• absorbing the words

    It’s always astounded me, the sheer quantity of lines that actors shovel into their brains and back out their mouths. Memorization does not come easy to me, so when I first read through the script, yellow highlighter in my cramping hand, I kind of freaked. How was I possibly going to absorb all those words? With no idea how to proceed, I simply started reading the lines, hoping they’d stick.

    Because I’m not allowing my husband to read the script ahead of time (he prefers to be surprised when he sees the play), and because I don’t want to spoil the fun for anyone else who might come see it, I didn’t have many options for study partners. With the sometimes-unusual Irish turns of phrase, my younger children had trouble spitting out the lines fast enough to suit me; plus, I was concerned they wouldn’t be detail oriented enough to catch my slip-ups. So that left me with my older son (and my mother and a girlfriend who both chipped in once or twice, bless their hearts). I’d drag him out to the porch or corner him in his room to make him run lines with me, our voices quiet so my husband wouldn’t hear. My son was good at it, making me run the longer phrases over and over and over until I flew through them … and then he’d make me do it once more for good measure, the stinker.

    Over the course of a couple weeks—the amount of time it took me to get off-book—I started to notice a method to my memorization: consonants and alliteration and alphabetizing. I was breaking the sentences into sounds and then linking them back together. For example, in my line, It’s not funny, with the Celtic Tiger belly up and people leaping off castles and cliffs, I hear the three “c’s,” and I keep castles and cliffs straight by remembering they’re alphabetized.

    Here’s one I’m having trouble with right now:

    Anthony: Feelings are useless.
    Rosemary: It’s worse in a man. I can’t stand a man with feelings. 

    I can never get that first sentence started, so connecting the “s” sound in “useless” with the “s” sound in “worse,” which is then followed by the “s” is “stand” and “feelings,” helps me to keep things straight; the “s” is like a ribbon, tying the idea into a bundle. I also have trouble remembering “It’s” and “I.” I haven’t worked that one through just yet, but I’ll probably connect the “it’s” to Anthony’s “feelings”—an object that’s out there, apart from me—and then concentrate on bringing the second sentence closer home—how I feel about feelings. It sounds wildly complicated (and remember, I didn’t set out to create this system; it just happened), but it only takes a moment to puzzle out a connection and then the link is made.

    I have no idea if my tactics are good form or not. Actually, I have a gnawing suspicion that they’re not. The other night at rehearsal when we were working through a scene in which I have to say the same thing, more or less, four different ways, I screwed up and served the tea at the wrong time. Everyone hollered at me and the scene screeched to a halt. “Shoot,” I said, slapping the table. “I serve the tea on the fourth time, not the third.”

    There was a moment of silence and then director said, “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY.”

    From his tone, I immediately knew I had committed a heinous crime. Not wanting to make things worse, I kept my mouth shut and waited for the ax to fall.

    “WHAT are you doing?” the director asked, scrutinizing his script. And then, “Ah-ha. I get it now. You’re counting! You can’t do that, no way! You’ll kill yourself!”

    Everyone started bobbing their heads and tsk-tsking. Clearly, I was a walking disaster, a time bomb, an abject failure.

    “You want to give me a shovel so I can dig a hole and bury myself now and be done with it?” I whined.

    The director then gave me a lecture on memorizing for content and the importance of NEVER COUNTING BECAUSE THAT WILL DESTROY YOU. When he finished, there was a long silence while I contemplated the error of my ways. And then I said, in my most teeny-tiny voice, “Do you mind if I argue with you?”

    “Alright,” he sighed. “Go ahead.”

    “What if counting helps to get the sequence into my head, and then, once I have the patterns and rhythm down, I am better able to focus on the meaning, eventually forgetting the counting technique altogether?”

    “Okay, fine. I see your point. Go ahead and try it then.”

    So yeah. I really have no idea what I’m doing. But I do know that when I opened my script to find examples of how I memorized lines, I had trouble finding them—and I used them for almost every single line! For the most part, all I see when I look at the script now is the meaning, the flow, the feelings. I guess this means that I will (I hope!) eventually forget all my little gimmicks and settle fully into the play.

