Not Young, Still Restless Read Free Page B

opening night, I stepped onstage in front of an audience and it changed my life. It changed me.
    It wasn’t just the novelty of being the center of a whole lot of attention that felt so utterly joyful. From those very first moments, it felt like an unspoken agreement between me and the audience: the more pleased they were with whatever it was I was doing and saying, the more I wanted to please them, so that we fed off each other and created a unique experience together that neither of us could have created on our own. It was uncomplicated, reciprocal, and unconditional, a real connection and an exchange of energy I never saw coming and that I continue to treasure to this day. It fulfilled me, it made sense to me, it impelled me, and it gave me something I’d yearned for and wasn’t sure I would ever find—I finally had a place to point to and say from the heart, “I belong here.”
    I immediately became addicted to learning everything there was to know about the theater, from performance skills to the material itself. I voraciously read and wrote reports on every play in the library. I especially fell in love with the works of Noël Coward and had the pleasure of performing in a Bakersfield Community Theatre production of his wonderful play Blithe Spirit during my high school years. In fact, I leapt at every opportunity to appear onstage, and by the time I graduated, I’d decided with absolute certainty on the course my future would take: I would study and prepare and work hard to save money, and at the first opportunity I would move to New York and spend the rest of my life as a deliriously happy, utterly fulfilled stage actress. That never happened, of course, which should teach us all a good lesson about the words “absolute certainty.”
    I headed straight from Bakersfield to the Pasadena Playhouse College of Theatre Arts, which my father could never have afforded without the help of my mother’s only sister, my aunt Della. She lived in Los Angeles and was kind enough to offer me a free place to stay. I’d also been active enough in theater to earn a lifetime membership in the International Thespian Society, so I hit the ground running in Pasadena and loved every minute of it, soaking up every bit of knowledge, education, and experience that came my way. It was a joyful time—I was in my element and growing more confident with every class, every performance, every new friend who shared my dream—and I was devastated when, at the end of my first year, Aunt Della announced that she was moving away, and Dad informed me that without the room and board she provided, he couldn’t afford for me to stay at Pasadena Playhouse College any longer.
    There’s a wonderful old saying that goes, “When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.” I doubt if whoever coined that saying was thinking of Stockton, California, at the time. But just as I was mourning the loss of my education, and possibly my theatrical career in New York, my sister, Evelyn, and her husband, Everett, invited me to stay with them in Stockton. There I could take extension courses through the theater department of College of the Pacific, get credits for performances, and explore the incredible array of theater, ballet, opera, and other creative arts that Stockton had to offer.
    I sadly waved good-bye to Pasadena, and was still drying my tears when I arrived with my luggage on Evelyn and Everett’s doorstep and embarked on four of the happiest, most stimulating years of my life.
    Eager to start supporting myself, I got a job in an appliance store and scheduled my theater and improv classes around my shifts.
    I did play after play after play, particularly such light opera classics as Naughty Marietta and Song of Norway . Randy Fitz, a College of the Pacific professor, also wrote several plays and cast me in every one of them.
    I wrote and cohosted a radio show about campus life with my friend Jerry DeBono, cleverly called Jeanne & Jerry .
    Jerry