A Southern Odyssey

 (How to Succeed in Show Business)

A Short Story By

Tina Appleton Bishop

 

I think I must have stepped on a crack on my way to the hotel on that dreary March day in 1938. But who could tell, with all that dirty snow underfoot? Never in my right mind would I have risked such a thing. Cracks in a sidewalk were to be stepped over. Step on them and doom would come, sure as Christmas falls on December 25.

And doom did come, but I’ll get to that later.

Where this “crack” thing came from I do not remember. For years a series of governesses and elderly, neurotic relatives had schooled me very carefully. Lots of don’ts: don’t run with scissors, don’t turn a light on if your hands are wet, don’t run with a lollipop in your mouth, and never, never swim until two hours after eating.

The no-no’s for me, a Catholic child, were even more dire: eating meat on a Friday, going to Protestant churches or banned movies, skipping Mass, or telling a fib in the confessional. Any one of these could land one in Hell, or at least a stay in Purgatory.

Of course, like children everywhere, I was cautioned against talking to strangers. My favorite, Great-uncle Pierre, the family black sheep, whom I adored, gave me just one warning as he watched me grow from skinny teen-ager to riper, post-deb status. Over and over he told me, “Watch out for White Slavers!” When he heard about my planned appointment at New York’s Hotel Dixie, a place of somewhat dubious reputation, he grew very agitated, and made me promise to have my friend Louise wait in the lobby to make sure that I wouldn’t be snatched and shipped off to South America, his idea of the Garden of Evil. “White Slavery”, even then, had a quaint, ‘B’ movie sound to it. Today’s “sex slave” is more threatening.

Louise and I arrived in the hotel lobby. The place was hardly the Plaza, but it looked normal and non-sinister. My friend settled into an easy chair while I walked to the elevator, giving her the crossed-fingers sign as I punched the ‘up’ button.

Room 319 was at the end of a very long corridor. As I warily approached it, I saw, to my huge relief, that the door was wide open. (Uncle Pierre’s last warning had been, “Never let them close that hotel door!”) “Them” turned out to be a single man, fortyish and tweedy, an earnest type that could have played a Jimmy Stewart role, an older Jimmy Stewart. He was smiling, friendly, no ogling or leering. (Relax, Uncle Pierre) Introducing himself as John Woods, head of the Amateur Theatre Guild (ATG), he led me into a large room, where some twenty young women were seated at bridge tables, filling out forms. They were quite average looking, no beauties or losers among them.

“How did you hear about us?” I was asked. So I told him about the ad in the papers, “Wanted, young women interested in directing amateur plays throughout the South – Must be willing to temporarily relocate in Boston for training.”

My mother, whom I had never known to look at a want ad, had seen the notice in The New York Times. For months, she had been searching for some way to get me out of New York. The reason: a tall, blond intense young man who had been nagging me to marry him. I never had any intention of falling for him, but she did not know that. “Eureka!” she thought, the Amateur Theatre Guild might put my meager talents to use and put me beyond his reach. Evidently, she didn’t worry about “White Slavery” or share any of my long-held hang-ups. The ATG sounded so wholesome compared to the sordidness of a possible career on Broadway, and what well-bred young woman would not be happy in Boston?

Of all who applied that day, I was the only one chosen. Not that I was any more beautiful, bright, or more experienced, but that my home address on the form read 969 Park Avenue. This may have meant that of all the applicants in those Depression times, I was the one who could best afford to live six pay-less weeks in Boston during the training period.

What made me think I could qualify? My previous experience had been some courses in drama and play production at Columbia University. As an actress, I had been a very unforgettable ‘Romeo’ at my all-girl high school, and a fiery ‘Kate’ in Columbia’s modern-dress version of the “Shrew.” I told myself that I would be well trained before setting out for the small-town world of the South.

My mother was almost as excited as I was about the move; however, she did a bit of sleuthing before allowing her nineteen-year-old daughter to get involved in such an adventure. She immediately called a Bostonian friend to check on the Guild, found it was OK, and, best of all, that her friend, Mrs. Stewart, would provide me with a bed in her Beacon Hill house. Just a bed, no food. (As it turned out, I don’t remember eating much of anything during those hectic weeks.)

Although the name ATG of Boston sounded quite impressive, I was rather surprised, on arrival at Boylston Street, that the whole enterprise, situated at the top of a narrow flight of stairs, was one tiny office opening onto one large, almost bare room. There were a few folding chairs in the place, not enough for the fifteen young women present; there were no black boards, pens or pencils, hardly a table. We did not need much equipment, we were told, just “strong bodies, strong minds, and skins as tough as elephant hide.”

Mr. Woods continued, “Forget any dramatic ability, girls. I’ve worked out a foolproof way to work with the costs. What you’ll need is salesmanship. You’ll have just ten days to enter a strange town and talk a lot of people into getting up on a stage and making fools of themselves. You see, it’s all a matter of arithmetic. For every person involved there will be three persons in the audience. When you count the cast as well as the stage-hands, ticket sellers, ushers, and so on, it could add up to a hundred people. At seventy-five cents a ticket, plus the money made on the ad sales, this can mount up. The Guild gets half the gate; the sponsoring organization gets the rest.

“What do you girls get? The sponsors have contracted to pay your travel expenses and to give you room and board with a member of the committee. And you’ll have a share of the Guild’s profits.

Remember, girls, when you come into that small town, you’re ‘Show Biz’. Everyone will be watching you, so forget about smoking, drinking, or going out with men. Remember that stuff about Caesar’s wife?

Don’t worry about your acting ability; you don’t have to be a Sarah Bernhardt. One script’s all you need. With the script in your left hand, you say the lines, and, with your right hand, tactfully maneuver the actor as he repeats the lines. I say ‘tactfully’ because it’s really important how you use that right hand. A wrong touch can send a wrong message. Don’t forget: be firm, but not familiar.

As I said, it’s all about salesmanship. Keep your people happy and enthusiastic. Later, I’ll teach you how to deal with hecklers and trouble-makers.”

I was watching the expressions of the would-be directors as he spoke. Two or three looked uneasy and laughed nervously. The more sophisticated types looked as if the ban on smoking, drinking, and dating would make them unravel. Others seemed baffled by the whole concept. How many of us would survive the training?

The following weeks would shrink our numbers from fifteen to five. Nobody did much that first day. It was a one-man show, with Mr. Woods starring. The Guild, we learned, had been operating in small towns in the Northeast for several years. The staff included thirty-five directors who worked on two different plays. And there were ten important men, the bookers, who were literally the leading or advance men in the Guild. Traveling from town to town, they cozied up to the editors of local newspapers. From them, they learned all about the towns’ organizations, who the powers were, and which groups would be interested in making money.

By the time these glib-tongued salesmen had left town, contracts in hand, they had convinced the organizations’ committees that staging an amateur show was, easy fun, and oh, so lucrative.

The Southern Tour was new territory, Mr. Woods said. This production, “The Circus” was very different from the former shows, which had involved small casts. Now your show will pull in all the members of the community. Take the ‘Freaks,’ who are important in the show. Get the mayor of the town to play the Bearded Lady or the Fat Lady, and you’ll find other bigwigs getting into the act. Sell the town leaders and others will follow. Only five will be needed for the speaking parts, and their lines could be learned after just four rehearsals. Lots of young people will be included in the show. Clowns will be played by eight members of the Jaycees, and eight of the most popular girls in high school will be picked as dancers in the Pony Chorus.

