Good People

CARDS AND CALLS

On our refrigerator there is a collection of holiday cards that we have accumulated throughout the year. The cards arrive at Christmas and Easter; there are hearts on Valentines day and ghosts on Halloween. Each one is handmade and signed Love, Uncle Jimmy.

Jim Ryan isn’t related to us, but that’s the role he plays as part of our extended chosen family.  Jim and I met at the Alabama Shakespeare Festival 25 years ago and he’s been present for many of my major milestones since.  When I moved to New York he made sure I knew I could call if I needed anything.  When I relocated to LA years later, he introduced me to his friends.  He checked on me when my mom was dying and helped me pack when I decided to return to Alabama.  We’ve celebrated birthdays, new jobs, and opening nights together.  Easy to talk to, I’ve cried on his couch on more than one occasion.

Born and raised in Michigan, Jim is one of three kids in a close-knit Irish-Catholic family. After college, Jim moved to New York where he taught at a private high school while pursuing his acting career.  He’s gone on to guest star on numerous television shows and has performed in the National tours of Les Miserables and Peter Pan, as well as in the Broadway revival of Annie.

GOOD PEOPLE

Jim is what my mother would call good people.  But thanks to his charismatic personality he also attracts good people.  When I was new to LA he invited me to Thanksgiving dinner where I was welcomed into his tribe of friends.  The next Thanksgiving, I reciprocated by hosting dinner at my apartment.  Before the day was over we were sitting in Debbie Gibson’s living room singing and playing the piano.  (My 12 year old self was very happy that day.)  It’s a story indicative of a day with Jim; you never know where you might end up.

Always thoughtful of others, he dutifully keeps a journal where he carefully documents birthdays and other meaningful dates in the lives of his friends and family.  I know that on my birthday there will be a call or a message; on the anniversary of my mom’s death I’ll find a simple Love you, Sweet Elyzabeth Gregory.

And when I got married Jim called to say that he was driving from Los Angeles in Mobile to be there.  I always knew that I’d walk down the aisle alone; no one could take the place of my parents.  But I asked Jim if he would escort me to the aisle.  His hand held mine tightly and then he leaned in and gave me the sweetest kiss.  Then when, just 15 months later, my husband said he wasn’t coming home for Christmas, Jim called to say that he was driving through on his way to Florida and wanted to stop in for a visit.  An hour later he was in my living room.  He was, quite miraculously, right there when I needed him.

RIGHT WHERE WE LEFT OFF

We meet for lunch in LA and even though we haven’t seen each other in 6 years, being with him feels safe and familiar.  We eat Argentinean food and catch up.  He always asks about my grandmother, who adores him.  We end up back in his apartment where we sit and talk about our friendship over the past 25 years: the jobs and the relationships that have come and gone and the fact that we’ve never had an argument.  When it’s time for me to leave he walks me to my car.  It takes us awhile to say goodbye because there always seems to be one more thing to say.

I wish we lived a little closer, so he could actively play the role of uncle to my daughter. He’s the kind of man you want in your child’s life.  But for now, we will savor the cards and the phone calls, and knowing that Uncle Jimmy is in our lives.

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Tea and Conversation: A Visit with Evalyn Baron

The summer I turned 11 my dad took me to New York for the first time.  Friends later told me that the trip to New York had been a goal he set, knowing he didn’t have long to live. He bought a package that included a stay at the Waldorf-Astoria, a tour of New York and tickets to a Broadway show.  It would be my first Broadway show, a musical adaptation of Huckleberry Finn called Big River.  We sat in box seats where with each song I fell more and more in love with the theatre. When we returned home I read the Playbill until I had memorized the bios of every actor.

Six years later I would be living in New York at a women’s residency in 13^th Street called the Markle Evangeline Residence for Women.  You were given two meals a day with your rent and clean linens once a week.  There we no men allowed past the first floor.  This gave comfort to my mother who allowed me to leave home just before my 17th birthday.  Owned by the Salvation Army, all of our phone calls went through their switchboard.  Calls were answered, “Salvation Army Markle Evangeline Residence for Women,” and to anyone unfamiliar with the place it sounded as if I was living in a women’s shelter.  It was home to law students, dancers from the Joffrey ballet, aspiring actresses, retired teachers, and four Russian prostitutes who usually arrived home just in time for breakfast.  It was in my little room that I wrote my first play.

When it was finished I submitted it to a local theatre company which included it in their festival of new work.  We rehearsed at the Dick Shea Studios on the corner of 14^th Street and 6^th Avenue.  The place was legendary: disembodied mannequins and toilets hung from the ceiling.  Like the first plays of many young writers, it was largely autobiographical.  The theater company that was producing the reading had assembled an impressive cast, including Evalyn Baron whose name I immediately recognized.  I ran home and pulled out my old Playbill and there she was; one of the actors from my first Broadway show would be performing my first play.

As we sat in the space listening to the play being read, watching as the actors found moments in the play and built relationships, Evalyn raised her hand.  “I don’t know what the conflict is in the play,” she said, bringing the rehearsal to a stop.  “If we don’t know what the conflict is, then we can’t know how to solve the problem.”

Looking back it seems so basic, but at the time I had never really thought about a story in terms of conflict and resolution.   It was one of my first lessons in writing.

In addition to Big River, Evalyn is a Broadway theatre veteran with a Tony nomination for Quilters, and appearances in shows like Les Miserables.  A gifted teacher, she has helped shepherd countless students into careers in the theatre as well.  A champion of young artists, Evalyn always has something encouraging to say.  She went on to direct a reading of my next play.  When she took some time away from New York she brought me down to the Barter Theatre for their new play festival.  Years later when I wrote the first draft of Gee’sBend, we sat in her living room on the Upper West Side while she read the entire play out loud to me.

Evalyn is a kind of Earth mother: gentle, warm and welcoming with an infectious laugh.  Ten years have passed since we last saw one another.  She left New York for San Francisco where she now spends her time writing.  While I’m in town opening a newplay, we make plans. 

The door opens and her arms stretch out to welcome me.  Even though Evalyn has never been a mother, she has a mother’s hug: the kind that envelops you and makes you feel certain you are safe and loved.  The home she shares with her husband is warm and inviting.  There is a grand piano, and books line the shelves.  Leaning against the wall in the hallway are posters of the shows she’s done over the years, little trophies that chronicle her life. 

Over tea in her front parlor our visit turns into a confessional as we catch up.  I unload on her the questions I’ve been trying to answer about my career and my future.  I tell her about my marriage that failed and how I struggle to be a good writer and a good mother.  She asks what she can do to help and I know that her offer is heartfelt. And unintentionally, our conversation connects back to that lesson she taught me all those years ago.  “If we don’t know what the conflict is, then we can’t know how to solve the problem.”  

Two days later she and her husband are in the audience for my opening, filling in for the family who aren't there.  Now she is watching my work on the stage.  At the end of the show she takes my hand and gives me an affirming smile.  An encounter that began almost 30 years ago, with a kid who got swept up in the magic of the theatre, has come full circle.  

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