It's none of your business

What would you do if you discovered a homeless woman living on your neighbor's porch? And what if that neighbor is a grouchy hermit who never comes outside or lets anyone in? And what if you discover that neighbor is hiding another woman with horrible scars all over her face?

It's starting to sound like one of those spooky Gothic mysteries by one of the Bronte sisters. But it isn't. It's a new play, "Four Wounded Women," by Grand Rapids playwright Mike Smolinski (who as a sidelight happens to be homeless himself right now as one of the residents evacuated from the flooded Plaza Towers).

Stark Turn Players premiered the show Thursday night at Dog Story Theater. With a raised stage in the corner,  warm period furnishings and a strong, experienced cast, the 90-minute show seemed much more like traditional theater than some one-weekend experiment in a 50-seat black box.

In writing my review for The Press last night, I got so caught up in groping with the questions brought up by the play that I barely mentioned the fine performances. Mary Brown is especially good as the awkward, fearful and witty Helen, the homeless woman. But there are also fine performances by Sherryl Despres as the assertive Meryl with an underlying neediness that's just below the surface; Teri Kuhlman as the irascible Ruth, who also has her soft side; and Kim Zoller as the delicate but damaged Joy who turns out to be just as protective of Ruth.  Every actor does a fine job from Elizabeth Schaub as the snippy paper carrier to Patrick Bailey as the thundering husband and, of course, Frank VanPelt as Sam, the sane, steady--and sorta sexy -- delivery man who goes beyond the call of duty in his concern for his customer.

Which brings me back to those questions. What would you do? Should you step in, call the police? Would that help or hurt? Or is it none of your business?

Be there and be square

      

Sometimes I feel like I'm riding the crest of a wave -- even when West Michigan isn't in the middle of a 100-year flood. I'm referring to the rising tide of would-be authors.
         "Celebrate the Mitten," Kent District Library's second annual writers' conference, was a sell-out today, with 200 people gathering at the Cascade Library to hear Michigan authors such as Mardi Link and D.E. Johnson talk about their craft, and publishing representatives from Arbutus Press and StoryLook Design offer advice for improving their work. I was pleased to be included on the panel with such talented, and successful writers.
        But I was also impressed by the writers who filled the audience: humorist Myron Kukla,  former Press food writer Kathy Carrier,  animal advocate Janet Vormitag, writing coach Tricia MacDonald. There was a poet trying to sort out how panels on copyediting and covers applied to her. A Pakistani filmmaker passed out DVDs of his latest work. A scientist said he needs an editor to help with words; a suited businessman easily won best dressed; a woman with a PhD in English bemoaned the lack of editing. They brought folders stuffed with their stories and drawings. One woman said she had written a musical, complete with script and songs, and just needed a theater to try it out. Another was trying to promote her beautiful hardcover book about the history of a lighthouse.
         I like to think the speakers provided some encouragement and answers for these hopeful scribes.  But none of us could offer the secret handshake for getting their creative treasures published and into the hands of the readers they so desperately desire.
        At the end of the day, the panelists gathered to sign and sell their books. Three people in a row asked if I could take credit cards. I don't. But Mardi Link plugged a quarter-size white plastic square into the top of her phone and in an instant she was doing business. So I learned something too. If I'm going to stay ahead of this flood of talent, I gotta be square.

Bye, bye 155

  

On a snowy February day more than 23 years ago I walked into the Press building at 155 Michigan St. for the first time. Today, on a sometimes sunny, sometimes snowy April day I walked those familiar halls for the last time.
     Like the mixed weather, I have mixed feelings about the end of an era. Of course, my era at The Press officially ended almost four years ago when I retired, but I continue to freelance. Now the building has been sold, the remaining newsroom employees -- copy desk and high school sports desk -- will move to new offices in Walker next week. The reporters have been operating out of the downtown hub for more than a year. 
   Today about 100 of us gathered for one last potluck. Oh, they always had the best potlucks. A few of the people who came today still work at the new M-Live media group that has replaced The Press. But most were folks like me who no longer work there but  have way too many memories in that building. '
   I remember coming down that elevator the night we bombed Iraq the first time, back during Desert Storm, and I remember thinking, "Is this it? Is this the beginning of another World War?" Then one morning 10 years later when I boarded that elevator, another passenger said he had just heard on his car radio that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center. I went up to the newsroom and watched in disbelief as the towers crumbled. I've shared so much more than potlucks with those people.
    We gathered one New Year's Eve for Y2K, not sure if our computers would work through the night. Year after year we watched Santa parades line up by our parking lot, Festivals unfold on our doorstep and Celebration on the Grand fireworks explode overhead.
     For some of those there today like Pete Demaagd and Ann Wells, this is not the first building they have outlived. They said goodbye to the former buildings of The Press and The Herald. And I know that Publisher Dan Gaydou is right. The Press and M-Live Media Group are moving into an exciting new era.
     But that doesn't keep me from mourning the place where I spent so many hours for the past 20 years. Or from thinking that the flag flying at half mast in front of the building is symbolic of the loss I feel.
     Nevertheless, getting together with those friends is always a celebration. Who would have thought that one day the Honeytones, a local band composed of former Press writers Charley Honey and John Sinkevics and copyeditor Jerry Seim, would set up in the middle of the newsroom and play while we danced?