He pointed at me. “You, Appleton, are the youngest here. Don’t let these small-town big shots scare you. Be like a lion-tamer. Never show your fear.” I was feeling a knot in my insides. How did I get in this mess? I, who had never been South of Philadelphia; I, a Yankee, a Catholic, and a pampered product of Park Avenue; how would I manage in a rural Southern town? O.K., hide the Catholic, hide the Park Avenue, I was still a Yankee from big-city Boston, and, obviously, much too young to masquerade as an “experienced director,” as promised by the booker. Another thought made my stomach churn: what did a Pony Chorus mean? Dancing what? I, who could barely master the Fox Trot, would be teaching others how to make like Rockettes.

Fortunately, I was too tired at day’s end to spend any energy worrying, and had a fine sleep that night. For the next six weeks we would learn more and more about the workings of the Guild. John Woods was the Guild, and it looked as if he were in a win-win situation. Expenses of that small office and a part-time secretary must be minimal, his bookers and directors received no salaries, and no matter how dismal the gate in one town might be, there were always successes in other places. With thirty-five shows on the road, how could he fail?

On Day Two, we fiddled around as directors for a few hours, and then Mr. Woods got serious. “ I might as well tell you about the tough part, girls. By the time you reach your town, you may be faced with the hardest job of all, reselling the committees on the idea of sponsoring your show. “Cold feet” has set in – the booker’s done his job and left town. The organization members return home, tell their wives about their great new plans, and the wives scream, ‘What?’ You fell for that slick operator from Boston! I didn’t think you’d be that dumb.’ This rarely happens, but you’ve got to be ready.”

He turned to a redhead next to him. “Now you, Kelly, be the director. Let’s see how you handle this. The rest of us will take turns as hecklers; I’ll start. ‘You’re taking all the money out of town.’ That’s a familiar gripe. How do you answer that? Just say, ‘I’m glad you brought that up. (Sure-fire most of the time) Then you say, ‘I guess you weren’t told about the parade. That’ll take place on the week-end, a week before the show.’ This will draw people from other towns and they’ll spend money in your town. ‘What about the Elks show last year? They say it really flopped,’ a heckler asked. “That’s a very good question. You see, the Elks tried to do all the work themselves. They had lots of enthusiasm, but no experience. The Guild’s been successfully directing shows for many years. We’ll show you how to make money and have fun, too.

From a heckler: “But can you guarantee that we’ll make money?”

“Answer: Of course not. There’s no such thing as predictability. You might get hit with terrible weather, say, so you make sure to have a big advance sale, and don’t forget those ad sales in our special tabloid, The Circus News.

Here are some other handy phrases to cope with troublesome questions: ‘Madame, how smart of you to think of that!’ ‘Sir, you have really put your finger on the key to the problem,’ or ‘Ah, I was just waiting for someone to bring up this question.” As you rattle off those responses, your mind’s thinking of ways to ward off those buzzards.”

He continued, “ What you’re going to learn in these six weeks is how to think on your feet. Above all, keep your poise and sell your message. Remember, girls, you’re ‘Miss Showbiz from the Big City.’ They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

In the weeks that followed, we spent twelve hours every day in that crowded room. After a while, there were finally enough chairs to seat us all, the survivors, five of us. Most of the women were Bostonians or from nearby towns who had no problems with accommodations. But as we began to realize there would be no money for us for at least eight weeks, our numbers shrank, and I began to sense a fading enthusiasm, and, in some cases, sheer terror, as we realized that we were part of Mr. Woods’ experiment. We, the untried recruits, would be sent into battle in alien territory.

Kelly, the lively redhead, was a surprise dropout. “ I can’t believe my luck. Been three years with my boy friend and what do you know? I’m pregnant!”

I, Miss Prim, was not as shocked as I might have been some weeks ago. Perhaps it was sheer weariness, but somehow I couldn’t feel much emotion, and that same evening, when I returned to the Stewarts’ house, I had much the same reaction, or lack of it.

When I came in, Mrs. Stewart and her daughter, Lil, were at their usual work, checking out details of Lil’s elaborate wedding to come. I had met her when I was fourteen and she, a voluptuous debutante, sexy, but in a breezy, open way. As she signaled me to come to her room, there was something sly about her, almost malicious. Pointing to an outrageously ornate wedding dress that was laid out on the bed, she said, “Isn’t this something! You know, the crazy thing is that I was married in secret, three months ago. Mother and I haven’t dared tell my step-father!” Appalled, I went to my room without comment. Lila was disappointed at my lack of shock, I’m sure.

The last weeks of training were filled with sessions on rehearsal techniques, clown make-ups, dance routines (what a laugh), lessons in communications, and, most important of all, “How to deal with trouble-makers, or ‘Flatter and Razz.’”

“With only ten days to produce your show, you can’t afford to lose anyone in your cast. Suppose, say, someone arrives late for rehearsals, or is being uncooperative. You’ve got to take charge, right away. To the latecomer say, ‘It’s a compliment to have a man of your prominence in this show. As a community leader, you know how important it is to have everything running smoothly, and, as you know, timing is everything. I’m sure that we can all count on you to be part of the team, so don’t screw up the works.’ He’ll get the message. To a would-be class clown say, ‘You’re one of the most popular persons in town, always fun to be with, but this is no time for fooling. There’s no star here, so cut the clowning and get serious.’”

Before training ended, arrangements had been made to send two large crates ahead to our respective towns. The large box contained the white canvas sections to serve as ‘tents’ for the circus, and costumes for a lion, tiger, and the fore and aft parts of a dancing horse. Outfits for the clowns would be furnished by the performers, while the dancers’ clothes would be sewn by their mothers. In the second box props for the Sword Swallower, Fire Eater, and the Magician were included, along with a large make-up case containing false noses and wigs for the clowns, and spirit gum and hair for the Bearded Lady. Important, too, were the paper items: tickets, posters, newspapers, and daily progress reports.

Our training finally ended – no further speeches or fan-fare. Mr. Woods drove us to the bus station where we bought our tickets. My fare to Kingstree, South Carolina, cost me $13.50 and would mean a day-and-a half on the road. Before we drifted off to our respective buses, Mr. Woods told us very solemnly, “Remember, girls, you are Pilgrims of the Impossible.” Keeping a straight face was one of the best roles I had ever played.

I lay back in my bus seat, my polo coat drawn up like a blanket under my chin, and fell into a coma-like sleep. I vaguely remembered rest and comfort stops for food, but it was only when I first noticed ‘Whites Only’ signs that I knew I had reached the South.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, the bus finally arrived at Kingstree, South Carolina. There I was met by Mary Lou Snyder, Serena Wallace, and Chrissy June Grey, all committee members of the ‘Eastern Star,’ the woman’s branch of the Masons. Everyone was exuding friendliness and hospitality. Lots of ‘honeys’ and ‘dears’ and little pats on my arm.

“Thank God,” I thought. “They’re really enthusiastic.” Mary Lou, a slight, fortyish woman with nice laugh-lines around her eyes said, “Honey, I’m the lucky gal who’s going to be your hostess for the next ten days, so let’s go over to my house to get you settled.”

