As introverted and retiring as I am now, I was much more so back in 1975.
Read More

I guess I ended up with the wrong set of genes for my theatrical fantasies, but I’m really enjoying watching my granddaughter perform.
Read More

In Minnesota, winter is both a threat and a reward.
Read More

We'd not gotten halfway when the motor started to choke and sputter. A few minutes after that, the storm was upon us.
Read More

After I married and moved to the Boston area, I stayed away from Detroit for a long while. Once I had children, the urge to share happy venues from my childhood lured me back. My father died suddenly when my second child was just eight months old, on January 3, 1990. We had the unveiling (Jews don’t lay the headstone during the funeral, but sometime later, between six months and a year after death) in June of 1990. At that time, I took my kids on an extended trip back home.

At the beginning of the trip, we stayed with cousins in suburban Birmingham. One afternoon, I visited my Aunt Ann (grandmother of my hosts) in her lovely Southfield high-rise apartment. My mother joined us. We could see the dark clouds roll in, so I kissed my aunt goodbye and quickly gathered up my children; Jeffrey, now 13 months and David, just shy of 5 years old. Mother hastily fled to her near-by apartment.

We only had about a 20 minute drive up Greenfield Road, but the heavens opened up. The Midwest is flat and known for its violent summer thunderstorms. It began to rain buckets. Directly in front of my windshield I could see huge bolts of lightning flash from the sky to the ground, repeatedly, followed by the loud crack of thunder. I tried to remain calm in front of my young children. The sight was impressive, if a bit frightening. I drove cautiously to avoid hydroplaning my rental car. I slowed to a crawl.

By the time I made it back to my cousin’s home the storm had almost passed and my mother’s frantic phone messages were waiting for me. I reassured her. The kids had had quite the light show.

We actually had a wonderful visit with relatives on both sides of the family; were joined later by Dan and my brother’s family for the unveiling. And I began taking my children back to Michigan for several more extended visits.

 

In the universe of trauma, it seems pretty trivial to describe a childhood horror movie.  Looking back now, it is hard to believe that I would be terrified by the old sci-fi low-budget 1950’s film, “The Blob”.  I was surprised to learn from Wikipedia that it was Steve McQueen’s acting debut, and music was by Burt Bachrach.  Not a critical success at the time, it nonetheless holds a place in the pantheon of B movies as a modest retro icon.  We can all laugh at how the creeping blob turned increasingly red as it swallowed people up.  Ha ha.

Perhaps it is the nature of trauma that it is intensely personal and often private.  I saw the film when I was seven.  I was spending the night down the street with my best friend at the time, Phyllis.  She had an older brother, George, who talked us into the trip to the movies at some local ex-pat, maybe even military, venue in Saigon.  It hadn’t been part of the plan when my parents said it was okay to do the overnight at Phyllis’ house–which I think they didn’t completely encourage as the parents were conservative military types they didn’t click with.

I knew the story wasn’t real, but the quivering pinkish blob that hid under a bed or behind a door and grew larger after devouring people was a perfect monster for a child, something that went bump in the night but even creepier.  George didn’t seem scared at all, and I didn’t want to be a cry-baby, but I was truly frightened.  When we returned to Phyllis’ house, I couldn’t sleep.  We shared a bed, and every rustle of the bedclothes made me think it might be the blob coming to get me.  I left the next day, and never said a word about my terror.  I’m not sure my parents even realized we had gone to the movies.

The traumatic part was that I couldn’t shake the fear.  Every time my mind would wander back to the film, I would get a deep and sharp pang of dread inside.  It seemed embarrassing to admit and so I didn’t tell anyone about the terror that lurked within—not my sisters, my parents, a teacher or even Phyllis.  It also didn’t go away—not for a week or a month, but for a couple of years, even after we had been back in Michigan for some time.  It was my own terrible secret that haunted me.

Eventually I was able to move on, maybe just due to being a bit older and having more distance on the experience. It was replaced by fear of nuclear annihilation, fascism, and climate catastrophe I suppose—oh to have only a scary movie to fear.  I feel lucky that it was just “The Blob” and nothing worse that became my private dark and terrible secret in my childhood years.  I can scarcely imagine the pain so many children carry from far worse trauma, but I know it can be hidden, and I know it is important that we listen to traumatized children (and older people) who are able to share their stories.

 

Note:  Per Wikipedia, this trailer is in the US public domain because it was published there between 1928 and 1977 inclusive, without a copyright notice.
(See https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_Blob_(1958)_-_Trailer.webm)

Like so many very shy youngsters, I was drawn to the theater at a young age as a way to hide myself by exploring other identities. Elaine Zeve, my dear second grade teacher, saw something in me and encouraged me to explore other characters to become more self-assured. This story will be a pictorial review of my acting career from 1963-college, when it drew to a close.

I grabbed this photo of myself as Gretel from 5th grade in the all-school production (K-8) from my father’s home movies. He had me put on my costume and act out a scene in our living room so he could capture me for his movie. The choir sang all the parts, but I acted the role and was thrilled to be cast for the sold-out show.

The Featured photo depicts me as Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz” at a Jewish overnight camp: Camp Nahelu, which I attended for two summers before heading north to the National Music Camp in Interlochen, Michigan. You can see my name on the program and I carry my brother’s terrier stuffed animal as Toto. It was my first singing lead. I was 10 years old.

As a Junior Girl at the National Music Camp in 1964, I was in Drama Workshop. We did not put on any productions. In Intermediate Girls, the next two summers, we had to choose between majoring in Drama or Operetta, as they met at the same time. I always chose Operetta, so was in the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta both summers, directed by Dude Stevenson and Mel Larimer. We performed in full costume at 4 weeks and did a “knicker production” (no costumes, limited staging, no professional photos) at 8 weeks. I was always in the chorus. I have a decent voice, but not good enough for a lead.

