A beginning, an end, and new directions.

It wasn’t until late in 2003 that I joined some of my old San Jose State University journalism cohorts and others in writing columns for this website.  Ron Miller and the “founding fathers” (yes, they were all male to begin with) created TheColumnists.com four years earlier.  I’ve known Ron for many years (in fact he married one of my college roommates!).  I also went to school with Jerry Nachman, another ‘founder,’ and a couple of the other writers.

It took me awhile to find my ‘niche’ in this writing collective.  Because I was traveling a lot at that time and had sold a couple of travel articles to newspapers, I thought that would become my specialty.  But I soon realized that just writing about travel was too restrictive.  Besides, other writers also wrote columns about their own travel experiences.

So, after trying out a few styles, I found that what I liked to write about most was…..me!  No surprise considering that my daughters have always considered me a diva.  But one of my favorite columnists is Jon Carroll of the San Francisco Chronicle.  He, like his cohort before him, Adele Lara, wrote what I’d call personal essays.  Jon never seems to know when an idea will strike him for a column, but when it does, he says he jots down a quick note on a sticky or something and files it away for the future.  I do the same thing, except that when I get an idea, I type a couple of words in an email and then file it in a computer folder labeled “Columnists.com.”

What I love about the personal essay, other than that it mostly allows me to write about me, is that – unlike my former occupation as a newspaper reporter — the usual rules of writing can be broken.  Fragments of sentences, for instance, are OK.  Exclamation marks, long considered something to be used only in dire circumstances, can be sprinkled liberally throughout a personal story! (Like that!)

In the past decade I’ve written about such diverse topics as tea, my wild-and-crazy dreams, country music stations way out in the boondocks, baseball players and their quirks, timeshares, RVs, stamps, the demise of newspapers, the joys of reading, what old folks talk about (the weather and everybody’s health), some of the unique cars I’ve owned, appreciating aerobics, toilets, Siskel & Ebert, “Jeopardy” (yes, the TV game show), sunshine, Zimbabwe, lots of stories about acting and the theater, and many more about the joys and pitfalls of aging.  I even wrote one column about what I wanted to have happen after I kicked the bucket!  Re-reading it now, I’m thinking that I still feel the same way about most of what I wrote, but I think I want to go back and tweak it a bit.

I’ve written some very personal things as well: My childhood remembrances of my stepfather Wes, the sorrow of losing my husband, Ray, the immense excitement and happiness at (finally!) having a grandson, and my good fortune in finding a late-life love to share my life.

Most people probably wouldn’t feel comfortable writing about such private matters, but that’s what a personal essay is: It’s personal.  And although it’s only about me, the writer hopes that readers will be able to identify with some of it in their own lives.

All told, I’ve written slightly more than 70 columns.  Not a very prodigious amount for 10 years.  By comparison, some writers (especially editor Ron) wrote several each edition so my total looks mighty minuscule.

It’s been a rewarding experience in many ways.  I’ve enjoyed the interactions with most of the other columnists, took pleasure in reading many of their columns and felt the kinship of other writers for the first time since I was a news reporter in the city room of a daily paper.  Even more important, this vehicle provided me with an outlet for the thoughts, opinions and causes I believe in.

So now it’s time to move on.  But it’s with a lot of fondness that I say adieu to TheColumnists.com.  Its ilk won’t come this way again anytime soon.

As with a number of the other columnists, I’ll continue to write, whether or not it’s for pay, in a newspaper or digital or a hybrid of both.  When someone loves and lives to write, you just can’t stop. Most of the other columnists also will find new ways to be creatively industrious.

As for me, I’ll continue to give my professional opinions via theater reviews and work on some longer pieces for the writing collective of which I’m a member.

Is there the makings of an entire book churning somewhere inside me?  Well, if so, it will have to be my memoirs!

Oh, yeah.  Once a diva, always a diva.

It’s not just my thumb that’s green.

Everyone tells me this is the “best” tomato season, but since I didn’t plant any, I figured I’d never know.  All I bought were three small zucchini plants at our local farmer’s market.  Right away the raccoons ripped them apart, but somehow I managed to salvage two of them, put them in clay pots and hide them away from where the raccoons go till they were big enough to fend for themselves.

I also used some kind of MiracleGro blue granules to feed them about once a week.  Probably I overdid it, because I’m one of those types of people who just throws in a dash of this and a splash of that when I’m cooking.  So I just poured what I thought looked like the right amount of MiracleGro into my gallon-container gardening can, filled it up with water and fed my plants and flowers.

Strangely, my tiny zucchinis started to go crazy, producing zuc after zuc, all with the loveliest yellow blossoms.  (In fact, I’ve now become quite an expert at making fried squash blossoms that are killer!)