It didn’t take very long to get to Mary Lou’s. Kingstree looked like a very, very small town. I guess the whole place could have fit quite easily into Grand Central Station. On arrival, I wanted desperately to lie down for a rest, but was told my room wasn’t ready. “We wanted to make it nice for you, dear,” so I spent a couple of hours sitting in a cluttered parlor, consuming an elaborate tea, and discussing the show with the ladies. (When in a parlor, “women” are called “ladies.”

Soon, we were joined by a rather aggressive, large blonde named Mae Belle. Not Mabel, mind you, its Yankee equivalent. Southern women like double-barreled names, I found. Mae Belle Warner, the Society Editor of the “Kingstree Bee,” turned out to be the key person we had been told to look for. Talkative, and evidently the social and fashion maven of Kings-tree, she knew everybody in town, white and black.

“Why we haven’t had such a hoopla around here since Helen Jameson came in third in the National Bake-Off, she said, as I described “The Circus” and sketched out the plot and the characters. As I took another huge hunk of cocoanut cake, she had lots of suggestions for casting the roles. “Jim Watson, now. He’s a lawyer. Smart, but you have to watch his drinking. For the ingénue, there’s Jo Anne Higgins. Attractive and smart, too, if you can get her to be anywhere on time. She’d be good. The Bearded Lady, Nat Rhodes. He’d just love to wear women’s clothes. Nothing against him, you know, just a little light on his feet.”

She agreed to do some phoning. What a relief! “We’ll need eight very pretty and popular girls for the chorus. Any ideas,” I asked. Indeed, yes! Mae Belle had a friend who ran a dance school.

“She’d love to help you out. Pick the girls and put them through their routine. And she can play the piano, too. I’ll have her get in touch with you.”

I felt another huge weight off my shoulders. She must have noticed that my movements were hardly graceful. Everyone, it appeared, would love to take part in the show. It all looked so easy, nothing like Mr. Woods’ scary warnings.

Soon it was six o’clock, time for supper, but time for me to go straight to bed. Mary Lou led me upstairs to a low-ceilinged room, neat but sparsely furnished. The big brass bed, the cigarette-scarred dresser, and the moth-eaten armchair didn’t seem to belong together. Refugees from a Salvation Army store? Never mind, the mattress felt wonderful, and soon, with a minimal amount of washing and unpacking, I was totally wiped out, too tired to dream.

* * *

Next morning a knock on the door woke me up at six. “We’re all early birds,” said Mary Lou. “Breakfast is at seven. Around here, the work-day starts at eight.”

The house was rather large compared with the others I had noticed in town. Simple, one-storey white clapboard houses were the norm. This one was a hodge-podge of various levels and additions. The dining room, when I finally located it, was a narrow passageway, which led to what I learned was the cookhouse. Four chairs were ranged on each side of a monk-like refectory table, which was covered with large platters of fried eggs, bowls of white stuff, and several plates of napkin-covered plates of hot biscuits.

“My, what a big family you have,” I told Mary Lou, who was seated at the head of the table. “Oh! How silly of me,” she laughed. “Didn’t you know this was a boarding house? Have you ever had grits before? Try some. You can’t live in the South without havin’ some of our grits and biscuits.”

I didn’t want to start another Civil War, so I spooned up a small portion of grits. Not too bad, and far better than the eggs, which were cold and coated with grease. Thank God for the biscuits! (I later coined words for Southern cooking: greens, grits, and grease.) Lunch wasn’t included, I was told, but Eulah, the cook, would be glad to make me a sandwich each morning.

In a few minutes, the six boarders appeared. Imports from neigh-boring towns, the young men had come to fill jobs at the post office, the railroad, and an insurance office, the others to take teaching jobs at the high school. There wasn’t much talk. There was a lot to eat, and little time to eat it, but they all managed to look me over pretty carefully.

On the way out of the dining room, Mary Lou looked slightly embarrassed. “I have another boarder, too, a very fine lady who works for the phone company. She’s on the night shift. Comes from a real nice family, very neat and clean. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind taking turns in the bed with her. You’ll never even meet.”

What could I say? “Well, I’ll try to be neat and clean, too.” (And clear out before she returns at 7:45 each morning.) Sharing a bed was hardly a problem, compared to the problems that faced me on Day Two. A director, said Mr. Woods, must stick to the schedule, meet the goals of each day. For Day Two that meant casting the speaking parts, the five leads, and coaching them on the following evenings from eight to ten. With Mae Belle’s help, that didn’t seem too daunting. O.K., but what about the damn parade? The whole idea was terrifying, especially when I remembered Mr. Woods carrying on about “floats,” how important they are, and how you need music, and color, too. “Remember, everyone loves a parade, watching one, or, even better, marching in one. In these small towns they’ll welcome anything to put some excitement into their lives.”

I love a parade, too, but, for Heaven’s sake, how could I, a total stranger, pull this off in just five days! And how would John Woods, Boston-bred and innocent of small-town life, know how outlandish the whole parade was? Gradually, I began to suspect that he was suffering from a Cecil B. DeMille syndrome.

Strangely enough, his statement about everyone loving a parade proved to be true. After four hours of visits to the Police and Fire Departments and a call on the Scouts’ headquarters, I lined up enough elements to make a parade. The Police Department, though small, had kilts and some pipers in their marching band, and loved an excuse to show off. The firemen lusted to parade their new hook-and- ladder, and the Boy and Girl Scouts would be happy to take part. In the next two days, other groups wanted in: the Kiwanis, the Elks, and the Old Man’s Barber Shop Quartet. Though elderly, the Quartet still had enough steam in their lungs and muscle in their legs to march the two-mile route. At the last minute, six members of the high school’s male gymnastic team agreed to add their tumbling skills. A seventh was talked into leading the parade, dressed in a tiger costume. The tiger role was non-acrobatic, just a case of prancing in a flashy manner while beating a drum. Two other high-schoolers volunteered to climb into a dancing horse two-part outfit.

On Saturday, Parade Day, I was it by a bombshell. It seemed that the Tiger performer had dropped out, just minutes after he put on the Tiger head, complaining of a severe headache. Nerves, or was it a hangover? Fortunately, like many of the gymnasts, he was rather short, not much more than an inch taller than I, and, before I knew what I was doing, I’d put on the Tiger costume, head and all, grabbed the drum, and was of, leading the parade. (“Never show your fear.”)

Barely able to see through the slits in the Tiger head, I struggled through two miles of dust, noise, and incredible heat. Damn my mother, damn Mr. Woods! They had gotten me into this nightmare. Sweat ran down my face, stinging and blinding my eyes. My arms were so weak I could hardly beat the drum, and, inside the costume, my whole body was soaked. (Later, I found that I had lost five pounds.) I don’t know how many out-of-towners witnessed our sad little parade, and I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was to peel off the wretched outfit, lie down on the pavement, and have a good cry. Luckily, I was able to return to my (our) room, which, thankfully, was available to me, as Harriet was off for a weekend with her family.

Despite super and a short rest, I had barely enough stamina to fill out my nightly progress report to Mr. Woods: “Casting of main roles completed. Four rehearsals scheduled. Principals dependable. No Flatter and Razz needed. Forty percent of ads sold. Advance ticket sales only fair.”

