The Play’s the Thing

I’m going to sound like a namedropper but I just came back from a week of hanging out with four prominent, award winning playwrights; Lee Blessing, Stephen Adly Guirgis, William Mastrosimone and John Pielmeier.

These four artists educated, critiqued and inspired sixteen aspiring playwrights – including me – at the National Playwrights Symposium at Cape May Stage in Cape May, NJ. If you love theater then you have surely seen some of their work. For example, Peilmeier’s “Agnes of God;” Blessing’s “A Walk in the Woods;” Guiris’ “Our Lady of 121st Street,” and Mastrosimone’s “The Woolgatherer.”

Although these playwrights, and others like them, routinely consort with A-list actors, and Broadway and Hollywood producers, they seem void of any over-blown self-importance. They walk the streets of New York or LA without paparazzi in tow. They thrill to see their plays performed yet they know theatergoers tend to remember the title, and the actors, but not necessarily the playwright. Most need day jobs in order to support their love of writing.

Playwright Shawn Fisher (no relation) and Roy Steinberg, producing artistic director of Cape May Stage, organized the symposium. The students ranged in age from 20 to retirement, and we bonded as though we had been friends since high school. Our days began early in the morning and ended well past midnight. We read each other’s monologues, dialogues, three-minute plays and any other creative piece for which we craved an audience. We critiqued each other’s work, giving suggestions to make it better.

My promise to my blog followers is that when I get word that one of these bright, creative artists has a play produced, I will let you know. For starters, and I do mean for starters – Shawn Fisher’s “How to Make a Rope Swing” is playing at Cape May Stage from now until June 7.

Treat yourself.

23
May
2013

Rethinking Recycling

I once had a student write a paper on the need to recycle plastic water bottles and right after she turned in her essay, she unthinkingly tossed her water bottle into the trash.

I didn’t single her out at the time but I have since used this as a “teachable” example. Why didn’t I tell her? Because as hard as I try and as much effort as I put in to make sure I honor the environment by creating no more waste than I absolutely need to, I sometimes get a little sloppy.

And maybe even a little hypocritical.

Here’s what I mean: I stopped buying paper plates and paper napkins years ago and use only china dishes and cloth napkins. However…the only type of car I have driven for the past 15 years is an SUV. I’m not proud of that fact though I justify its use by claiming I need the cargo space. After all, I am always picking up flowers and plants for gardening, and piling suitcases, beach chairs and food in the back when I drive to the beach. Oh, and there is at least one day each year I actually need the space to transport that funky chest of drawers I find at a flea market.

I am a whiz at recycling bottles – even if it means throwing them in my purse until I get home and can place them in my recycling can. In fact, I more often than not carry a reusable water bottle, but every once in a while I like the convenience of plastic. However…again….I am obsessed with my Keurig – and those totally unrecyclable, unreusuable, plastic K cups.

I would never purchase any light bulb that isn’t marked “energy saving” and I never complain when it takes several minutes to reach its desired intensity even as I trip over the shoes on the floor of my closet looking for my navy blouse. However…I frequently forget to turn off my laptop.

I consider myself sensitive to the environment, and, in fact, some might call me a tree hugger. Some of my habits are exemplary such as my refusal to buy paper goods. Yet my other habits, like those moments I am just too tired to tear my address off the junk mail (for identity privacy) and throw the address in the trash, and the mail in with the recyclables, are worth breaking.

I do my best. And although I try to not judge the folks who do less, I still believe we should make every attempt to preserve the environment. Not only does every little bit help, but each time we do one small thing – like toss a bottle into a recyclable container – our subconscious mind takes note of our effort.

And if that happens enough times, I might even remember to turn off my computer.

03
Apr
2013

Those Stouffer Girls

 

Every so often I find myself reminiscing rather wistfully about a restaurant that figured prominently in my growing up. If “sweet rolls,” themed dining rooms (one on the Main Line appropriately called the Tack Room) and “Stouffer Girls” mean anything to you then you know what I’m referring to.

Today must of us know Stouffers only as the frozen food subsidiary of Nestle, a fact which does little to illuminate its origins. In fact, Stouffers began as a creamery business in 1922 in Medina, Ohio by Abraham and Mahala Stouffer, who quickly expanded it to a dairy stand in Cleveland.  Within a couple of years their two twenty-something sons, including one who graduated from Wharton, joined the company, growing the business into a full scale restaurant. After finding retail success in Cleveland, they began opening restaurants in Detroit, Pittsburgh, New York, Philadelphia and other cities. There were no waitresses, only “Stouffer Girls,” all impeccably well groomed and trained.

One of those Stouffer Girls happened to have been Dorothy Fisher, my late mother-in-law. Long before I joined the Fisher family, Dorothy had proudly lined up with other “Girls,” all of whom were dressed in uniforms as tidy and pressed as a Marine’s, and who held out their hands to display meticulous, manicured fingernails. Only then could the restaurant open for business. Ultimately, Dorothy became a manager, AKA a drill sergeant with a pleasant disposition, who supervised the dress rehearsal.