Wet Tortugas

   The Dry Tortugas weren't very dry when we visited Tuesday.

Tracks for the cannons.

 Unlike the "dry" counties of the Bible Belt, the adjective doesn't mean the Tortugas don't approve of liquor sales. It comes from the fact that there is no fresh water on the island chain about 70 miles west of Key West. When Fort Jefferson was built there before the Civil War,  the plan to create a system of cisterns to  collect fresh water didn't work very well because it doesn't rain much there, and salt water seeped into the cisterns that were dug.
    But it rained Tuesday, and not that quick misty tropical rain that dries up almost as fast as it falls. It rained that cold, dreary all-day sort of drizzle. A rain like I expect  in England but never in the Keys. We saw more hours of rain on Tuesday  than in both the winters we've spent in the Keys put together.
     Nevertheless we had an enjoyable trip. The old brick fort is huge. It's surrounded by a moat walk that's like snorkling without putting your head in the water. The coral has built up along the moat wall and you can walk on top of it and just look down at beautiful plants and fish, like an aquarium at your feet.

      Fort Jefferson is most famous for being the prison for Dr. Samuel Mudd who was convicted of helping John Wilkes Booth assassinate President Lincoln. It was a Union fortress during the war, along with Ft. Zachary Taylor in Key West. But now it's a national park best known its bird nesting grounds.

You can walk around the fort on top of the moat wall.

     

Countdown begins

The sun is setting on another winter in paradise

    Yesterday wasn't just the ides of March. It was the three-month mark of our stay in the keys. We head for home in a little over two weeks.
    Yipes.
     There are still several things on my list that haven't been done. Like dinner at Square Grouper. Breakfast at Coco's. We haven't even made it to the Dry Tortugas.
      When we came down in December it seemed like we had plenty of time. We'll do that some day. And that too. We've done most the things that were on our list -- biking and kayaking and fishing, plus a play, a seafood festival, an art show, taking the bus to Key West and trying out several restaurants. We even did some great things that weren't on the list, such as the Key Deer Reserve Day Camp, a full-moon kayak trip and hearing author Tom Corcoran speak. But now as the final days count down, it's hurry, hurry, don't forget.
      I biked the path through the Saddle Bunch Keys today. Check that off.
      We are scheduled for the Dry Tortuga trip on Tuesday.
      We're frying up the fish in the freezer. Clearing out the pantry. And trying to find time to finish the books we brought and that Swedish weaving afghan that has been my TV time handiwork for two winters now.
        And I'm starting to make April appointments in Michigan. AD: After De Drive. I don't know if I'm ready for a chilly spring. But then it will be summer again and not enough time to do everything.
     

First Lady Fantasy

While Michelle's deep bangs and her Oscar appearance may be getting all the press, a one-woman stage show reminds us First Ladies have been graciously dodging slings and arrows for generations.

Tea for Three, written by Eric Weinberger and performed by Elaine Bromka, is playing to sold-out houses in Key West this weekend. I was able to nab a lone seat in the back row for my first theater visit of 2013.

In the 80-minute show, Bromka portrays the southern charm of Lady Bird Johnson, the regal reserve of Pat Nixon and the relaxed frankness of Betty Ford. She does a good job of capturing some of the mannerisms of each, enough to jog the memory and bring a smile of recognition. Perhaps her best moments are when Lady Bird talks like Lyndon or Pat mimics Dick, flashing a brief impersonation of the presidents and quickly transforming back to the First Ladies.

The script recalls a good sampling of events from the times and the differences between the three women. It's good to recall that Lady Bird, and women of her era, were proud to center their whole life on their husband's identity. Fans from Grand Rapids, would be delighted to hear Betty recalling her years as a model at "Herps." But if Tea for Three were to play Grand Rapids now, the right wing would shudder to recall that their favorite son, Gerald Ford, and his outspoken wife were from a time of  moderate, pro-choice Republicans who supported ERA and women's rights.

Time Marches On

Steve vacuuming up paint chips 

        What happened to February?
         One day it was January and the next thing I know, it's March.
          But March knows how to get your attention. You know what they say: In like a lion, out like a lamb. Of course, in the Keys, even a lion is a pussy cat. We're having a cold wave, which looks worse on the weather map than it feels, at least so far. It's about 70 and cloudy. Cool enough to wear long pants and long sleeved shirts. Not quite sweatshirt weather, but it will be tonight.
          I know this sounds like a mild complaint to those of you in northern climes where the cold front is bringing yet another snow storm. The problem with my new life...spending almost 4 months in Florida each year ... is that I forget that winter exists elsewhere. It's so easy to forget.
          We took advantage of today's chilly weather to finish scraping the fence. We are calling it the Tom Sawyer project. The place where we are staying is immaculate except for a peeling fence, so Steve and I decided to scrape and paint the front portion, sort of a thank you gift to the owners. Steve is nice that way. I also gathered up palm fronds today for tomorrow's pick up of yard waste.
           Feels like fall in Michigan.