Future reports would read, “Morning rehearsals of three-year-olds OK” (The little boys and girls who would impersonate movie stars, a tiny ‘Garbo,’ in her mother’s shoes, lisping “I vant to be alone” – just as corny and embarrassing as it sounds.) “Evening demonstration of clown make-ups and run-through of dance routines.”

For the next day, a report might read, “Taught sword-swallowing and fire-eating tricks.” (Sword-swallowing involved using a special, collapsible weapon, while the Fire Eater had to learn how to juggle flaming cubes and catch them in his mouth. It was actually quite easy, but looked spectacular. The cubes were made of a sort of camphor ice, which burned brightly, but the blue flames were, amazingly, heatless. It took a half hour’s training, and even I could do it.

Every day, a letter came from Boston: “Appleton, congrats on pulling off your parade. It took guts and quick thinking. I’m concerned, though, about your dependence on this Mae Belle woman. You’ll have to recruit most of the performers yourself. Use everybody and stay calm.” Easy for him to say.

How, I wondered, could this man keep in touch with a director’s daily progress? Perhaps the others, the experienced ones, managed to cope without the daily chiding and cheer leading. The letters were a great comfort to me, especially when the feelings of loneliness and insecurity seemed almost unbearable. I never felt quite so young and fearful, but, for the most part, I was far too busy in my fourteen-hour days to have much time for self-pity. “You are not alone; there’s lots of help around, if you know how to use it,” I was told.

Time was moving much too fast. There was so much to do, so many items on my must-do list. Ignoring Mr. Woods’ advice, I called on Mae Belle at the newspaper. “Look, hon’, what do you need?” She must have sensed my mood. “We all want to help you, so don’t hesitate to use us.” Golden words! She continued, “Don’t forget all those women in The Eastern Star. Through their husbands, they’re connected with just about every important man in this town. There’s Libby. Now, her husband’s the Principal of the high school. Dagmar, her husband’s got a print shop, and, if you need moving,” (I thought of the scenery crate), “Annie’s husband isn’t up to much, but he owns a truck. Lulu’s husband, our undertaker, he’s always good for some chairs if you need them for rehearsals. You’ll probably need signs, too. Jen’s husband can help you there.”

Hadn’t Mr. Woods said, “Use everyone”? Yes, Mr. Woods, I certainly will! After some phoning to the Eastern Star wives, details began to fall into place. A visit to the high school gave me a further guarantee of the use of the auditorium for the performances. Dagmar’s husband, the printer, promised to add the crucial information on the circus posters that would be tacked up in prominent spots, and, even more important, he agreed to print all the cast names in the “Circus News.” This meant filling in all the gaps in the pre-printed tabloid stories.

“Town Leaders Join the Circus!” read the headline. It continued: “Most of our town will be involved in the forthcoming show, ‘The Circus,’ which will be performed on . . . . . . . . . . . . for the benefit of . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . directed by . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . of the Amateur Theatre Guild of Boston, Mass. The leading roles will be played by . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . as the young circus owner, his attractive girlfriend by . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .will act the role of the sneaky confidence man, and . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . will be seen as the comic policeman, while . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .will be hiding under the whiskers of the bearded lady. There will be two performances, on . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and . . . . . . . . . . . . . . both shows at 8:00 P. M.”

After giving some hints about the plot, the story goes on to list everyone in the cast from Side Show performers, Freaks, Clowns, High-Stepping Beauties, and Tiny Charmers. And that wasn’t all. Ushers, stagehands, musicians, electricians, ushers, and ticket-sellers would see their names in print. Around the story’s fringes advertising space would be sold, a very vital source of revenue.

All this took a lot of hustle. Getting the names in by the deadline was a tough job, almost as tough as persuading the printer to do the work at cost. Dagmar was pretty good at persuasion. She of the sultry eyes, and her committee of advertising saleswomen had powerful techniques, as well.

At a meeting of the Eastern Star committee the day before the first performance, I told them, “this has been a killer of a week, and I tell you I couldn’t have reached this point without your help – yours and your husbands!” (Laughter and tinkle of teaspoons.)

Did they guess that their enthusiasm, their naïve optimism, their misplaced faith in their ‘experienced’ director, as well as their talents as ticket sellers and ad sellers had kept the whole project from collapsing? But who was I to accuse others of being naïve? From my arrival in Boston, I had been snowed by John Woods. Certainly, he had pointed out the dangers, but he had made it sound as if things would go well, as long as we followed his formula. Stick to his plan. And success would follow. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that he was as green as I was, when it came to pulling off a show of that scale, in so short a time, and in untried territory.

* * *

The two performances in Kingstree went off without too many glitches. The Bearded Lady’s wig and beard stayed put, the Pony Chorus costumes held their stitches, and the slightly tipsy men in the fore-and-aft sections of the Dancing Horse got through heir hilarious routine without falling or splitting up.

All the exertions of the Eastern Star ladies paid off, and the organization and the Guild netted enough, after expenses, to make a modest sum, which they split. My take would amount to about $30.00 after some 140 hours of labor. It figured out to around 22 cents an hour. When one considered that bed, board, and travel expenses were covered, this wasn’t too bad. Back in New York my friends were getting $18.50 for 48 hours at Lord and Taylor. Hours of “work,” not “labor,” though 48 hours of stuffing size 20 women into size 14 dresses could be considered hard labor.

What a marvelous feeling it was on Sunday to awake knowing that I’d survived my first test. That morning I attended a Baptist church with Mary Lou. In that simple, white painted place Baptism was taken literally, as two white-robed persons were lowered into a huge, glass tank set up by the altar. No muddy river waters for this congregation. I sat through the ceremony, in hat and gloves, trying my best to look like a true Baptist.

Three young men were waiting at Mary Lou’s when we returned. The night before they’d invited me to go with them to Myrtle Beach. All of them had helped backstage, but I hardly knew them. Mary Lou assured me, “They’re nice boys, come from good families.” Apparently “good family” was all one needed to know. The three came in three flavors, a redhead, a blonde and jet black: Jim, Gus and Wally.

There were many hours free before my train to Georgia was due to leave in the early evening. The two crates had been packed earlier and sent to the station, where I’d checked my lone suitcase, and bought my ticket to Georgia, and as I was officially finished with my work on the show, all restrictions on my behavior were off.

An afternoon with three strange men on a strange, remote beach should’ve been a warning, but I was feeling too exhilarated and carefree to worry. After all, wasn’t I a “Pilgrim of the Impossible”? Jim was to be the driver on the 40-mile trip. With his red hair and a hint of freckles across his genial face, he was a 25-year-old carpenter, who looked competent and trust-worthy. It was he who had gotten up the nerve to approach me. His friends seemed more shy. Wally, lean and black-haired, had rather angry-looking brows and two pockmarks on an otherwise pleasant face. He was a painter, a house painter. Gus, an electrician, blue-eyed and with the round pink cheeks of a baby, looked harmless enough. All of them seemed awed by me, and, at the same time, quite pleased with themselves. “We’ll pick up lunch on the beach,” Jim said as we got into his car.