But even that isn’t the really weird part.  I noticed a small plant growing near the one zucchini plant that was in the ground.  At times I thought it was a weed and had been tempted to pull it, but I decided to let it grow a bit until I could tell what it was.  What it was – and is – is a tomato plant.  Not just any tomato plant, but a “Little Shop of Horrors” ‘Feed me, Seymour’-kind of tomato plant. You DO remember the Audrey 2, don’t you?

Well, my Audrey 2 hasn’t just grown.  It has engulfed our backyard – overshadowing the zucchini plant and anything else in its way.  When I showed it to some friends a few weeks ago, one of them asked me if I was feeding it.  “Yes,” I said. “I feed it about once a week.”

“Well, stop,” he said.

I suppose that would have been smart, but I didn’t.

So good ol’ Audrey 2 has been rapidly growing and growing – and producing a whole lot of little teeny, tiny green tomatoes.  I’ve been ecstatic….for weeks now.  But the beach weather in good ol’ Aptos where I live hasn’t exactly been cooperating.  It’s been dreary, overcast, with an occasional burst of sunshine.  So my tomats are still…..green.

I could have been more patient but for the fact that we’ve had a month-long trip planned for the past year.  It wasn’t changeable.  And while we’re gone, our landscape guy is going to drag in a whole bunch of dirt and get our yard ready for a whole new look which we’ll start planting as soon as we get home.

So today I had the very unhappy experience of ripping out Audrey 2, pulling off the puny little green tomatoes, and hacking the rest of the plant to death.  It wasn’t a pretty sight, to say the least.

Yet…..I have hope.  As fate would have it, a gardening article a week ago said that if your tomatoes are still green and you have to pick them, here’s what you do:  Wrap each one separately in a sheet or two of newspaper, put them in a box or bin of some kind, cover them, put them under your bed and leave them there until Christmas!

I kid you not.

So that’s what I did.  The box is already stashed away, we’ll be heading out on our trip soon, and I’m not going to worry about my little ‘volunteer’ Audreys anymore.  I’ll be envy of everyone around when I bring out delicious-looking salads with red-red tomatoes that actually TASTE like tomatoes!

Either than, or I’ll have a smelly bin of rotten ones.

I’m going with the first alternative.  🙂

The worst, WORST day ever!

Have you ever had one of those days that you wish had never happened?  I’m talking like the Bill Murray “Groundhog Day” movie (except in reverse).  So, instead of having the same day happen over and over again, the really terrible day you had NEVER happened!  Well, that’s what last Wednesday was like for me.

It started off pretty well.  The drive over Highway 17 between Santa Cruz and San Jose was relatively benign.  It rarely is.  I mean: This is nearly the only road between those two cities and it is fraught with lots of twisty-turny roads, commute drivers intent on killing anyone and anything in their path that isn’t driving 70 MPH like they are – and there’s no end to tree trimming and roadwork crews who make life miserable for those of us who consider Highway 17 our lifeline to the rest of the world.

Anyway….I digress.  I met my daughter and grandson Thomas at a great park in Cupertino that had a rock-climbing wall, an area where water squirts up out of sprinklers in the cement at unsuspecting times, and the usual assortment of playground equipment.  It was a fun day, and even after my daughter left, Thomas and I stayed for a few more hours before heading back to his house.

That’s when all Hell broke loose (pardon the vernacular).

So, I’ve got the boy in the car seat, trying to figure out which way to go to get back on a freeway that will take us toward San Jose.  Sounds simple, but sometimes what seems like south is actually north and what I’m sure is dead east is labeled on the freeway sign as “west.”  Sigh.

Aha!  Apple headquarters is dead ahead, so now I kinda know where I am.  I have to make a U-turn at the light and then get on the freeway that says “280 south.”  Simple enough.  It’s now about 4:15 p.m. and I’m second in a line to make a right onto the onramp.  The white car in front of me stops, then turns right.  I do the same.

Oh, oh.  Two policemen are now motioning for both the white car and me to drive over on the shoulder and stop.  I’m flummoxed.  I have no idea why we are being pulled over, but of course I’m a law-abiding citizen (and I have my 5-year-old grandson in the back seat).  “Di….did I do something wrong, officer?” I ask with as much concern and girlish charm as I could muster in three seconds.  “There’s a sign that says you can’t turn on the red light after 3 p.m., ma’m ,” he says.  (God, how I hate to be called any derivative of the word ‘madam.’)

“Well, I’ve never been here before, you see officer, and I took my grandson to the park all day, and then I got turned around, and well….the white car turned right and I thought I could, too.”

All totally irrelevant reasons, I knew, but what’s a person to do on short notice?

So I got out the requisite driver’s license, proof of insurance, registration – all ship-shape because, well, I am a law-abiding citizen, ya know (and I hoped he’d notice!).

But, no.  He just took them and went back to his car hood, upon which he wrote out my ticket.  Still waiting to find out the damages for my little right turn.

