Ups and Downs

Wow, one post a day after another. What is this, 2016?

We wound up doing something totally unexpected yesterday afternoon. A friend of Eleanor's had one of the leading roles in a community theater production Up The Transit in Lockport, and the Sunday matinee was the final performance. So off we went for close to three hours of the perfectly good schmalz that is Singin' in the Rain. I really remembered little of the film that inspired it other than (a) it having Gene Kelly dancing in it and (b) every. Bleeping. WORD. of the title song, sung by Gene Kelly dancing in it.  That's because for three years of high school, I was part of a roving band of Not Ready For Drama Club Players who called themselves "Have Cast Will Travel." And travel we did- to library basements, senior centers, nursing homes and Hadassah/Methodist Womens Society meetings to hey! let's put on a show for people who can't hear us!  (My friend Dennis and I did stand-up, including actual, although relatively clean, bits stolen from George Carlin albums.)  A highlight of every show was (I think) our fearless faculty leader, "Doc" Gemson, puttin' on the taps below, turnin' on the taps above, and singin', and dancin', to that famed title song played on a hidden phonograph. 

Well, I've now seen the whole show (quite faithful to the film, although the grumpy couple next to us walked out because they didn't think it was), and only now do I appreciate how appropriate it was that Doc lip-synced the whole thing.

He seemed old when I was in high school- and I was rather amazed, when his name recently came up with a much younger fellow faculty member of his (and still friend of mine)- that he made it to this century. Doc finally passed in 2000 at the age of 83, and it made the New York Times. I was proud that it noted his creation of the Have Cast schtick; I was shocked to find that he'd gone to law school but chose to teach two generations of smartasses like me instead.

Here's a sample of what the old biddies probably couldn't hear- a Doc original commercial for Perdue chickens:
Hi, I'm Frank Perdue,
My chickens are good for you
Eat my chickens as you grow up
And I guarantee you won't throw up
I'm really proud of my son Danny
He stamps "Frank Perdue" on each chicken's fanny.

Thanks. He's not here all week. Nor is the musical.

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And neither is my oldest sister.

I miss posting about a ton of birthdays, despite social media sending reminders, but July 23 can never go by without a recollection of my most missed of relatives.  This would have been her 79th, and our 30th without her.  I picture Sandy living near, but not with, one of her daughters- spoiling her grandchildren rotten- speaking out against the current horror of Washington with a sharp tongue and a sharper wit- and probably still getting into the occasional, but always happily ended, pitch battle with Donna or me over one stupid thing or another.  She'd have loved our cats, been afraid of our dogs and wouldn't have lasted five minutes in our back yard with all the bees we have back there.  But she'd still have shown up, and put in those five minutes.  We lost her way too soon, but we will never be a day without her.

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Well, maybe she wouldn't have been afraid of this dog.

Pepper started my workweek earlier today with a moment of sheer joy and slapstick comedy.  She was especially good yesterday and this morning- did fine in the dog park without her usual buddies along, gave us no trouble when we crated her for the duration of the musical, and was right at the back door to be let out when I got up this morning. So when we came upon a slow-moving squirrel of particular interest, I kept her on-leash, but gave her the rare chance to take a run at it.  Only then did I realize I'd picked the one tree on the entire block with a low enough branch for her to climb to and stay up on.

As the show we went to yesterday told us, Make 'Em Laugh:
 

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