“I may walk slowly, but I never walk backwards.” –Abe Lincoln
It was 1987 and I was finishing a run in Amsterdam, Holland. This world tour was particularly brutal, because it spanned 6 continents and we had what we called split weeks, back to back. We had one day off a month, and those typically ended up being another travel day. An on-looker might say “how exciting,” but it was exciting about 2 hours out of the day and the rest was quite literally blood, sweat and tears. I imagine it was about month 9 where the sparkle had completely abandoned me—even the bright eyes at the back stage door seemed to dim—at 28—I had gained a clear understanding of what show business really meant. I chortle, because of course there is that roar of the crowd; smell of the greasepaint and a camaraderie that rivals any industry friendships. But the big surprise was the long hours of very hard work.
I was tenfold blessed, because I was lucky enough to be “up from the farm” and remembered very well, the blood, sweat and tears of hauling hay; rounding up Angus in all hours of the night when the fence went down, or the usual cleaning stalls, slopping hogs and plucking chickens in the autumn. And let me tell you, there were no fans waiting at the back-stage door at the end of those days.
I’ve always tried to keep my beginnings on this earth close to the heart. It was that hard work on the farm, experiencing life all around me in different languages and different life forms that gave me every grain which is part of my foundation today. It gave me courage to see life differently, because I came to understand, anything that involves the living will never last forever. It kept me humble and to this day, it gives me enough perspective to remain grateful.
And so, little old Robin gets her first international tour with A Chorus Line and though I thought that was pretty cool, so I must be pretty cool too; I knew I could never be as cool as the talent who sublet their apartments in NYC for three years and sang the songs of the Broadway greats to possibly touring as an old gypsy…. It was just impossible.
I couldn’t wait to know these wonderful people. After all, they had been living a life I had only dreamed of until this tour. Even cleaning out the stalls at home, I dreamed of being on stage….I would sing to the Valley’s mountains, as if it was SRO. And when I sang in the shower, tiled from head to toe, I was in one of the finest recording studios put on the planet. And so, to be in Amsterdam, rehearsing a show that was going to be on world tour, well, ‘twas really something: I had some inflated thought of “I’ve arrived.”
My tragedy, or so I thought it was a tragedy, was I was never “let in”….my stories were like Tennessee Ernie Ford’s on I Love Lucy. I felt like a misfit, and maybe I was, too many years ago to have that clarity. I recall getting on the bus one night (we had busses which picked us up from the theatre and bussed us back to our hotel rooms) and there sat Miss Donna in a full-length Fox and an eye-catching-glittering-bright-broche. I was knocked out by the beauty. And as I passed her on the bus, I paused and told her, “Donna that is a beautiful rhinestone broche.” Her eyes, snapped, and in a terse “actress” voice I heard, “Darling, these are NOT rhinestones.” I was rightfully put in my place and I kept walking. This is a small example of what kept me on the “outside,” but a truth not to be ignored. Still, I was somewhat amused at what I thought I saw as a chasm of difference.
I remained fairly quiet the first few months on that tour. I managed to meet some very nice dancers and musicians and became good friends—still good friends to this day. But the leading talent, I steered around, they traveled in their own orbit; and truth be known, made me somewhat uncomfortable in my skin.
As time trounced on, and the sculptures of Michael Angelo started looking like Rodins… and Picassos started looking like Van Goghs… and the Dutchmasters made me beg to go home and see Joe Christian’s Market’s display of cigar boxes…. I had noticed a change. A change in my point of view, and more, a change in the point of view of those whom had put me on the outside: we were all suddenly good swells. Time has a magic that way.
I suppose I was growing up, because I came to understand we were all very similar. But they had been in “the business” so long; they’d forgotten where they came from. I was a fun-loving oddity, of sorts and like Buddha; they were rubbing up against to get some of my naiveté’. (Funny I choose the word naiveté’—Gary was commenting just the other day that I still have some and he found it charming—gotta love a man who knows what to say.)
My pals who were musicians, still tried and true, still pals… would go on about how can you stand their arrogance? I knew exactly what they were saying, but I didn’t see arrogance any longer. I saw people trying to find their real: People, needing attention for validation—some dingy; some brilliant; some humble; some not… but no different than my crew friends; my musician friends or any other friend—and most of all, no different than me.
Perspective always amazes me. It is my muse to find and it is my honor to keep. We are all just people finding our way and some of us do it in silk suits; some in deer hides; some in plastic and some in our Birthday suits, but we are pretty much the same.
I don’t sing much anymore, just to my baby on summer Seattle nights with my ukulele in hand. But these days were golden, looking back. Just like the family farm in Talent Oregon…. Glimmering moments where I could feel my brain get smarter and my heart grow bigger. Where my dreams would near me and I was exhilarated by the reach to obtain them. You know, those moments you think you might just be riding on a tail of your own meteor, but you don’t dare say it out loud.
Now, I write; I care for my Mother and I love. I have new dreams for when my Mama passes and time returns to Gary and I. In my heart is a kaleidoscope of moments which fashioned my life, just like yours. None of us escape it. We may have different stories, but they all effect us in ways that we share in common. We all keep dreaming, learning and discovering.
My days starting out in Amsterdam were nothing like my days ending in Tokyo, on that first tour. I ultimately accepted that the only thing that is different is the view: like coins, there’s more than one quarter, and yet they’re still each worth 25 cents. What a wonderful realization for me—it’s allowed me to travel the globe and greet old friends, I had yet to meet. And still, I didn’t know it, until I went to say good-bye.