Nothing much was said for a few miles, until we pulled up at a gas station, where he bought some bottles of Seven Up. Paper cups were at hand. Seven Up was as new a taste experience as grits, and just as unpleasant. As I sipped my drink I sensed a commotion in the back seat, and realized that the men’s cups were being laced with something. A flask was being passed around. Oh dear! “What do you think? Ever had Seven Up before?” asked Jim. I must’ve been making a sour face. “Here, try this. It’s real good when you add rye,” Gus said as he held out his cup to me. Ugh. Quickly I returned the drink to him after one sip.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you city gals like to drink? I guess you’ll tell us you don’t smoke either,” he said.

“But I bet she plays around.” This from baby-face in the rear seat.

Jim, to his credit, concentrated on driving, which was quite easy. The road was almost deserted.

Feeling more and more uneasy, I tried asking them about themselves. “Oh, we’re just plain guys. Nothin’ special. Don’t get around like you do. How’d you wind up in a small place like Kingstree? Someone said you’re not from Boston, that you’re really from New York City.”

“What makes you think I’m from New York?”

“Well, there’s something different about you. By the way, did anyone ever tell you you sound like Katherine Hepburn?”

“Yes often, very often. But she comes from Connecticut, not New York, though some say she has a Park Avenue accent, whatever that is.” (Big mistake, my big mouth.)

“Park Avenue! That’s it! Can’t you just see her, guys, strutting around with all those social types?”

“Do you mean me, or Katherine Hepburn?” I asked.

“You, Miss Tina. There’s a certain somethin’ about you. Wait till the folks hear about us, takin’ you off to Myrtle Beach.”

All of this was getting much too close to the bone. How often I’d heard those words, “Did anyone ever tell you . . .” She and I had the same voice coach, but I think our tones of nasal gentility came from our families, not Samuel Arthur King. I was always amused how triumphant some total strangers would look when they thought they’d discovered a Hepburn sound-alike. But, how I wondered had they found out about my New York roots? Must’ve been that letter from my mother, seen by my fellow boarders. Thank God, the full address wasn’t on the envelope!

After many more miles of driving, and much too much drinking, we finally arrived at Myrtle Beach. Not a lot to see, just acres and acres of flat, gray sand bordering on steely, gray water, flat water, no waves. It was April, and the sky, too, looked gray. Apart from an occasional, forlorn looking snack bar, the place seemed almost deserted. Talk about anti-climax. Surely the men must’ve known that on a cloudy April day, the place would have little appeal, but perhaps a 40-mile drive with the mysterious Yankee was just a great excuse to go on a spree.

It was well past time for lunch, and finally we came to a snack bar and ate some sandwiches and “fried cakes” as doughnuts were called.

Unfortunately, the food was of little help as a sponge for all those drinks. Jim, no longer driving, soon started to out-drink his pals, gulping more and more of the Seven Up mixture. He, too, began to become unpleasantly familiar, vocally and physically. Sitting on a bench facing the sea, his arm sneaking around my waist, his questions grew increasingly personal. Did I have a boyfriend? Had he ever pressed me to “go the limit”?

Jim didn’t seem to want any answers, just enjoyed watching my distress, and with each question, his arm tightened around me. (Uncle Pierre, you were right – never mess with strangers!) It was getting worse. How did I find myself in this situation?

The men had bought more Seven Up, and apparently still had a good store of the hard stuff. All were obviously too drunk to drive. It was almost five o’clock, and my train to Georgia would leave at 6:10. I watched Gus and Wally as they gamboled at the water’s edge, hand in hand, singing a ribald song. In any other situation, I might’ve been amused.

Extricating myself from Jim, I tried not to panic. What had Mr. Woods told us? “Show no fear. Act like a lion tamer.” And here I was, right in the middle of the lion cage, without a whip.

“Take charge,” he’d also said. So I did.

Fortunately the men were happy drunks, much too far gone to protest when I pushed them into the car’s back seat, all three of them. So far gone, that they soon passed out, but not until I had taken the car keys from Jim and started the engine. I’d less than an hour to drive 40 miles to the station, collect my suitcase and board the train. How could I do it! Jim’s 1931 Chevy was familiar to me, thank God, for I’d never had such a heavy foot on the gas pedal. It was almost twilight, not the best time to drive, and the road was narrow. Luckily, I hardly saw another car, or a tree or a house as I rushed along through the flat landscape, on a route as straight as a plumb line. Result: I arrived at the station with nine minutes to spare.

I’d been hoping to sneak out of the front seat while the men were still in a stupor, but, alas, the trio came to life. The rest seemed to have put them in even higher spirits. Jim insisted on carrying my suitcase, the others locked arms with me, lurching along.

To my great relief, the train arrived. My suitcase and I got aboard, and so did the rowdy trio. We must have made quite a scene, as we burst into the railroad car, one red-faced, grim young woman, and three gloriously drunk young men. The car was almost full, so I braced myself in the aisle, and watched the threesome as they wobbled up and down. “Miss Tina” had become “Sugar,” Darlin’” and “Peaches,” to my horror. Luckily, a conductor finally appeared, took them all in tow, and put them off at the next station, some five miles down the road.

Phew! My emotion was a mix of relief and embarrassment. It’d been a totally unexpected send-off, but then the whole Kingstree experience had been a series of unexpected events. Not to mention cultural shock.

Fortunately, I was able to find an empty seat next to a thirtyish woman with pepper and salt hair, cut in a boyish style. She’d seemed quite amused by the whole episode. “Wow! Talk about making an entrance!” She laughed as I settled myself next to her. I was glad that there was no liquor on my breath.

“Relatives? No, I didn’t think so. But they seemed so – er – fond of you. Don’t be embarrassed. You should see the characters I deal with every day,” she said.

It seems she was a nurse from a mental hospital, on her way to a new job in Georgia. What, I asked, made her want to work with mental patients? Wasn’t it pretty grim, and perhaps dangerous?

“Sure, it’s not the kind of work most nurses would cotton to. There’ve been dangerous times, yes. Once a patient tried to strangle me, and believe me, I was so terrified, I almost ran away. But you’ve got to be tough. Never show your fear.” (Where had I heard that!)

I noticed her strong, square hands, man-like. She could handle herself.

She continued, “I started my nursing with the newborns. It’s a nice, warm atmosphere, everyone’s so happy. But, you know, there’s something. I can’t call it ‘fun,’ in the mental wards. It can be scary, of course, and you’ve got to be alert. I guess you could say the satisfaction comes when you see a patent coming back, back to life. My mother always tells me you have to be nuts to work in a mental hospital. Forgive the joke. What do you do, by the way?”

Compared with hers, my own job seemed so trivial, its problems so inconsequential. However, she seemed interested in my journey from the glitter of New York to life in small town South. Listening to Elaine, as I soon found was her name, was much more fun. I particularly enjoyed her story of another attack at the hospital, by an enraged, knife-wielding man. “Only that time, the man wasn’t even a patient. Just a bad-tempered cook from the hospital kitchen.”

The hours passed very quickly, and by eleven o’clock, our train arrived in Waycross, Georgia, where both of us had to make connections to other trains. I had a six-hour wait, hers was even longer. Like all grey-walled waiting rooms at nighttime, it was a dreary place. There were three or four benches, one of them occupied by a frizzy-haired girl and her fat boyfriend, who were nuzzling each other. We sat down and tried to ignore them. But we couldn’t ignore the giant cockroaches that scuttled across the floor at our feet.