But….that isn’t all.  After leaving my daughter’s house, I drove home and realized my gas gauge was getting close to empty.  I also had to pick up a few things at the store, so I did that and then waited in line at the gas station.  When it was my turn, I swiped my ATM card, selected “regular,” took the gas hose to put in my tank – and suddenly all the gas station pumps went dark.  I ran in to ask someone what’s wrong and they nonchalantly explained that there was nothing they could do about it – the station would be closed for 25 minutes or so, and I could come back afterward.

Fuming, I drove home, ate a quick bite, then angrily went back to the station to get my gas.  I was so upset (apparently) that after pumping my gas, I left my wallet sitting on top of my car and drove home!

Fast forward to 11 a.m. the next day.  A woman called from a nearby business to tell me that one of their truck drivers found a wallet “and a bunch of credit cards and things” scattered on a major thoroughfare.  He risked life and limb (practically) to pick up as many as he could.  Wow – until that phone call, I didn’t even know my wallet and cards were missing.  I dashed over to pick them up, thanking everyone there profusely and then started to try to figure out which cards were there and which were missing.  The driver did an amazing job – yes, a lot of minor cards were gone, but only one credit card.  It was American Express, so I called them and they told me not to worry – I have fraud protection automatically anyway.  They sent out a new card in three days!

In the meantime, I went to the road where the truck driver told me he had found my things.  I scoured the area several times – and even found a couple more things like my CVS card (big deal) and my healthcare card.  It was kinda smashed, but I have a duplicate anyway.

So….all’s well that ends well, I guess.  There could still be something that I lost that I don’t remember was in my wallet, but I’m guessing it can’t be too important or I’d remember by now.

In the meantime, I’d say it was a very obvious sign that maybe I’m stressing out too much about little things and not paying attention to what I’m doing.  Others might see it as a natural sign of aging.  Sigh…..

The Taming of the Shrew at UC Santa Cruz

By Joanne Engelhardt

For the Santa Cruz Sentinel

features@santacruzsentinel.com

{THROUGH SEPT. 1; The Stanley-Sinsheimer Festival Glen on the campus of UC Santa Cruz.  Performance schedule and ticket information available at www.shakespeareshantacruz.org}

It’s doubtful there are few people on the universe (or at least the Santa Cruz version of the universe) who aren’t familiar with William Shakespeare’s “The Taming of the Shrew” in all its iterations (theater, film, opera, and the musical version called “Kiss Me Kate”).

No matter.  The new production mounted by Shakespeare Santa Cruz brings together life, love, merriment and all things matrimonial in a fresh and delightful way.

At first glance, ”The Taming of the Shrew,” which deals with the subjugation of Kate’s identity to Petruchio, may seem archaic in this era of sexual equality. Sometimes directors choose to reposition the play to make it more about social role-playing and finding the right harmony in a marital relationship.

Edward Morgan’s take is to make the feisty dustup between the spirited Kate (a superb Gretchen Hall) and the proud Petruchio (debonair Fred Arsenault) into an amusing but unequal partnership.

Ms. Hall’s darting, sometimes-wounded looks make it apparent that Kate’s bad-tempered ways are likely due to the fact that she feels unloved by her father Baptista Minola (affable V. Craig Heidenreich), who dotes on his youngest daughter, Bianca (a rather bland Victoria Nassif).  The beginning of the story centers around the fact that none of Bianca’s many suitors can marry her until someone weds the shrewish Kate.

Enter Petruchio, who cares not a whit that Kate’s biting bark is harsh.  He even tells his innkeeper friend Hortensio (a somewhat aloof William Elsman) that if Kate’s dowry is large enough, he doesn’t care how dreadful her personality is.

This barely scratches the surface of a Shakespeare play where many characters play two, sometimes three, different parts; servants often trade identities with their masters for some (frequently romantic) reason, and everything is revealed at play’s end.

It just seems right that “Shrew” is performed outdoors in the marvelous festival glen.  During matinees, the sunlight twinkles and filters through the tall redwood trees, while at night, lighting from the sky and onstage add another dimension. Occasionally a single leaf falls silently, swaying in the gentle breeze.

Scenic designer Michael Ganio’s traditional mid-15^th century set features the inn on one side, a stone fountain in the center of the plaza, and a combination of doors with a second-story balcony that lead into several homes on the other side.  It’s functional and changes quickly from Verona to Padua and back with a few deft modifications.  For the wedding scene, garlands of flowers and a few tables and chairs are whisked on and off efficiently.

Both Arsenault and Hall are at their best when they’re at each other’s throats.  Although still seething, Hall doesn’t quite pull off the internal struggle Kate is going through and submits rather too rapidly to Petruchio’s harsh – even cruel –demands.  She looks so forlorn in her bedraggled torn and dirty wedding gown, hair stringy and in disarray that it’s difficult not to feel – shrew though she is – that she is the real injured party.

