I was born in black-and-white. We had a rotary phone with a 5-digit number (44490). My namesake was an outfielder (alongside Willie Mays) for the New York Giants. In our town doors were left unlocked, and kids traveled in packs, not gangs. Young girls wore dresses to school, and shorts (on boys) were allowed only on the last day of the school year.
Then one day I woke up and there was color. My grandparents had bought a new console color TV, just in time for the annual airing of “The Wizard of Oz.” We crowded around the 19” screen, and when Dorothy opened the door out into Munchkinland, our lives changed. That movie was now more awe-inspiring than scary, and Danny Kaye (who hosted the event) had REALLY red hair! What else, we wondered, was in color? Not much, and for good reason; Bonanza had been filmed in color even while NBC was still broadcasting in B&W, and now that we could see the colorcast, it appeared to have been conceived and directed by Andy Warhol.
Then one day I woke up and my parents had divorced, albeit “amicably.” My mother had married right out of high school, one month shy of 18 years old, and at age 35 decided she wasn’t cut out to be June Cleaver. My father, Ward, was unswayable. They both remarried, and I now had two sets of step-siblings. I split time between both houses, and through deft misdirection was not fully accountable to either parent.
Then one day I woke up and was living alone at 17 in Burbank, CA. I had applied for early graduation from high school, and skipped my junior year in my quest to study to be a psychologist. But a fan letter to (and response from) a pretty TV news reporter shifted me to journalism, and in the course of interviewing a famous musician I was hired to be one of his backup singers, playing in Las Vegas and touring the US. An excellent alternative to college! My father helped me find an apartment, stayed a couple of days to get me settled, then left. My new family developed from selected neighbors, crewmembers at NBC, and Keno runners at The Sands (even though I was too young to gamble, with money anyway.) Life Was Good.
Then one day I woke up and was back in my home town, working “regular” jobs and doing musical theater. The gig in L.A. had ended, and I returned to my family “just to regroup.” I met and fell in love with the accompanist during one production, “Once Upon A Mattress,” and a year later we married. I continued doing shows, and was hired to sing with the Oregon and Seattle Symphonies Pops.
Then one day I woke up and it was our 30th wedding anniversary. My mom and step-mother had died the previous year, and my step-father had moved away to be with his kids. The wife and I never had children, but had loved and lost a series of precious pets. My father needs only minimal supervision (so far), but we’ve been down this road before. After years of “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” I think that maybe yes, we are, and it’s as good a place as I thought it would be. Even better, perhaps.
But I’m not anxious to wake up again.
Then one day I woke up and there was color. My grandparents had bought a new console color TV, just in time for the annual airing of “The Wizard of Oz.” We crowded around the 19” screen, and when Dorothy opened the door out into Munchkinland, our lives changed. That movie was now more awe-inspiring than scary, and Danny Kaye (who hosted the event) had REALLY red hair! What else, we wondered, was in color? Not much, and for good reason; Bonanza had been filmed in color even while NBC was still broadcasting in B&W, and now that we could see the colorcast, it appeared to have been conceived and directed by Andy Warhol.
Then one day I woke up and my parents had divorced, albeit “amicably.” My mother had married right out of high school, one month shy of 18 years old, and at age 35 decided she wasn’t cut out to be June Cleaver. My father, Ward, was unswayable. They both remarried, and I now had two sets of step-siblings. I split time between both houses, and through deft misdirection was not fully accountable to either parent.
Then one day I woke up and was living alone at 17 in Burbank, CA. I had applied for early graduation from high school, and skipped my junior year in my quest to study to be a psychologist. But a fan letter to (and response from) a pretty TV news reporter shifted me to journalism, and in the course of interviewing a famous musician I was hired to be one of his backup singers, playing in Las Vegas and touring the US. An excellent alternative to college! My father helped me find an apartment, stayed a couple of days to get me settled, then left. My new family developed from selected neighbors, crewmembers at NBC, and Keno runners at The Sands (even though I was too young to gamble, with money anyway.) Life Was Good.
Then one day I woke up and was back in my home town, working “regular” jobs and doing musical theater. The gig in L.A. had ended, and I returned to my family “just to regroup.” I met and fell in love with the accompanist during one production, “Once Upon A Mattress,” and a year later we married. I continued doing shows, and was hired to sing with the Oregon and Seattle Symphonies Pops.
Then one day I woke up and it was our 30th wedding anniversary. My mom and step-mother had died the previous year, and my step-father had moved away to be with his kids. The wife and I never had children, but had loved and lost a series of precious pets. My father needs only minimal supervision (so far), but we’ve been down this road before. After years of “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” I think that maybe yes, we are, and it’s as good a place as I thought it would be. Even better, perhaps.
But I’m not anxious to wake up again.