Now, as a New Yorker, I knew all about roaches. These nocturnal creatures can be found all over, from Second Avenue walk-ups to Fifth Avenue duplexes. All they need is a damp, dark place to hide in. Go into any kitchen, switch on the light, and watch a half-dozen, small, shiny roaches darting swiftly into their secret hideaways. Amazing how fast they can move. I’d pit them against a greyhound any time. The Southern roaches were different, not afraid of people or the light. And these babies were huge, big enough to saddle!

I looked at Elaine. Her face was white. This brave woman was cowed by a cockroach.

We both jumped up and ran over to a man in the baggage area. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

He agreed to check our bags, and told us about the Raleigh Hotel, just two blocks away. “Maybe you ladies could get a room there for a few hours. They do that kind of thing, you know.” Did I detect an insinuation in his tone? Never mind, we were happy to find any means of escaping the cockroach threat.

When we reached it, we found that the Hotel Raleigh was not exactly the Ritz. The small, dimly lit lobby smelt musty, and the night clerk, though young, had a weary, hangdog look. He seemed surprised at two women coming in at that hour.

“They told us at the station we might get a room for a few hours,” I said.

“O.K., but I can only give you a double. Will that do? That’ll be four dollars, payable now. I see you’ve no bags. Want a wake-up call?”

As we registered our names and addresses he said, “Oh, Park Avenue is it. Wait till the boss sees this. May I ask, how you got to Waycross?”

“No, you may not. Please give us the room key. We’re really very tired,” I said. (Take charge!)

“I’ll just bet you are. Pretty anxious to lay down, aren’t you. About how many hours do you think you’ll need?”

Need for what! I found myself blushing. What did he take us for? I didn’t dare look at Elaine.

We went up a flight of stairs to our room. It, too, smelt musty and also stank of cigar smoke. The bed was one of those you see in scary movies. It was of dark wood, with a massive arch-shaped headboard. Draperies and bedspread were made of the same fabric, red cotton brocade, embroidered with tiny, white hearts. Hearts! They’ve got to be kidding. If I hadn’t been so tired I might’ve laughed.

My new friend, who’d traveled a long distance from Maryland, was even more exhausted than I. She flopped on to the bed and was soon asleep and gently snoring. Carefully lowering myself on to the vacant half of the bed, I lay stiff as a corpse, eyes wide open, both hands clutching my purse to my chest.

Again, I had one of those “What am I doing here!” moments. Here I was, young and alone, sharing a lumpy double bed, with a total stranger, a woman I’d chatted with for a few hours. What did I know about her? I dared not sleep. Perhaps that snoring was just a trick, that she might steal my purse and sneak away? Even wilder thoughts came to me, as I looked at those big hands, and stubby fingers on the spread. Suppose, as the night clerk hinted, she was a lesbian, or even worse, as nutty as some of her patients?

As I lay there, rigid with fear, the thought of sharing space with an army of roaches, seemed less disgusting. They were big, they were ugly, but the creatures couldn’t bite me. The more I thought about it, the balance seemed to tip in favor of the roaches. An hour or two passed, the snoring continued. I still had two hours to wait for my next train, at five a.m. ?

Gingerly I eased off the bed, tiptoed across the room, and crept down the stairs. My exit didn’t surprise the night clerk. “So that’s it?” he asked as I went out. The man was master of the enigmatic comment. Perhaps his years at the night desk in a two-bit hotel had made him cynical.

Walking quickly through the darkened streets, I came back to the station’s waiting room. It was almost empty. The roaches were still there, but I was no longer as intimidated. As I waited there, I thought of my mother, pictured her in her New York “uniform,” basic black, with a double strand of pearls at her neck. What would she think, had she seen me, curled up on a bench in a dingy station, roaches scurrying beneath my feet.

All my life I’d lived in a cozy cocoon of privacy, privilege and prejudice. I’d done everything that was “right.” Gone to the “right” schools and attended the “right” subscription dances where I met boys from the “right” colleges, Harvard, Yale and Princeton. (It took me weeks to recover from the shock of shaking hands with someone from Lehigh.) These affairs were carefully screened. No girl whose name ended with a ski, burg or a vowel need apply. When my equally sheltered friends heard about my plans to go south, they were amazed, and perhaps a little envious. “You’re really courageous,” was usually said. Courageous, or crazy? Here I was, all alone in an alien country, where I could barely stomach the food or speak the language. What next?

The second stage of my train trip passed quickly. Much of the time I dozed. It was vital to snatch some sleep before meeting the American Legion committee in Pinesville, where I was slated to stay with Legion member, Tom Winkler and his wife. No boarding house this time.

A compact, gray haired man in a perfectly ironed uniform, Sheriff Winkler was friendly enough, but there was a look in his hooded, pale eyes that made me uneasy. Alice, his wife, the other half of the welcome committee, was also small, had prematurely gray hair, very deep brown eyes, and an air of shyness. As they drove me to their house on the west side of town, I was curious about the clouds of yellow smoke that spewed out of the distant factory stack along the river.

“Oh,” the Sheriff said, “That’s from the mills. Georgia’s not just peaches and peanuts, you know. We’re a big lumber state, leaders in paper pulp, turpentine and resins. In good times, when all the mills are open, and the winds blow from the East, those sulphur fumes can do a number on your throat and eyes.”

When we reached their red brick house the air seemed OK and the inside of their home was as neat as its exterior. The room assigned to me was clean, pleasant and totally painted green; walls, furniture and floor. Of course the bedspread, curtains and rug had to be matching. Green never was my favorite color. Never mind, I thought, at least I didn’t have to share the bed.

Over coffee and some excellent muffins, we checked each other out. “I won’t be a big help to you, I’m afraid,” said the Sheriff as he explained his job. “In a town this size, you gotta keep things cool. We’re outnumbered here, two to one. You should see this place on Saturday nights, with the Nigras take over.” He pointed to a small, thick club, which hung in a corner. “Maybe you’d like to ride out with me next Saturday. I’ll show you how we keep ‘em under control. A bunch of them coloreds wind up in jail every weekend.”

As he began talking, his wife quickly left the table. Later, when I went into the kitchen to return my cup and plate, she came to me, red-faced. “I guess you’re shocked to hear him say these things. Northern folks just don’t understand the problems down here.” She paused, then added, “But sometimes I think he gets a kick out of his Saturday night round-ups.”

I’d heard about bullies like Tom Winkler, but I never guessed I’d live with one. Thank Heavens; my own busy schedule would engross me enough to block out my outrage. I felt sad for his wife. Did he keep her under control, too? I wondered. I’d seen whipped dogs with eyes like hers: sad cocker spaniel eyes. Fortunately, the Sheriff and I rarely met, except at breakfast. Grits were served, of course, and hot biscuits, and to my delight, the eggs were cooked in various ways, fried, boiled, poached and scrambled as well. Alice was a fine cook who supplied Northern vegetables from time to time, too, carrots, peas and string beans. There were very few of those mysterious “greens” floating in pork grease.