For his part, Arsenault revels in declaring that the tamed Kate is “my goods, my chattel, my ass.”  He shows up – very late — for his own wedding in the guise of a walking haystack with horns.  Fortunately Arsenault pulls off this kind of rude behavior because of his (occasional) fond glances at the disheveled Kate.  He also seems exceptionally comfortable with the sometimes-difficult sentence structure and words of Shakespearean verse.

But it’s the rich development of many of the supporting characters that give this production added depth.  None stands out more that Andrew P. Quick as the quirky, mischievous, juggling servant Biondello.  At first glance, Quick, who wears a knit cap with bouncy colored balls, is the spitting image of the San Francisco Giants’ Tim Lincecum.   But he’s even more of a magician than Lincecum when it comes to creating hilarity and tomfoolery.  Whether he’s rocketing up and down the aisles screeching “Aye, aye, aye, aye,” or rolling his eyes with a wink to the audience, Quick is consistently beguiling.

As wealthy, doddering Gremio (one of Bianca’s suitors), Kit Wilder stands out for his licentious laugh, his attention-grabbing finger twitching, and the clarity of his speech.  Elvin McRae as Lucentio (who later disguises himself as the Latin tutor Cambio in order to spend more time with Bianca) also does a decent enough job, though he might have tried to distinguish his character more noticeably.

In one brief scene, Charles Pasternak as the tailor leaves a strong impression, most probably because of his inane, over-the-top laughter.

There are no real weaknesses in the play, though it seems a waste of Mike Ryan’s considerable talents to play the minor part of Vincentio (who doesn’t appear until play’s end), and Robert Nelson’s Pedant seems mousy and isn’t assertive enough.

Authentic-appearing costumes are always so important in a period production, and B. Modern doesn’t disappoint.  The men look handsome or slovenly, depending on their bent, and the women’s dresses are appropriately coquettish.  But Kate’s wedding gown – first, finely made and shimmering, then soiled, ragged and disgusting – is a standout.

It’s especially necessary to have good sound for a play spoken in the King’s English. Fortunately, Ryan J. Gastelum is up to the task, so every word is heard clearly.  Peter West’s lighting design is equally effective.

But what theatergoers will likely take home with them most is a feeling they’ve been an onlooker to a few hours of high-spirited, brawling, fascinating life in Shakespeare’s time – and in a remarkable setting to boot.

Happy Days at Stanford University

By Joanne Engelhardt
For the Palo Alto Daily News

Going to a Samuel Beckett play is different than going to almost any other play.  It’s very likely to be somewhat bleak.  It’s certainly going to be quick-witted.  And some people will walk out before it’s over.

That’s just the way it is: Beckett isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

In the Stanford Summer Theater production of Beckett’s “Happy Days,” director Rush Rehm does his best to induce his audience to stay.  His finest enticement: The captivating and phenomenal Courtney Walsh as Winnie, who singlehandedly carries the play in more ways than one.  In essence, Ms. Walsh and her engaging Irish accent deliver an 85-minute monologue.

But in turning the two-act play into one act with the curtain drawn for about a minute to change the set, Rehm fails to factor in two things: 1) People need a short break to digest Act 1 before plunging into Act 2; and 2) In August it’s stifling hot in the small Nitery theater, so some people opted out when they couldn’t take the heat – or the long, albeit highly absorbing, monologue.

That Ms. Walsh is capable – in fact, highly accomplished – goes without saying.  Her incessant patter, punctuated by frequent exclamations of “No, nooooo!” are as engrossing as they can be considering that very little happens in this play because Winnie is encased in a soft, almost-feathery looking mound of brown earth.  In Act 1, the ground is up to her waist, so she uses her face, hands and upper body to convey a thousand thoughts.

She also has a large black satchel on her left side.  She playfully talks about taking something from it, reaches, then pulls back her hand and gives a little ecstatic shimmer.  It is the anticipation of what is in the bag rather than the item itself that gives her pleasure.

The audience learns that Winnie has a daily routine – one that she looks forward to because – well, because there is nothing else she can do.  A very loud-sounding bell tells her a new day has begun and, after a nod to prayer, she begins her nearly nonstop conversation.

There is only other character in “Happy Days”: Willie (Don DeMico), rarely seen, even less occasionally heard, but frequently mentioned by Winnie.  She has, as she points out, no one else to talk with, so even when Willie doesn’t answer or doesn’t come out of his never-seen hole, she still carries on as if he is engaged in her chitchat.  It’s truly impossible to judge DeMico’s performance because he’s on stage so little, though the back of his head and straw hat are visible as he’s reading a newspaper behind the mound holding Winnie. He wears a top hat and tuxedo nicely in the last scene, but basically, the character of Willie is simply to give Winnie someone to interact with on an occasional basis.