I am standing on the right, front row, second person in. We are wearing black wigs, but the kimono was my own, brought by my aunt from a trip to Japan.

I am on the floor down front, gazing longingly at Captain Shaw, face in profile. We are fairies. Iolanthe is my favorite of the G&S operettas. They all have silly plots, but the music is lovely.

I went to high school in 1966 and had an opportunity to appear in plays at my school, as well as camp. I never had a lead in high school, but always worked on makeup, becoming the head of that department, planning  and implementing the makeup for all the large shows at the school.

I was not accepted as a drama major that first summer in HSG division (I was the next summer), so put together a series of other classes. Operetta was no longer a major and over 100 students participated in the late afternoon fun class, including instrument majors. It was just great to be in the chorus with Dude and Ken Jewell (a renown Michigan choral conductor). At this point, the leads were on their way to careers in opera.

 

I was a “player” in the play within the play. You can see me behind Gertrude, upper left of the photo

Off to Brandeis in September, 1970, where I majored in Theatre Arts. I appeared in various shows (including more Gilbert and Sullivan) where, as I grew in confidence and technique, I did have leading roles.

On the right end of second row; student written and directed show

Chorus, Sophomore year

As I wrote about in Follow the Fold and Stray No More, I gave up the acting dream after this performance. I student taught first semester of my senior year (of course – drama and acting), so was unavailable to even audition. Second semester, my closest friend, Michael Allosso, cast me in two of his shows in the small “Theater 3”, used for student directors at the time. I was Clea in “Black Comedy”, the ex-girlfriend who shows up to provoke mischief. For his Senior Honors Thesis, he directed (in Spanish), “An Evening with García Lorca”. One of the poems he acted out was “Le esposa infiel” (The Faithless Wife). This is a famous, multi-stanza blank-verse poem. Michael had a guitar player, seated at a table, with a glass of wine, strum a classic “Malagueña”, while I danced (choreographed by another mutual friend), acting out the poem with my dancing, to stunning effect as someone else recited the poem.

By this time, I was known as a top stage manager and was recruited to stage manage the complicated production of “Lenny” in Theatre 2, which at the time was a black box theater. It was set up with wagons to pull set pieces on and off the stage to become the night club where Lenny performed (nothing automated in 1974). It had over 200 cues. My “prompt book” (the master script with all the stage directions, cues for stage and light calls) was huge.

Also, the director and costume designer did not get along, so I was their go-between. The grad student cast as “Hot Honey Harlow” (not the real name of Lenny’s wife, but he did marry a stripper, as portrayed by Valerie Perrine in the multiple Oscar-nominated 1974 Dustin Hoffman movie), was not comfortable in her own body, so the director asked me to teach her how to walk in heels and a bikini. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the Theater department considered this project to be my honors thesis and I was awarded departmental honors for it. I gave my original program to the Lenny Bruce archives when they were donated to Brandeis a few years ago.

Later that summer, the show transferred to a professional theater in Boston with the same director and leading man. The director came to visit me in our first apartment; we were newlyweds in the summer of 1974. He asked for my book, but did not offer me the job of stage manager. I was not a member of Actor’s Equity (the professional union), so could not get the job. I was livid, but eventually, gave up my precious book. He gave us free tickets to the show. That is the closest I’ve been to the inner workings of the theater in almost 50 years.

Captain

Born in a small town in New York’s Catskill Mountains,  my father remembered dancing around a bonfire as a six-year-old to celebrate the 1918 armistice.

Two decades later when the US entered WWII he enlisted in the Army as a newly minted physician.   Assigned to the Charleston,  SC  Port of Embarkation,  he was entitled to officer housing and allowed to bring his wife, and there in an Army hospital I was born.

My dad made many trans-Atlantic crossings on troop ships taking soldiers to the European and African theaters of war,  and returning with the wounded and the dead.   On the home front my mother worked in an Army office handling supply orders.   Every time my father sailed she feared she might never see him again,  their generation facing  a danger I hope I’ll never know.

I have no memory of the war and was just a toddler when my father returned,  and over the years he seldom spoke about his service.  But unlike veterans returning from more recent,  unpopular,  and unnecessary wars,  it was with pride and joy my dad was welcomed home from a war he believed was worth fighting.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Lost Child

For many summers when our son was young we rented a beach house in the Hamptons.   (See Skinny Dipping and The Great Hampton Babysitter Heist)

One summer day when he was three or four we were on the beach when the kid went missing,   We may have thought the other one had eyes on him,  or maybe we were just horribly irresponsible parents,  but in any case at one point we realized he was gone!

We were confident we’d taught him never to go in the water without us  – we weren’t THAT irresponsible,  but where was he!   Frantically we told the lifeguard we had a lost child and were asked for a description.

“A boy, brown hair, blue eyes, a yellow bathing suit,  and a white sunhat – or maybe he’s not wearing his hat – and maybe he’s carrying his pail and shovel.”  I answered,  my panic growing by the minute.   And then my husband and I went running down the beach in opposite directions calling his name.

Soon the lifeguard came hurrying toward me.   “A lifeguard on the next beach has a lost boy but he has blond hair and a red bathing suit so I guess he’s not yours.”  he said

Desperately trying to convince myself this was my child,  and that I’d simply forgotten what he looked like,  I almost told the lifeguard,  “I’m not sure,  but we’ll take him!”

Postscript

Thankfully my husband found him in the dunes happily playing with his pail and shovel.   What an irresponsible kid!

– Dana Susan Lehrman