyrical repertoire, but also an agile enough instrument to handle a great deal of moving coloratura. And, as the boyfriend points out, he is unlike any other bass in that there is a “tenor ring” to the voice. No, seriously, how does he do it???

          I also really like that they use the complete version with chorus from the original show. I still find Showboat to be unbelievably progressive in its racial commentary for 1927. Admittedly, the use of the word “darkies” here does cause a bit of a knee-jerk reaction in these times, but it was still, in my opinion, the first move into contemporary musical theatre drama. Before this, they were writing plots for the songs on Broadway and after this it was the story first. They talk a lot about Oklahoma and its breakthrough ballet, but I say that that is a lot of phooey next to the inter-racial couple featured for the first time in Show Boat, not to mention the introduction of wonderful black singing actors like Paul Robeson to national stages.

          This is concert singing at its very best. It’s no wonder I was inspired to pursue live, unplugged singing with orchestra at such a tender age. Thanks Mom.

I'll have a blue post-Christmas

          It took me a few days to pinpoint it, but I realized this past week or two that I have a good case of the post-Christmas blues (not to mention a lovely headcold). For me, there are no two more depressing times of year than the beginning of fall and the end of the holidays. I may identify with the New England approach to life, but I have never been the type who looks forward to the first snowfall of the season and I am certainly not clicking my heels by the end of February when I am so vitamin D deprived that I can't see straight. That's what my "Happylite" is for. (The boyfriend makes fun of the name when I reference it, but that is its actual name!)

          Why do we as a culture need Christmas? Even the non-religious can appreciate its beauty. It can't only be nostalgia. No one seems to need Easter nearly as much. It all must have to do with our primitive fears of dark and threatening weather and a desire to fill an otherwise cold and isolated time with light and closeness. I wish I could say that these are all irrelevant primitive fears, but even in this age of technology, travel is greatly compromised by snow and ice. The aspect that has changed only adds to my sense of disappointment when the holiday is over. The commercialism that adds to the frenetic pace of December only makes me feel as though I have been running around too much to appreciate the season.

          As an adult, the end of Christmas and the New Year can be particularly devastating because of all the stress beforehand. When all the running around with auditions, the shopping, the gigs, the parties and the travel come to a slowdown, one wants time to take in that warm glow that we have created to comfort ourselves as we reach the winter solstice's longest nights of the year and the cold ahead of us. This year I did not get to sit with a cup of tea and stare at the tree we trimmed at my parents' house for nearly long enough before I had to practically fly out of the house the morning after Christmas in fear of the impending blizzard. I look around now that I finally have some time to stroll and appreciate some Christmas scenery and it has almost all been dismantled. When my friend from California moved here for grad school, it wasn't until her first May in Boston that she said: "Now I realize why there are so many songs about spring."

Aqua is the new black

          In case you are wondering if I received the sweatshirt requested from my mother for Christmas, the answer is that I have instead perhaps learned a lesson. This is that I should really only ask for things that my mother has the ability to purchase. When I requested a cardigan a few weeks ago and specified that it be "50's twinset style", she knew exactly what I meant and bought me, not one, but seven work-appropriate cardigans. My arms will never be cold again, especially if I wear them all at the same time. She also gave me damn near every Jane Austen/Bronte sister film produced by the BBC in the last 5 years, some beautiful scarves and a lovely turtleneck sweater from my favorite store. I am a lucky girl. The sweatshirt, however has already been returned[1] to Bob's retailers, a store I have not visited since I was a tween, when I had not yet given up the idea that if I sometimes wore athletic apparel, I might give off the appearance of a modicum of athleticism.

          In my mind, I thought I was requesting a classic collegiate sweatshirt, in a size small, just without a hood. Ideally it would be something soft that I could wear around the house but that would not humiliate me if visitors dropped by unexpectedly, unlike my current Wisconsin cow sweatshirt. What my mother picked out was enormous, stiff, and aqua. She insisted it fit her and would therefore also fit me, but I find it hard to believe that it did not resemble the shapeless tunics of her "Flax" years in the 90's. I can't recall ever having seen a sweatshirt with no band at the bottom, but this one had none. The fabric was also surprisingly rough. I didn't know they even made sweatshirts like this, as though the purpose of sweats is not one of softness and comfort, but fashion. Oh well. "We'll find one!" she says. I am sure we will. I am sure we will get our hands on that elusive beast, "the sweatshirt".

          Meanwhile at our family friends' house, one sister had given another sister a light pink sweatshirt featuring a kitten in a purse. The recipient, a grown woman, does have a new cat but upon receiving this gift, she made it very clear that she is a cat owner and not a cat wearer. When I told her not to complain, because at least it looked comfortable and wasn't an aqua tent made of sandpaper, I was warned to watch what I wish for. They are already in plans for my Christmas gift next year- the ugliest, cheapest sweatshirt they can find at the thrift store. I kind of can't wait.


[1] The return of said gift is a miracle unto itself for which I should be grateful. My mother has never been one to save gift receipts, usually immediately exclaiming: "Who can we give it to???"

It's like non-alcoholic beer...

          My aunt and uncle's house in New Jersey is an hour and a half from my parents' in Connecticut. We make the trip annually in order to spend Christmas Eve with my cousins. (My four cousins under age eight are all ridiculously adorable little tow-heads, but I digress). This year, we had to stop not once, but twice on the way. Once, because my mother does not understand the concept of dehydrating a bit before you get in the car. It never fails that after 30 minutes on the road she will say: "Does anyone else have to go to the bathroom?" She must always have at least one cup of decaf coffee coursing through her veins so we must make a stop before we even reach the New York border.

          The second stop has to do with this same necessity. We have to stop at a Dunkin' Donuts so my mom can get her hazelnut decaf coffee because otherwise she cannot eat. My aunt and uncle aren't big on coffee and certainly not sans caffeine. My mother truly cannot take one bite of an entree without her cup of decaf. At our favorite local restaurant, they start brewing when she walks in the door and they bring out an entire pot with her meal. She literally will not start eating until the decaf coffee is in her possession- I have seen it happen many times. She also needs at least three cupfuls with her meal. My dad usually suggests that the wait-staff get it hooked up to her intravenously.

          On our second stop, since we are already 40 minutes late, I decline needing anything in D& D and declare, (clearly the only one with any sense), that I am staying right there in the car. My dad leaves the car running and it is at the moment they are gone from my sightline that I see it: the lighted sign from the liquor store next door declaring the availability of that rare and fantastic brew which I had almost forgotten was attainable that day. It is a beer coveted by anyone who went to college in Allentown, Pennsylvania and subsequently had the sense to leave Allentown, Pennsylvania, only to discover that it was no longer available north of Jersey. It is Yuengling, the product of America's oldest brewery, and it is right at my fingertips. It is no small thing to return to one's friends in Boston with a case or two of the lager.

          I hem and haw for only a moment before I decide that I will be quick and that they won't even miss me. I grab the keys and my wallet and head for next door. After no more than 3 minutes, I return to find my puzzled parents looking in the windows of the car, which I had of course locked. As it turns out, my mother was worried about my disappearance, while my father was worried that I had left the keys in the ignition and locked the doors, because I am apparently 5 years old. All their fears were assuaged when they saw both the keys and the case of Yuengling in my hand. It wasn't until Christmas day that I learned that a family friend had driven 40 minutes to Brewster, NY to purchase three cases of Yuengling varieties for myself and my friends.

Best. Christmas. Ever.