No matter.  Between Walsh’s considerable talent and Beckett’s words, many in the audience will feel sated.

It’s surprising to realize that watching a woman take out such ordinary items as a toothbrush, toothpaste, a nail file, a mirror, a music box and a gun (which she calls “Brownie) can be riveting theater.  It is – at least some of the time.  Is it fascinating to watch her pick up her little magnifying glass to decipher the tiny type on her toothpaste tube?  Well, no, but Walsh makes us think it is because she has to believe that what she’s doing and saying is meaningful.

At one point she says to no one in particular “The earth is very tight today…or perhaps I’ve put on flesh.” And when she tries mightily to turn her head around so that she can see whether Willie has gone into his cave frontwards or backwards, she laments, “I have a crick in my neck admiring you.”

But mostly she just does the same things she’s done every other day (although it’s never explained how long she’s been like that or, indeed, why).  But sure as the bell rings to proclaim day and another one for night, she will say at one point or other, “This will have been another happy day.”

But in Act 2, doubt creeps in. Now only Winnie’s head and neck are visible.  Her black bag is still by her side, but she has no arms to reach it.  She seems paler, less confident and when she says “Happy day,” she really doesn’t seem to believe it herself.  Instead, she busies herself by seeing whether she can see her own nose, her lips, her cheeks when she blows them out.  When she detects a slight noise, she says, “Those are happy days when I hear sounds.”

One critic believes that the sand is a metaphor for Winnie sinking inevitably “in the slow sands of time and disappointment.” Whatever the intent, Beckett shows the audience that Winnie’s end (and the play’s conclusion) is near.

Other than the mound of dirt, there’s very little in the way of set decoration (just a backdrop of distant plains, hills and endless sky).  Annie Dauber is credited with both set and costume design.  Other than Willie’s formal attire, costuming consists of Annie’s bright red and print dress, a blonde wig and red feather hat.

Anyone who knows Beckett will already have a pretty good idea of what’s in store at this production.  For others, be forewarned that it’ll likely be a sweltering night of quirky theater.

Theater review

What:  “Happy Days”

Where:  Nitery Theater, Old Union (Building 590), Stanford (near Stanford Bookstore)

When:  8 p.m. Thursdays – Saturdays; 3 p.m. Saturdays and 2 p.m. Sundays

Through: Aug. 25

Tickets:  $15-25; 650-725-5838 or www.sst.stanford.edu

Henry V at UC Santa Cruz

By Joanne Engelhardt
For the Santa Cruz Sentinel

features@santacruzsentinel.com

{THROUGH SEPT. 1; The Stanley-Sinsheimer Festival Glen on the campus of UC Santa Cruz.  Performance schedule and ticket information available at www.shakespeareshantacruz.org}

Who doesn’t like to watch a grown man snarling and gnashing his teeth while chewing on a large green leek?

While that certainly isn’t the main thread or theme of “Henry V,” it’s the one that resonated the most with the enthusiastic opening night crowd in the Festival Glen at Shakespeare Santa Cruz last Friday.

Yes, there are still epic battles (albeit mostly just alluded to onstage) and surprisingly few sword fights, but director Paul Mullins knows his audience well enough to also wring some lively humor out of the third play in the “Henriad” cycle of young Prince Hal, who is now Henry V (played by Charles Pasternak as a dashing, slightly egotistical, sensitive leader).

Make no mistake about it: This is Henry/Pasternak’s play.  He commands it, he steers it and he is onstage almost all the time.  His intense eyes demonstrate genuine concern for his loyal subjects, although he sometimes tests them to determine their fealty.

It’s somewhat jarring to see artistic director Marco Barricelli in modern dress as the “chorus” (narrator) because all other performers wear clothing of the 1500s.  But it certainly sets him apart as he sets up the first scene: “Two mighty monarchs eager to conquer each other.”  He also apologizes for the inadequacy of the stage and urges the audience to “imagine” horses and ships because there’ll be none in view.

In many ways, “Henry V” is a very accessible play.  Its language is down-to-earth, gritty and, for the most part, understandable even by non-Shakespearean scholars.  It almost seems logical when the long-winded Archbishop of Canterbury (an unexpectedly amusing turn by V. Craig Heidenreich who also plays French King Charles VI) tells Henry he has been denied his rightful claim to the French throne which was “usurped from you and your progenitors,” then sweetens this assertion by offering the church’s financial support.

It doesn’t take long for Henry to do away with three supposedly loyal earls and lords who are conspiring with the French to kill him.  He sentences them to death for high treason, they’re marshaled offstage and immediately there’s the sound of shots: One, two, three.  Done.

Afterward, King Henry, his brothers and devoted soldiers set sail for France.  But Shakespeare provides several diversions before battles ensue.  There are the three runabouts (lowlifes who have joined the English army): Bardolph (Nick Bilardello), Nym (wily Robert Nelson) and Pistol (the ever-entertaining Kit Wilder).  Together with a flirty Marion Adler as hostess Nell (doubling later as a French lady-in-waiting), the foursome provide comedic relief from the more serious scenes.