    Either that, or I’ll crash and burn most spectacularly.

    And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go run lines with my son. I gave him a driving lesson today, so he owes me one.

    This same time, years previous: wuv, tru wuv, on being together, warts and all, the boy and the dishes, cream puffs, and oatmeal crackers.

  • the quotidian (3.28.16)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace

    My second flop in a row: can I no longer make a decent chocolate cake???

    My younger daughter’s latest creation: every time we go to Costco, she lurks at the edge of the bakery like a lost puppy, watching the cake decorators (and hoping they’ll toss her a treat).

    Post-rehearsal: late-afternoon “lunch” in the sun.

    Running lines while rocking lambie.

    Fly season: it’s disgusting.
    Curious kisses.

    Docking.

    Enforced lactation.
    Cuddles.

    Putting in fence for the second pasture: she says she wants a steer.

    Jacob Marley! Come to life! In our field!
    Frolicking till the sun sets.

    This same time, years previous: the Tuesday boost, seven-minute egg, maple pecan scones, our oaf, the visit, the quotidian (3.26.12), a spat, breaking the habitsmokey fried chickpeas, happy birthday, happy pappy!, and brandied bacony roast chicken.

  • more springtime babies

    Two days after Annabelle had her first-day-of-spring lambs, Jessica went into labor. She went off her feed and wandered around the pasture, standing, sitting, tossing her head, and generally looking uncomfortable. The kids set up shop at the edge of the pasture, binoculars in hand. Every now and then I’d holler at them: ANYTHING COMING OUT YET?

    Mid-morning, we invited the neighbors down for the show. The lambs might be born in ten minutes or ten hours, I said, but you’re welcome to just come over and hang out for the day. The kids played outside for the morning. At noon, their mother joined us. After the kids ate, she and I visited at the kitchen table, keeping one eye on the window and the livestock activity in the field. Just after I set a pot of coffee on to brew, my daughter yelled that Jessica’s water had broken, which meant the lambs would most likely arrive within an hour. Thinking we had plenty of time, we moseyed out the door, but as soon as we stepped onto the deck, we were greeted with shouting: Jessica had already had a lamb! We scurried down to the field to find a teeny-tiny, sopping-wet lamb laying in a heap on the ground and Jessica pawing the ground, gearing up to deliver another.

    The second one took a lot longer to come out, and it was a lot bigger, too. For what seemed forever, it just stuck there, its head out and its body in. Every now and then it shook its head, making its ears flop. Just when I was ready to give my daughter the green light to assist, the lamb starting inching its way out, and finally, finally, it plopped to the ground like a casually-tossed handful of Pick-Up Sticks.

    At first, Jessica was extremely attentive to each of the lambs, sucking on their ears and mouths, licking them all over, using her teeth to pull them upright by the scruff of their necks. But then she started butting the little one away, slamming it with her head and kicking at it. My daughter had to hold Jessica’s head so the lamb could nurse.

    Within a few hours, it was clear that Jessica was rejecting the small lamb. My daughter went outside every two hours that first night to hold Jessica’s head so the little one could feed. The next morning we ran to the farm store to get milk replacer and a bottle nipple, just in case. That evening, my husband and daughter tied Jessica to the stable wall and left her there with the lamb for an hour. It sounded like Jessica was dying, but it sort of worked. Now she’s sometimes allowing the little one to nurse (and even one of Annabelle’s lambs occasionally helps herself to some milk). We’re hopeful that things will continue to improve, and the wee one appears to be thriving.

    It’s interesting how different the mothers are: Annabelle, the more skittish of the two, talks constantly to her lambs while Jessica is mostly silent. All four lambs are frisky, alert, and absolutely adorable. The wee one is super bouncy and follows my daughter everywhere…even into the house.
     

    With their gangly legs, wildly wiggling tails, and perpetually smiling mouths, I’ve decided that lambs are springtime personified (animalfied?). We’re getting such a kick out of them.

    This same time, years previous: the pigpen, the quotidian (3.24.14), applied mathematics, of a moody Sunday, a list, the faces of my nieces, fatira, whoopie pies, and snickerdoodles.