When
I was in 7th grade, I think it was, my whole family — Mom and Dad,
Bobby, Kathy, and Emily — trooped out to the Friends’ Central
School Senior Play to see me say my one line as Wally Webb in
Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. “Aw, Mom, by 10 o’clock I have to
know all about Canada,” quoth me as Wally. Then I trooped off the
stage to school with a senior playing George Gibbs as he tried to
ingratiate himself to me as a route to my sister Emily Webb’s
heart. It was a spare production, as Our Town productions generally
are, since the part of God is taken by the Stage Director who speaks
directly to the audience, so it’s a play within a play, and since
the Stage Director has to move sets easily with the audience
watching, they are minimalist.
I
was only 13 or 14, I guess, but I got that part about God, even if
not using that word. When my sister Emily Webb asks the Stage
Director if she can go back in time and see her family and herself as
it was years ago, before she died, he can do that for her, even
though he advises against it. He could have said “You Can’t Go
Home Again,” but that Thomas Wolfe book was actually published two
years after the 1938 first production of Our Town, so he didn’t.
But going home again must have been in the air then, or maybe it
always is.
Wilder’s
Grover’s Corner was pretty far away from Philadelphia’s Main Line
where our performance took place, but it didn’t seem that far away
to me. Traveling to the Main Line was already a stretch from West
Philadelphia, where we lived not far from the Penn campus on 47th
street, around the corner from our friends the Levin’s, the Egnal’s
and the Kagan’s, all Jews like us, first and second generation
after the great Eastern Europe Jewish migration of the 1890’s, all
professional families, and all determined that their children would
have full educations and full opportunities in life. That was what
our ancestors had gifted us with, and the sense of mission hung heavy
in the air even though usually just implicit.
We
were assimilated, as my mother explained to us. We loved
Philadelphia, we loved baseball and basketball and football, the A’s
and the Phillies and the Warriors and the Eagles; but we also knew we
weren’t from here originally; we knew our history as filtered, in
our case, directly from our parents, since my mother didn’t like
her parents very much, and my father didn’t like his mother very
much and his father had died when my Dad was 17. We heard about
ancestors from time to time, and my mother had two wonderful
childless aunts whom we were close to, and years later we would see
the pictures of the larger family that came over, with beards and
European clothes, with some Jewish first names, but nothing
religious, since my family didn’t believe in religion. We knew my
father’s maternal family were bankers wiped out in the depression,
and my father’s father was a doctor and Philadelphia champion pool
player, harried no doubt my his wife, who was that sort of person.
My mother’s family was in retail, and my aunts looked back at the
20’s with wistfulness, the way we look back at the 60’s and 70’s.
So we had a sense of where we were from.
Ambitious
but frugal, insecure but confident in abilities, and willing to defer
gratification – in short, we fulfilled the Tiger Mom formula for
“success.” We got to Friends’ Central when my Henry C. Lea
Elementary School 4th grade teacher, Miss Ousey (“Lousy Ousey”),
committed the cardinal sin of having a low bar by telling my parents
enthusiastically that I “was definitely college material.”
“'College material', really?” As ambition trumped frugality (and
a Commie past), they found that the liberal Quakers of Friends’
Central welcomed Jews, so off we went just over City Line Avenue,
into suburbia-land, just barely outside of Wilt Chamberlain-Overbrook
High School land. (Nowadays Friends’ Central isn’t the only
welcoming school — Episcopal Academy advertises in the Jewish
Exponent. Progress!)
When
I got to 7th grade the Friends' Central curriculum included a course
in public speaking – one of the good ideas that has probably been
dropped as education spirals downward. The teacher, Mr. Richard
“Dick” Burgess, was a tall, thin man with close-cropped hair and
a bow tie, who held himself quite erect, and who had a way of
speaking that had him constantly overcoming a tendency to swallow his
words – thus qualifying him to be the public speaking and drama
teacher. He smiled easily even as he seemed to fight a tendency to
swallow his smile. His sunny disposition always won, and he exuded
enthusiasm and warmth even through his introversion. In short, he
was endearing, the best sort of private school teacher.
His
public speaking course presented scenarios where someone would
commonly be called upon to speak publicly. My opportunity came as MC
for a class variety show. When I displayed flair, enthusiasm, and
wit, Mr. Burgess had a find! Full of suppressed enthusiasm, he
dropped down on a knee – he was indeed very tall – and asked me
hopefully and expectantly if I would like to be in the senior class
play, Our Town, playing Wally Webb. Seeing his enthusiasm I really
didn’t have to think at all, I just said yes. He told me about the
weekend rehearsals, and I said yes. Who could say anything else to
Mr. Burgess? Maybe I was a little scared, but I knew my family would
back me, and I always said yes to dares.
My
mother was thrilled and loved Mr. Burgess, and for weeks she drove me
out for day-long Saturday rehearsals. I hung around with the
stagehands, ate my bag lunch, generally gaped at everything, and was
kind of adopted by the cast. I still remember how I could hardly
believe how they adopted me and instructed me, especially since my
own 7th grade class had a distinct anti-Semitic tinge.
One burly guy was a stagehand, and showed me how to carry heavy items
by standing tall and straight. As an eldest son, being adopted and
nurtured by someone older but of my generation was very new.