Besides King Charles, the French royal family includes Queen Isabel (the stately Gretchen Hall) and their vain older son, Louis, the Dauphin (a name Henry intentionally mispronounces as ‘dolphin’).  No one personifies Louis better than William Elsman, who treats the youthful king with disdain and persistently overestimates himself while underestimating Henry and the English army.  When Louis sends the king an insulting gift (two tennis balls), Henry decrees Louis is to blame for the upcoming war between France and England.

There are several more excellent performances here, in particular Nick Ortega as a common English soldier who argues with Henry (roving around the army camp in disguise) about the king’s responsibility to his men.  Conan McCarty as the Welsh captain Fluellen also is compelling.

Then there’s the beguiling, totally enchanting Beatrice Basso as King Charles’ daughter, Katherine.  Whether she’s attempting to learn the English words for parts of her anatomy or innocently feigning not to know that the tongue-tied Henry V – the soon to be king of both France and England – is professing his love for her, she is wondrously charismatic.

For this production, scenic designer Michael Ganio tweaks the outdoor stage by adding tall metal tinker-toy pieces that at times are used by Elsman to climb, swing and jump (with a nod to the famous front-of-the-ship scene in “Titanic”).  Ganio resourcefully uses three slanted ivory-colored sheets to emulate sails on the ship taking Henry to France, and when a scene needs changing (as after Henry’s angry soliloquy), Pasternak kicks over a chair, a sheet covers it, and action begins.

The “war” scenes are remarkably effective though they are simple stationary tableaus.  B. Modern’s costumes – especially the royal clothing (the French court wears all-white and gold), the armor, soldier’s uniforms and scumbag outfits – seem accurate.

And what of that green leek? Check out Pistol (Wilder) sitting stage center angrily chewing the veggie (and the furniture).  Now there’s an artist at work!

Damn Yankees at Foothill College

By Joanne Engelhardt
For the Daily News

They call baseball players the “boys of summer,” so how better to celebrate summer AND baseball than by taking in a family-friendly version of “Damn Yankees,” running through Aug. 18 at Foothill College’s Smithwick Theatre.

It’s based on the book “The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant” by  Douglass Wallop who, with George Abbott, developed it into an award-winning musical (seven Tonys in 1956) that ran on Broadway for nearly three years.  No doubt Richard Adler and Jerry Ross’ memorable musical score including “Whatever Lola Wants,” (You’ve gotta have) “Heart,” and “Two Lost Souls” contributed significantly to its success.

At Foothill, the large (35-person), exuberant cast features some excellent singing, acting and chuckles, despite a few casting missteps and sound problems.  But director Tom Gough keeps things lively with an earnest team of young ballplayers, a smart, heartfelt and passionate Daniel Mitchell as the young ballplayer Joe Hardy and a devilishly fast-paced Jeff Clarke as Mr. Applegate (i.e., Satan).

“Damn Yankees” tells the story of a middle-aged baseball fanatic Joe Boyd (a credible Matt Tipton) who agrees to sell his soul to the Devil for the once-in-a-lifetime chance to help his hapless Washington Senators baseball team beat the New York Yankees and win the pennant.  He’s miraculously transformed into young baseball phenom Joe Hardy, but in the end he realizes that it’s his sweet wife Meg (a wonderfully genuine Mary Melnick) and his former life that is most important to him.

While musical director Catherine Snider and her 13-piece band try mightily, some of the beautiful songs in “Yankees” are too languid and a few times are even off-key.  That’s unfortunate because then some of the dance numbers are too slow and the dance corp seems a little lethargic as well.

But there’s still a lot to enjoy about this production – starting at the entrance to the theater some of the “ballplayers” handing out programs.  Another nice touch: Prior to the curtain opening, the audience is treated to a soundtrack of typical ballpark noises (“Peanuts!  Get your peanuts here!”).  For pregame (show) announcements, a uniformed umpire steps out and announces, “Before we start today’s game, we need to go over a few ground rules.”

Tipton and Melnick start off the show on the right note as they sit in comfortable armchairs in their living room, with Joe Boyd glued to an unseen telecast of his beloved Senators loosing once again to the Yankees.  As his long-suffering wife, Meg, Melnick looks a shade too young to be middle-aged, but her caring demeanor and crystal-clear vocalizing are just right for the melodic lament “Six Months Out of Every Year.”  Although Tipton’s voice suffers by comparison, he is at least vocally adequate.

There’s a marvelous scene that requires split-second timing and it’s done very well here.  Once “old” Joe makes his deal with Applegate, he walks in the front door of his house to get his glove and baseball shoes, and then he walks out two seconds later as “young” Joe.  It was executed flawlessly.