At six o’clock, most nights, there were pork chops, ham and chicken on the menu. There was rarely time enough for me to enjoy desert, but Alice tried to save me a piece of cake or pie. She was a good woman. Her husband was a nasty piece of business.

At supper, one night, I asked her about Tom, Jr. “He’s doing real well in the Army. Wasn’t doing so good in school, though. Seems he was always failing, missed a lot of days in class. They have a sort of doctor there, I guess you could call him a psychologist. He thought the problem was at home.” She paused, her eyes filling, her chin beginning to tremble. “It was the beatings, he couldn’t stand.”

“You mean his father beat him?”

“No, dear, it was me who got beat. Used a strap on me. Always hit me where it wouldn’t show. Usually happened on Saturday nights.” She began to cry. “He’s quit now. Takes it out on the coloreds, I guess.”

It had been two years, she said, since the last thrashing, but she was still frightened, I could sense.

“When I think how wonderful he was when we were first married, in 1918, just after the War. And handsome! He did have a temper, but it didn’t seem so bad, then. It never flared up till he thought I’d been flirting with another man. Harmless, you know, but he’d go crazy. That’s when the beatings started. When the baby came, he even got jealous of the child.”

For years, he’d managed to keep it secret. Only her son knew, and he, like his mother, was too ashamed to talk about it. As soon as he reached 18, he joined the Army. These days Alice rarely went out, had few friends. She became a Grade A cook, housekeeper and dressmaker. Many Southern women, no matter how poor they were, always found someone even poorer, and of darker skin, to do their cooking and their washing. But Alice had no one. I guess the Sheriff didn’t want any “Nigras” as witnesses.

Both of us were embarrassed by her outburst and, from that time until I left, our remarks were few. “Thank you for that wonderful pie, that’s a lovely dress, very becoming.” We stuck to safe topics, like food. One day I asked her “What are chitlins.” It seemed I’d made a faux pas. “Honey, er, these are odds and ends of pork, like slivers, fried very crisp.” (Sounded delicious to me.) “We don’t eat chitlins. They’re kinda poor folks’ food.” What color folks I wondered.

Her husband, on the other hand, became more talkative. One day, in a rare lull in my work, he said, “Too bad you’re so busy with the show. I’d like to take you to the courthouse. The Scroggins murder trial’s going on there. Lou Ellen’s a little girl from the hill country. Real pretty and only 15. Guess you might call her ‘white trash.’ She lived with her Daddy near the lumber camps. Her Ma was dead some years ago and the old man had been usin’ her, so to say. The girl got pregnant, panicked and killed the baby. If some Boy Scouts hadn’t found the baby in the woods, she might’ve gotten away with it. These people keep to themselves, don’t give us much trouble, but once in a while there’s a killin’. Most of us think she shoulda killed her Daddy.”

No thanks, I thought, I’d already heard enough sordid details during my stay with them.

On a happier note, things had gone pretty well on my ten days’ work on the “Circus.” With the American Legion as sponsor, I’d hoped for a decent result with the parade, and I wasn’t disappointed. The veterans adored parading, even turned up a rather ratty looking float. There were no problems with the lively “Tiger” leading the march. It was ideal weather and a fair-sized number of visitors spent money in the town.

Mr. Woods had been pleased, but in his Southern “experiment” things weren’t always perfect. In the months to come a series of events attacked my nervous system and my insides. Take the parade, for instance, an “iffy” thing at best. Who could’ve guessed that an otherwise healthy drum majorette would sprain an ankle in a Florida parade, or what worse scenario would occur in South Carolina when it was found that the treasurer of the Elks had fiddled with the advertising proceeds? Then there was the night when a power blackout shut down the show in the middle of a performance, or the time when the Sword Swallower’s trick sword got lost backstage, or the evening when a member of the Pony Chorus came down with the mumps?

The catastrophes went on and on. Fortunately, I survived, but there were times when my own health seemed to falter.

My daily reports to Boston took up so much time and energy that I hardly wrote to anyone else. That first week I mailed a penny postal to Uncle Pierre, “All’s well here, no White Slavery!” Equally terse was the message to my mother, “Still alive, but not kicking.” Her letters tailed me from town to town. “Darling,” she wrote, “Please don’t think me too nosey, but I had to call Mr. Woods for your address. What a wonderful adventure you must be having! Here, everything’s the same dull routine: clinic on Mondays, Book Club meeting on Tuesdays, and of course, there’s the Friday Philharmonic and I’ve been asked to serve on a blue ribbon jury – whatever that means. Biggest news around here is the Chapins’ divorce. After 25 years wouldn’t you think she’d gotten used to his string of bottled blondes? Sometimes I’m glad to be a widow. On the envelope flap she added, “Don’t forget your vitamins.”

Her next letter was a bit more surprising. “Guess what – I’ve met a new man who looks rather promising. I don’t quite know what he does, but he’s not bad looking, Brooks Brothers through and through. I think he’s a little bit shorter than he looks. He couldn’t be wearing Adler Elevators! He has a very annoying habit of constantly clearing his throat, but has very good bridge manners, and knows how to order in a French restaurant.”

A few weeks later, her tone changed. “Really, those penny postals don’t tell me much. I had to call Boston again. Mr. Woods was very nice, but I had the feeling he considered me a pest. ‘I don’t think you realize how busy her life is,’ he told me. I got the message. ‘Hands off.’” Mother sounded a bit petulant. I guess Mr. Brooks Brothers didn’t pan out. Even for a well-maintained, middle-aged, single woman, life in New York could be unbearably competitive.

Unfortunately, my words to Uncle Pierre hadn’t been as reassuring as I’d hoped. “You may have skipped White Slavery,” he warned, “but watch out for those Southern men. They’re smooth operators. These charmers will sell you a line you can’t believe. Look out, Honey Chile, they can be dangerous!” According to family reports, Uncle Pierre’s own history had been pretty exciting.

Yes, he was right about that Southern Charm. The peril, however, lay not in the men, but in the overall aura of good manners that I encountered on my job. When rounding up participants for the show I was told, again and again, “Sure Honey, I’ll be glad to help you. It’ll be real fun to be in the ‘Circus.’” Smilingly, they’d promise to attend the rehearsal that evening. And they wouldn’t show. Their built-in courtesy wouldn’t allow them to tell the truth, that they didn’t give a damn about me or the show. I later learned that future tours in the South had stopped because of that problem, that and the difficulty of making them work under pressure. “Hurry” was a nasty word down there.

* * *

As the months went by, the strain of “selling” myself began to work on me. It became harder and harder to hide my true roots, my ingrained snobbery, and to pretend to be “just folks.” My mother’s letters amused me, but only added to my growing sense of alienation. I began to hate the hypocrisy, the sugary talk of the shopkeepers “Come back soon, y’hear” and all those fried foods made me ache for a big bowl of tossed salad. There were too many empty hugs and Darlin’s for my taste. I dreamed of quiet, peaceful days and nights. No more dread of each arrival in an unknown town. The bloom was off the rose, so to speak.

There was little time for such brooding, however, and in late spring, I boarded a bus to my next job in Orangeburg, South Carolina, to work for the Rotary. Mr. Woods wrote that it was a particularly choice place. “I think you’ll do really well there. Orangeburg’s more sophisticated, they say.” (Who’s “They?”) I knew it was near Aiken, where horsy New Yorkers often visited, and grouse shooting also lured Northerners to the area.