When
the time came for actual performance, my whole family trooped out
with enthusiasm and expectation for opening night and my one line. I
remember my mother telling a friend, thrilled but embarrassed by her
enthusiasm, “We all went out for Buddy’s one line!”
But
my one line was only something to be nervous about and get over with.
What I remember more was when I was quiet. The Stage Manager, a
senior named Bruce Beckwith, held his clipboard as he addressed the
audience directly, and I sat on the stage on a folding chair with
others in the “cemetery” next to my sister Emily Webb. My
appendix had ruptured on a Boy Scout hike, I think.
I
remember Emily, who had recently died, asking the Stage Manager,
can’t you ever go back? The Stage Manager says, yes you can, you
can go back, but I don’t recommend it. Emily says, but I want to
go back! I want to see Mama! Don’t do it, says Bruce the Stage
Manager, I recommend that you don’t do it. But if you want to, you
can. Emily says, yes, I want to do it.
So
she does. The Stage Manager takes her back to a typical day in the
past, the least significant day possible, with Mama getting breakfast
ready for the family, saying the typical things that she said, get
ready, come on now Emily, it’s time for school. And the dead Emily
calls out, Oh, Mother, you’re so young! Look mother, here I am,
can you see me, let me tell you what happened!
But
Mama can’t hear her, and Emily is overcome by emotion, and cries,
and after a while goes back to being dead, and tells the Stage
Manager he was right, it’s best not to go back. I sat there on
stage and watched. I saw how they felt, but it was hard to
understand. I was in seventh grade, after all. But I remembered.
Now
I’m far older than Mama was when Emily went back. Not only am I
older, the world is older, too. When the Berkeley-born Wilder wrote
that wonderful play in 1938, technology was just getting started.
Recapturing the past had progressed some, but it was still pretty
impersonal. Recapturing had started with the most incidental
reminders of all, fossils, then actual manmade paintings on cave
walls, then memorized sagas, and mummies, and temples and statues
meant to last and show to all, then words in copied books and printed
books, then onto photographs, recordings, and movies. So Wilder did
have at his disposal many technologies that recaptured the past, and
they must have been wondrous to him, because he was obviously so
conscious of time, not only in Our Town, but in Back to Methuselah —
what could be more about time than that?
My
father, too, had a sense of time and events. He used an eight
millimeter home movie camera to record our family, and so did my Mom,
my grandparents and great-aunts walking down steps and smiling one
after the other, my father throwing me up in the air and catching me,
my mother walking to the beach in Beach Haven and smoking, Play Day
at the Henry C. Lea School where I got lost in the kindergartener’s
dance, and even one of me playing basketball on a dirt court at camp,
missing an easy shot off the left backboard, not quite high enough.
Eight
mm was pretty personal, but now, some 60 years on from the Friends’
Central Our Town performance, we have the most personal of all the
time-cheating reminders of all, we have videos, with full voice, with
a long enough time frame that people don’t have to hurry, you can
just be yourself for a few hours and be totally recorded. Videos of
everyday life as it really is.
Photography
was my hobby as a kid, and imitating my father, I guess, I filmed
videos early. When I visited Philadelphia I would even rent a video
camera, leaving the clunky early models I had at home. In 1986,
1987, and 1988 I took my parents, who were then about 70 and very
vigorous, and we drove around Philadelphia together to where they had
lived, and where we had lived. As we drove around in the car I
interviewed them as they added comments to each other and
contradicted each other and did what they usually did, and I also sat
them down in their home in Society Hill in central city Philadelphia
and interviewed them about their lives. My father had an allegiance
to truth and significance, and he started talking about how he had a
case, a family member of a friend, who needed a spinal disk operation
which my father performed, but his resident had bad acne and probably
contaminated the field, and the patient got infected, and my mother
said “Don’t talk about it, Henry!” but he did, and he said, “It
took him so long to die.” Being a neurosurgeon is still very hard,
but it was harder then, I think. I have it on tape.
So,
I have lots of tapes of our lives. The day we told the four older
kids that Ann was pregnant with an embryo who would become Peter.
The kids washing the dishes as their chore, that extended for a very,
very long time at the sink. Lots of things. The old eight mm movies
of my parents transferred to DVD format. And the interviews with my
parents.
So
I sent all the DVD’s out to all the kids, and I sent the videos of
my parents' interviews out to Bobby, Kathy and Emily. I haven’t
heard much from them. Bobby said it was hard to watch, that he
started to cry and so he stopped, I think he said. Kathy said, God,
what was the big deal with Mom and Dad talking about how to get to
where they wanted to go in the car, what was that all about? But she
hadn't gotten around to watching them much. Emily said she already
had a copy of the 1987 interview and kind of brushed it off.
Actually, I don't think I even got thank you's from the girls. But I
take that not as a lack of gratitude, but resistance. This is hard
stuff.
Me?
I think it’s hard to watch. I watched all three of them, but I
had to get ready and set the time aside, and be at at my desk doing
something else while they were playing on the TV at my left side, so
I could tune out or tune in, although in truth I tended not to do
much else while I was watching, I just had other stuff available. I
get so sad for the world that no longer is. Love, sadness, and
feeling the depredations of Time’s Arrow. Nothing stops time, We
exist in the memories of others and then not even that. We love and
lose, no evading that. You really, really can’t go home again. If
you’re strong, you can go back now, and I did. But it’s also
defensible to listen to the Stage Manager.
Budd
Shenkin