Then the scene shifts to the Senators’ locker room and the dispirited ballplayers.  Their crotchety old manager Benny Van Buren (an exactly right Richard Lewis) admonishes them to keep trying and together they sing the moving song, “Heart.”

Clarke is a marvel at bringing energy and mischievousness to his scenes – and he’s got some great lines.  When a newspaper reporter asks him if he is anyone worth interviewing, he arches his eyebrow and says, “Not a soul,” and when Lola (Jen Wheatonfox) asks him how he is, he looks genuinely pitiful and says, “I’m overworked.”

It’s rather difficult to assess Wheatonfox’s take on Lola.  She has a lovely face and her voice is really nice, but still there’s something missing in her characterization.  It doesn’t help that for some reason costume designer Janis Bergmann sabotages her with clothes that certainly don’t belong on a Lola.  She’s supposed to be a femme fatale, not Little Red Riding Hood.  For “A Little Brains, A Little Talent,” Wheatonfox wears an unappealing too-long, flowered dress with ruffles – very un-Lola like. Only the sexy dress she wears in the last scene is in sync with her hussy persona.

Wheatonfox also has an unfortunate habit of looking directly at the audience when she is talking or singing to others onstage.  That’s a distraction.

As dogged reporter Gloria Thorpe, Caitlin Lawrence-Papp adds zest and confidence to every scene she’s in, and she has a strong, forceful voice to boot.  The two sisters, Doris and “Sister” Miller, Dana Johnson and Holly Smolik, garner the show’s best laughs as they experience heart palpitations and  exaggerated swoons falling all over the young ballplayer (Mitchell).  They look too young, however, to be Meg Boyd’s bridge-playing friends (perhaps some gray-haired wigs for both them and Melnick would help).

There are a number of actors who wander around the stage but don’t really seem to know what they’re supposed to be doing (nor does the audience).  It is certainly difficult to figure out what roles the two women in the blue suits have.

Despite a number of really good song-and-dance numbers like “Heart” and Act 2’s opening song “The Game” featuring all of the ballplayers, there are a few that could be cut (the limp mambo number “Who’s Got the Pain?” for one).  Although choreographer Katie O’Bryon relies some on Bob Fosse’s original choreography, in the “Two Lost Souls” number several of the dancers just look weird.

As Joe Hardy, Mitchell carries a lot of this show on his capable shoulders.  His stellar vocals (especially the sweet duet with Melnick, “Near to You”) as well as his sincerity and believability are just what this production needs.  He’s not bad at ad libbing, either.  During the Sunday matinee when a horrendous crash was heard not once, but twice while young Joe and Lola are sitting on a park bench,  Mitchell says “I guess God doesn’t like this deal” (with the devil).  It was priceless.

Margaret Toomey’s scenic design is simple, but pleasing, especially the 1950-ish front porch of the Boyd home and the Senators locker room.  It’s unfortunate, however, that 22 scene changes are called for in “Yankees,” because making those changes leaves some dead time onstage.

Ruth E. Stein does a yeoman’s job in rounding up authentic-looking 1950s-era props, and Edward Hunter’s lighting seems right (other than leaving Melnick in the dark while she is singing part of the opening number).  Ken Kilen has the monumental task of providing quality sound, but it’s a shame some of the singer’s mics don’t always work at the right time.

Despite these shortcomings, clearly “Damn Yankees” resonates with many members of the enthusiastic audience – both young and old.  And who doesn’t love baseball??

Theater review

What:  “Damn Yankees”

Where:  Smithwick Theatre at Foothill College, 12345 El Monte Road, Los Altos Hills

When:  8 p.m. Thursday – Saturday; 2 p.m. Sunday

Through:  Aug. 18

Tickets:   $12-$28 plus $3 parking; 650-949-7360 or www.foothillmusicals.com

Solemnity doesn’t suit me, so why not do it my way?

I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately, and not because I think I think I’m about to kick the bucket.

But a lot of our friends are, unfortunately. For the last two Mondays my husband and I attended services either celebrating the life of…. or memorializing the death of… In his usual, irreverent style, hubby said that maybe we should just start reserving all our Mondays for these events.

There was a big difference between the two services we attended, although both were in churches. The one that should have been the most solemn was actually quite a gay affair. Perhaps it was because the deceased, who suffered a massive heart attack and died at the all-too-early age of 53, was an actor…..a man who discovered only five years ago that he loved being on stage–the adrenaline rush of having to say the right words at the right time, all the while nonchalantly wandering around a set, picking up a water glass here, sweeping a broom there, or looking crestfallen when the script called for it. He didn’t look the part of an actor, but then who among us does other than Nicole Kidman and Jude Law? Ward stood about five feet tall and was about the same circumference as Humpty Dumpty. You couldn’t look at Ward without breaking into a grin.

