Category: Authors

 

As a kid, I had dyslexia and talked funny, said things backwards. But when I would open my mouth to sing, all the words flowed beautifully. Music was my therapy and helped give me confidence.

If someone laughed at me, I would think, wait ’til you hear me sing. I’ll show you talent. And sure enough when I opened my mouth and belted out a song, the person who had laughed was speechless because I knew how to hit the high notes, the low notes, and I could harmonize with anyone.

Or so I thought … until Germany. I often sang duets with my friend who owned a jazz club where she entertained guests most evenings. Another friend of mine helped behind the bar. One evening, the bartender friend shared that she would love to be able to sing, but couldn’t carry a tune. I assured her that everyone can sing something, with practice. She smiled and told me she could do other things well, but not sing.

Wanting to encourage her, I suggested we sing a song together—after the bar closed . A song of her choice. She said her singing would just make me laugh. I promised not to laugh.
“Okay.” she shrugged and giggled.
“What would you like to sing?” I asked.
“Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
So I sang the opening verse and encouraged her to join in. “Come on,” I said, starting the song over.
“S-ome wher-er,” she tried to hit the notes, but ended up sounding like she was purposely singing off-key.
“Falsetto?” I asked.
She tried again. “See I told you,” she said laughing.
I stifled a grin and we tried one more time.
“S-ome wher-er,” she tried to sing it.
“You’re right,” I said, bursting out laughing.
She giggled, then laughed.
I howled laughing and laughed so hard, I had to excuse myself and go to the bathroom.
When I returned, she asked, “Now, do you believe me?”
I held my sides and laughed again. “I do. You could give Tiny Tim a run for his money singing Tiptoe Through the Tulips.”
“I told you so,” she said, putting wine glasses back on their shelves.

I had to reconsider. Everyone can sing something? Well, maybe not something well…

Year later, after she became a world class chef and owned a catering company in Washington, DC, I met her for dinner. one night and we reminisced about our attempt to harmonize on “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
“Were you purposely trying to throw me off key?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I knew then I needed to learn to cook since I obviously couldn’t sing for my supper.” We shared another good laugh.

A few weeks ago, I received a message from a friend I knew in Germany in the late 70s. He said he was thrilled to be reading my book and was having fun identifying characters in the book—characters he knew as well while living in Germany. I was delighted to be in touch with him again.

A few days later, he posted a photo of a batik painting that hangs in his living room. His message read: Susan, do you remember? What was the painting called?

It sure looked like one of mine, but I wasn’t absolutely sure because during my artist days I produced paintings and sculptures on a variety of subjects. I looked at the photo for some time, sorting through memories of my days into years as a working artist in Europe. I let my mind roam until it focused on my nature period where I was fascinated with the cyclical changes that occur with seasons.

Looking at the painting of the two oak trees—one with leaves changing colors and the other bare of leaves—I remembered exactly when I sketched the idea for the painting.

It was a brilliant sunset evening. I was sipping a glass of Chardonnay, listening to Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” and watching the evening light change in the garden below my living room window. Two tall oak trees stood side by side, growing close together. One had lost its leaves while the other had lustrous colored leaves of green, copper, red, and deep purple. As the moon ascended above the silhouette of buildings located on the main boulevard, I reflected on my personal cyclical changes  and made a quick note on the sketch.

From green, the leaves turn gold, then gone.
Stripped bare, the bones stand all alone.

New buds in spring,
new life will bring. …

I answered my friend. It’s called, Growing Together.

Michael is one of the main characters in my memoir because he greatly influenced my life. I adored Michael. My first close gay friend, he was just stepping out of the closet within the confines of friends when we met in Frankfurt, Germany in 1976. He became my solace at a low tide in my life and introduced me to the vibrant world of opera and theatre. He had an obsession with theater and anything presented live on stage. He had performed in a few shows in small theaters and his dream was to finish a play he had started writing years before and see it published one day.

“Love Wagner’s. Great action and food.” Michael smiled, eyeing a young man across the room. “Everyone thinks I’m a movie star.”

“You’re the spitting image of a young Tony Randall,” I told him.

“And as fastidious and fussy, I trust.”

”You’re not fussy. Just choosy,” I assured him.

Michael of course then educated me on the origin of the phrase ‘spitting image’ and we both had a good chuckle. I fondly called him ‘Mister Walking Encyclopedia’ because he knew obscure facts and figures on any subject conceivable. Michael always knew the real scoop. He loved fancy words and loved to use them.

“Gaydar,” he explained eyeing an attractive waiter, “is how I know if someone’s straight or bent.”

I chuckled. “Did you just invent that word?”

“Probably,” he replied.

He invited me to a play I hadn’t seen before at the English Theatre. “It’s a trivial comedy for serious people by Oscar Wilde. The second most known and quoted play in English after Hamlet.“

“I’ve seen Hamlet performed,” I said.

“This one’s a farce,” Michael said smiling, “The Importance of Being Earnest, first performed on Valentine’s Day in1895. It’s nonsense that makes sense, if you get beyond the words.”

“Sounds like a must see,” I said, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into.

I found the play a bit silly, but great fun. When the final curtain closed, we stood and wildly applauded again and again.

“I just love Wilde’s British dandyisms.” Michael chortled.

“Some wild expressions,” I agreed.

“Classic Wilde,” Michael continued, “They speak volumes about the hypocrisies of society. Then and now. Reprobates always have more fun.”

I laughed.

As we discussed the play’s “real” meaning over wine later that evening, Michael educated me on the dark history of the play and the eventual exile of Oscar Wilde.

“Ernest was Wilde’s alter-ego,” Michael informed me. “Dishonesty and pretense about morals damage our souls.”

“Wilde was criticizing Victorian society,” I said.

Michael smiled and took another sip of wine. “His speaking out landed him in prison.”

“Why?”

“Indecency. Romping with a royal. Of the same sex.”

“Wow!” I said, letting it sink in. “His writing is harsh satire.”

“And still rings true today,” Michael said.

Michael taught me many different things—some shocking, some fun, some frivolous, some serious, but all inspirational. All encouraging. He taught me about striving and thriving, and being different, and accepting differences in others.

Years later when I searched for the word “gaydar” in a dictionary, I realized that Michael may well have invented the word since the first known use, according to the Merriam Webster Dictionary, was in 1982.

When the final curtain closed on Michael’s life in 1986, he left a trail of love, light, and divine information. Too bad he didn’t live long enough to witness the gay civil rights happening today. But knowing Michael, he’s aware and smiling.