I was well aware of the restaurant chain as a child, having eaten at the Wynnewood, Pennsylvania locale with my family at least weekly for as many years as it remained in business.  There were three dining rooms, each with its own theme and décor. The menu changed daily but one reassuring constant was the offer of “hard roll or sweet.” We’d always ask for one of each, and smiling, the “Stouffer Girl” would place one sourdough and one sweet onto our bread plates. The sweet roll was always saved for dessert. It was lunchtime at the Wynnewood Stouffers where I first observed clusters of silver-haired widows sipping martinis.

When I graduated from college and moved to Philadelphia to become a news reporter, I used to meet my grandfather, Robert Schultz, and sometimes my sister, Susie Schultz (who coincidentally married a man with the same last name as our mom), at one of the Center City locations.

Local celebrities could be found dining at Stouffers during lunch or dinner. And my grandfather, who used to sell men’s clothing at Lit Brothers’ Department Store, knew all of them. Our meals were frequently interrupted by politicians, often ones I had tried unsuccessfully to reach for a news story, who stopped by our table to acknowledge Bob Schultz.

Short of this blog sounding like an advertisement, I need to explain that I own no stock in the company. I can’t even say I can remember the last time I ate Stouffers frozen foods. I can only say this: An old restaurant chain – a level between a diner and high end gourmet establishment – brings a smile to my face every time I think of it.

That, and it makes me crave cheesy macaroni and spinach soufflé.

08
Jan
2013

Election Day: A Bit Like Camp

 

As election season comes to a close – my mute button couldn’t take much more – I can’t help but equate the passion-driven loyalty to one side or another to overnight camp.

Decades ago when I was a camper my favorite time all summer was “Color War,” now deemed politically incorrect lest we encourage our children to like “war.” The “color” part had to do with the camp’s colors. In my case, blue and gold. For one solid week entire bunks were split, families were separated (my sister and cousins were on different teams) as we ate, played and competed as a team.  There were competitions in all sports, sing-offs and activities like treasure hunts and skits.

It got intense.

For seven consecutive summers whether I was on the blue team or the gold, I lost. But it never stopped me from going back the following summer and embracing Color War with as much enthusiasm and effort as I had previously displayed. I wouldn’t always lose. Right?

In my eighth time experiencing Color War, though at a different camp and one where I was a young counselor in training, I was selected as a general of one team. My best friend from childhood and a phenomenal athlete who I had competed against for years, Barbara Levin, was made the general of the other.

We competed head to head in a number of events, including one sprint which, after years of Barbara always coming in first, I finally prevailed despite slipping on a muddy patch.

At the end of the week, when the votes were tallied and all the points collected, the winner was announced. My team! I can still remember the feeling, jumping up and down, crying, everyone looking at me like I was ridiculous and overreacting. “But you don’t understand.” I retorted. “I never win! I lose every year!”

Still, it was just Color War;  week of activities at camp.

At the time I didn’t realize that the experience of losing, and very rarely winning, would ultimately help me appreciate political elections. Not all of my choices came out as victors last week, but that won’t stop me from feeling just as passionate the next time around.

Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose.

The operative word being “sometimes.”

 

13
Nov
2012

Marie Colvin, Cub Reporter

She impressed me even then. Twenty-two-years-old and fresh out of Yale, Marie Colvin came to me looking for her first journalism job. As New Jersey state editor for United Press International, I hired her on the spot. I knew greatness when I saw it.

Marie, who served as a war correspondent for The Sunday Times of London, was killed yesterday during a shelling of the Syrian city of Homs, possibly the most dangerous place on earth right now. She was 56. The besieged citizens of Homs had cheered her arrival and that of photojournalist, Remi Ochlik, hoping that their horrific stories would finally appear on the world stage. Sadly, Ochlik was also killed.

No stranger to danger and seemingly having little fear, Marie was recognizable for the eye patch she wore. She had been covering the atrocities in Sri Lanka when in 2001 a grenade attack took out her left eye. Even an injury such as this did not deter Marie from her mission to report on the “real” events, no matter how dangerous. Many of the comments I’ve read online about her death say when one puts oneself in harm’s way like this, one has to accept the consequences. No one forced her to go into a war zone, they say, as if somehow this makes her death and others like hers, more acceptable.

I wish I could feel that way, too, but instead I keep picturing this beautiful, brilliant young woman sitting at the computer in our small bureau tucked inside the Trenton Times building.

She often worked the 6:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. shift at UPI and always greeted me with a smile. No hour was too early for her, no story too dull or too difficult. I knew I could always count on Marie to handle everything assigned to her with professionalism and enthusiasm.

All journalists survive on caffeine and Marie was no exception. She was so dependent on coffee that the first thing she did every morning was fill a king size mug of coffee and take it into the shower with her.

She was laid back, acting calm under wire service deadlines and breaking news and bringing serenity to a frenetic newsroom. Even her personal life had a peaceful quality to it.  She’d tell me stories about her large family with whom she was so close. Working one Christmas Eve day I asked her if she had finished her Christmas shopping. “I haven’t started yet,” she replied. “Marie, you get off at 3:30, have to catch a train to New York and the stores close at 6 p.m., how will you get it done? It’s not possible!” In her usual modest, self-assured manner, she told me, “I will.”

The next day I saw her at work and asked how many gifts she had managed to buy before the stores closed. “All of them,” she told me. “There was never any doubt.”

The truth is I had no doubt either.

In a world that values knowledge, awareness and a free press, we have lost one of the very best. My deepest sympathies go out to her family.

23
Feb
2012


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