Sitting here on a Saturday morning in my wonderful wild
socks (see photo on previous post), reflecting on a series of moments of
enlightenment and pondering possibilities for the future.
After the Asiania plane crash occurred at the San Francisco
airport, I got a “breaking news” email from the New York Times. I turned on the
television to see the news coverage. After watching for while, I grabbed my car
keys and headed for the door, intent on driving to the airport.
My plan was to help cover the story, find someone connected
to a news outlet and volunteer to pitch in, interview passengers and witnesses.
Then it occurred to me that I have no credentials, no press card, and no one there would
have time to hear me recite my list of accomplishments when it comes to covering
breaking news.
Still carrying my keys, I turned back to the television. I
learned that injured passengers were being taken to five area hospitals. That’s
it, I thought – I’ll head for a hospital, bring coffee to family members or
just sit quietly with anyone who was upset. I have plenty of experience at this
work – but again, I have no credentials. With today’s privacy rules, I realized
I likely would never get into a hospital to offer help. I stayed home.
Fast forward to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland,
where last week I saw five shows. During the performances, more than once I
wanted to grab my notebook and pen (my constant companions) and make notes.
Chalk it up to reviewing theater for ten years at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. After
each show, I used to rush back to the office to write a quick-turnaround review
in 45 minutes or less so the piece could run in the next day’s paper. That was
always an adrenalin rush. How many people do you know who can break a sweat
while typing?
That wasn’t necessary in Ashland, of course, as I don’t
review theater any longer. I did have the satisfaction of filling a small
notebook with reflections on the town’s shops and restaurants, on the backstage
tour at the theater and on a day trip to Crater Lake. My travel article will
run in the Post-Dispatch in October.
Four nights ago I saw the incomparable Bernadette Peters
perform with nine members of the San Francisco Symphony. Also on stage were her
musical director, who doubles as her pianist, and her drummer. When Peters
introduced the musicians, she revealed that her drummer is Cubby O’Brien, one
of the original Mouseketeers. A frisson ran through every Baby Boomer in the
audience, who signaled their delight with enthusiastic applause and a muted chorus
of approval.
I don't Tweet, but I wanted to! I wanted to tell everybody
that a beaming Cubby O’Brien was in the house, and how that made the concert
all the more wonderful. I did get the word out on Facebook later, and I seem
compelled to talk about it again here. Cubby O’Brien!
These moments of enlightenment, along with other small
changes, have led me to carefully consider how I use the work experience I have
accumulated and how I might make better use of it. The title of my favorite
song from Sondheim’s “Sunday in the Park with George,” a song that Bernadette
Peters sang as her first encore on Tuesday night, sums it up: “Move On.”
Stay tuned.
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