Ward’s service was punctuated with lots of juicy stories of antics both onstage and behind the scenes from his fellow actors. The result was that we all walked out of that church with a tear or two, but a very warm feeling.

By contrast, the Catholic mass that was said for a wonderful history teacher who had suffered much from cancer seemed too solemn and formal. If it hadn’t been for the fond remembrances of one friend, very little would have been said about the Pat we all knew. Pat was the kind of a teacher whose students returned years later to say they learned their appreciation of history from her. She was also one of the most astute bridge players I’ve ever known.

I have to say I don’t think I’ve ever been to a funeral service that I felt came anywhere near close to what the absent honoree was all about. The closest was when our friend, Bob, died. He was a true American original who couldn’t be pigeonholed into any category. Also a teacher, Bob’s church service was chock-full of so many stories of his wild and crazy life that the minister almost let the whole thing get away from her.

I wish she had. What most of us wanted, really, was to be sitting around a big bonfire up on Bob’s undeveloped ranch outside of Yreka in Northern California. trading stories all night long about Bob’s loveably eccentric ways.

That ranch was the site of one of our most outlandish Bob memories. After discovering that he had built his barn a foot onto the property of his neighbor (who wanted it off his property or he’d sue), Bob invited us all to the ranch for a barn-moving party. He actually believed that if he could cut off the beams at the foundation and get a lot of trucks to pull it, the barn could be moved. No one thought it would turn out that way. We all just assumed the two-story barn would collapse when it was yanked.

Bob dumbfounded us all because the barn…moved! But the most extraordinary part of this whole adventure was when Bob decided to climb atop his barn roof, cowboy hat in hand, and yelp and scream ala Dr. Strangelove as the massive barn moving was attempted. Fortunately the cooler head of his wife prevailed, and he reluctantly got down before the barn moving began.

The upshot of all these death and dying thoughts is that I have compiled “Joanne’s 10 Cardinal Rules to be Followed After her Death.” I already have an Advance Health Care Directive, and a Living Trust–that’s not what this is. These Rules are for what happens “after”:

Rule No. 1: Nothing happens for awhile so that family and friends can get over the weepies and plan a great party.

Rule No. 2: Under no circumstances whatsoever is there to be any kind of ceremony involving a church, a minister or the singing of “Amazing Grace.”

Rule No. 3: Another “under no circumstances”–No one who doesn’t know me, has never met me or TALKED to me will be allowed to say a word ABOUT me.
I mean….really….why would you want that?

Rule No. 4: Whatever is planned (and I’m sure my daughters, hubby and stepdaughters will come up with a fine plan), it’s gotta be at a really cool location. Maybe outdoors depending on the time of year. If indoors, there can’t be chairs lined up in rows. We need chairs, yes, because people get tired of standing up all the time, but chairs and tables need to be scattered here, there and all around the square. If I think up a suitable location, guys, I’ll let you know before I go.

Rule No. 5: Since I always choose Broadway musicals whenever I want to listen to music, just put on a big stack of Cole Porter, Rodgers and Hammerstein, Sondheim (sorry, Ray!), Gershwin, Lerner and Lowe, and Streisand CDs–loud enough to hear but not so loud the music drowns out conversation.

Rule No. 6: I’m expecting a lot of you to tell funny stories about me. I think I’m a pretty funny person (my daughters will attest to all my peccadilloes), so I’d like you to share some strange, weird, cute or just plain zany thing I did or said that you remember (fondly I hope).

Rule No. 7: Absolutely NO floral wreaths, huge bouquets, etc. etc. It has always made me feel terrible that all those funeral flowers will die in a few days–what’s the sense in that? For goodness sake, people! Use your heads and make a donation to some really good cause–like maybe eradicating whatever is going to kill me. (Maybe if you had done that sooner…..no, I won’t go there.)

Rule No. 8: But……..I do love yellow, apricot and white roses, so I’m commanding that my family buy buckets and buckets of long-stem roses, and everyone who comes to my “event” (whatever it is) gets to take one as they leave. Oh, yes. And they have to smell really rosy!

Rule No. 9: Burial? Fagedabouddit! No way. I sure don’t cotton to the idea of people standing around a piece of dirt thinking I’m there–and I don’t like the notion of being put six feet under anyway. Nope….gonna do this my way. I want little boxes of my ashes offered to those in my family (friends, too) who want a part of me. I’d prefer they scatter me in their rose beds (so I’d always be coming up roses, sort of) or atop a high vista somewhere that’s warm, sunny, and has a great view of land and sea.

Rule No. 10: Never mind a No. 10. Nine’s enough.

I can just hear hubby Ray now. “Isn’t that just like Joanne?” he’ll chuckle. “She liked to control everything in her–and my–life. Now she even wants to control her after life!”

Well…..you can’t fault a girl for trying, can you?