by Cheryl Peck
It served my purposes as well. I never needed to learn how to deal with the butterflies and the nerves and the upset stomach and the terror of forgetting everything you were supposed to do just as the audience sets you in their sights, because I never did it. I played Jo March in a sixth-grade production of Little Women, reveled in the limelight, and never stepped out on the stage again. I was a theatrical has-been at twelve.
Recently I have been writing more—shorter pieces that can be read in five or six minutes—and I have acquired friends who not only enjoy my writing, but enjoy hearing me read. When I mention I have written more, they request I read it to them aloud. This evolved, gradually, into the notion that I might read some of my work for the Phoenix Community Talent Show. I volunteered. It seemed like a good idea in February, when I had months to prepare and when I concentrated most of my efforts on writing the piece I might read. A month or so later it occurred to me I had volunteered to stand up, alone, in front of a veritable crowd of people, and perform.
Panicked, I chased down every friend I could find, tied them to a chair, and forced them to listen to me read my piece. My friends were all suitably supportive, but I knew in my heart that addressing a large crowd could be significantly different from reading to two or three people at a time. The response could be more/or less/or hostile/or flatline.
It could (Goddess forbid) be difficult.
But I had given my word, so I sweated through the program (having discovered I was second to the last to perform), and finally it was my turn to go backstage and hatch butterflies.
As I stood behind the curtain I remembered a conversation I had had earlier with a friend. She had just received permanent Michigan custody of her father’s car and she had just driven it for the first time here in this state. Before his death her father lived in California and both before and after his death she had driven his car in California—but suddenly, this evening driving the car had been difficult. Her father became more dead. She was driving stolen property. I told her that there had been a time when I had believed that grieving for someone was a one-time, get-it-over-with event and that after my mother’s death I had been surprised to discover that over the years the experience changes, but it never really ends. There will always be something to remind you that this significant person in your life is missing a significant event she or he should have shared.
As I stood there behind the curtain I thought, “Of all the time you’ve been gone, Mom, this is the one night you really should have been here. After all the anger and confusion you felt over the anger and confusion I wrote so bitterly about while you were alive, it might amuse you to realize the things I write about now are actually funny. After all the concern you expressed over the fact that I never seemed to have a sense of who I was or where I was going, it might reassure you to realize that now—however late this is in my life—I am learning to hear and express my own voice. This is something you should have seen.”
I stepped out onto the stage, making some lame note of introduction and I felt the audience hesitate, catch the humor of my remark and then laugh, and I remember thinking, “Well, we were right about that—this is NOTHING like reading to my friend Annie over her kitchen table.”
And I stepped back and let my mother read.
about the author
CHERYL PECK lives with her cat, Babycakes, in Three Rivers, Michigan, where she does not grow tomatoes and rarely sits in lawn chairs. This is her first book. Cheryl originally self-published the book for her family and friends through a friend’s vermicom-posting and publishing company. This way if the book didn’t sell, she could always use it for worm bedding.
*Do not try this at home.
I write to be amusing. However, for the water-impaired: the number one rule in moving watercraft, whether it is an inner tube or a cigarette boat is never, never, NEVER grab any stationary object while in a moving water vehicle. Never. If you have any doubts, get in the front of Bob’s canoe and listen to his minute-by-minute instructions down the river. It will be quite clear by the time you reach shore again.
Even clearer if you’ve gotten him wet.