Before leaving I’d had some interesting news from my mother, and quickly responded by Penny Postal: “Relax. I’m not a bit upset to hear about Dan’s engagement to ‘some girl in the office.’ I knew all along he wasn’t ‘right for me.’”

My schedule called for a meeting with the Rotary group at a small inn, where there was a bus stop. The houses, the scenery, the intangible air of prosperity were reassuring as I got off the bus and was met by a single man, George Bailey. He was well built and well dressed, and tall, too. No Adler Elevators needed.

“Where are the others?” I asked, as he showed me to a seat in the small lobby.

“Well, er, I’m a Rotarian and a lawyer too, so they thought I’d better talk to you.” He smiled with too much heartiness, and he hadn’t said “welcome.”

A terrible sense of impending disaster crept over me. Was this a signal of bad news to come? Keep cool, I kept telling myself, but I could feel my mouth grow dry as he started to speak. “You’ve made a long trip, Miss Appleton, and I don’t know any other way to tell you, but the Rotarians want out.”

This was obviously not a simple case of cold feet or last minute jitters. From the man’s tone, one could tell the Rotarians were adamant. I was floored. And it showed.

He continued, “Of course, we’ll pay your travel expenses, and starting right now, I’m going to make sure that you won’t be stranded without a commitment from another organization.”

Could it be that he was going to do the “selling” for me? “Don’t worry, Miss Appleton, we’ll work things out.” He called me “Miss Appleton,” not “Honey” or “Dear.” That was encouraging, I thought, as he picked up a phone and began dialing.

“There’s a young lady here, a Miss Appleton, from the Amateur Theatre Guild in Boston. She has a great idea for making money in just ten days. I’m sure the Lions could use some extra cash, couldn’t they?” A pause . . . “uh, huh, uh, huh. OK, I just wanted you to have a chance to get in on the action. Sure. I understand. Bye.”

And so it went, while I ate a sandwich and had some coffee. The Elks, Kiwanis, the Red Men, the American Legion, Veterans of Foreign Wars, they all said “no.”

He ordered two more coffees and lit his third cigarette. I was beginning to feel more and more forlorn. George Bailey might be a good lawyer, but as a salesman, he rated a C-minus.

“Appleton,” he mused. “That name has a real New England ring to it. Are you any relation of a Bishop Lawrence Appleton of Massachusetts? Or was it Appleton Lawrence? I heard of him while I was at Harvard Law School. Did you know, by the way, they have an Appleton Chapel at Harvard?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen the chapel. My brother’s at Harvard now. As a matter of fact, he got a $300 scholarship, just because his name was Appleton. The Bishop? I think he was a distant cousin of my father, who also went to Harvard.” I was laying it on thick. What had I to lose?

“Hey, I may have the answer to our problem.” (Our problem, he said!) “It occurred to me that our Episcopal church might be just the ticket. I assume you’re an Episcopalian?”

“On my father’s side, yes.” (No reason to mention the Catholic thing, though I was a French Catholic on my mother’s side, almost as socially acceptable as an Episcopalian.)

“Appleton, that does sound very Episcopalian,” he laughed. ? Yes, I thought, and that’s why I took so much grief from my non-Catholic schoolmates. I continued playing the Appleton connection for all it was worth. “My grandfather was a vestryman at St. Barthomew’s Church in New York.” (Maybe I should have said, “St. Bart’s.” More casual.)

I feared I might have overdone it, but Mr. Bailey seemed to have become energized, and before long he was at the phone. He followed my example, did a lot of name-dropping and calling and Praise Be, signed up the Church with the Guild! There were some changes from the usual agreement, however. I was to stay at the inn, an arrangement Mr. Woods wouldn’t like, but this was not the time to quibble.

Finding an Episcopal Church in Baptist/Methodist country had been a real surprise. Of course, finding a Catholic or Jewish congregation would have been even more of a shock.

“This town,” he told me, “is a pretty Cosmopolitan place. Lots of us are Northerners, refugees from the horsy group in Aiken. That place was too much for me. Why, if you don’t have a couple off polo mallets strapped on the roof of your car, you’re a nobody. There are enough of us here to support a small Episcopal church, but we could certainly use a few more pennies in our collection plate.”

As he spoke, I began to feel more and more relaxed. This man, in his seersucker jacket, trim slacks and well-chosen tie was my kind of person. No longer would I have to play the folksy role. My mask, mercifully, had fallen away. I was liberated. He obviously was also feeling more comfortable. ? “So, welcome to another Northerner! We treasure every one of you. Now I think we ought to celebrate with a nice Yankee drink. Or is it too early for that?” Without waiting for my answer, he steered me to a modest bar in the lobby.

Uncle Pierre had warned me about Southern charm, but how to cope with this kind? Not too well. After all, this man had rescued me. How could I turn chilly, and say no.

“A scotch and soda, please. Very light.” (Sorry Mr. Woods I know I’m breaking the rules, but I promise to be a good girl . . . as soon as things get settled.)

A few minutes later, George Bailey, looked over the top of his high ball and said to me, “You know, I saved your bacon, didn’t I?” He looked a little too sassy, too sure of himself.

I tried to play the innocent. “Oh yes, Mr. Bailey, and I’ll always be grateful. You pulled me out of a real mess, but now I think I ought to go up to the room and rest. Tomorrow’s Day One on my schedule, the toughest day.”

“Day One of ten. Then I’ll be seeing a lot of you. You’re not getting rid of me that soon.” He gave my hand just a little extra pressure and left.

Ouch! Out of one jam and into another, I thought. My days would be so busy, there would probably be no trouble, but it was awkward, knowing that, in a sense, I really did “owe” him.

A short nap and a shower calmed me, and later, in the dining room, I enjoyed a very good meal of roast chicken, mashed white potatoes and tiny peas. It was a treat to sit alone without pretending to love the food or the company.

Under the Guild’s rules of “no men, no smoking or drinking” I’d broken the law in two ways, but I needed this man’s help. I couldn’t afford to snub him. He knew that too. When I ran into him the next morning I tried a method that had worked for me before. Treat him like a father.

“Oh, I forgot to ask you yesterday. Did your sons go to Harvard? I thought they might have known my brother.”

“Gosh no. I have no sons, just one three-year-old daughter. She lives with her mother in Aiken. Well, enough of that. What can I do for you today?”

There was a lot he could do. For starters, I told him, he could round up some key men and women, community and church hotshots, who would help with casting and setting up committees. On my part, I’d stick with the Guild formula, but the parade was out. Somehow this town and these people did seem a bit too sophisticated for that sort of thing, and under the circumstances, this last minute arrangement, or reprieve, made the timing even tighter than usual.

To my astonishment, two Rotarians were actually talked into taking on two of the main parts. (Doubtless I’d owe George Bailey for that.)

Things were going amazingly well with the rehearsals, the advance ticket sales and the advertising. Then the shock hit me.

I made the discovery, some days later, that the Rotarians had, about three or four days before my arrival, been in daily phone talks with Boston about their need to back out of the contract. Mr. Woods had knowingly sent me into a disastrous situation, sent me rushing towards a precipice, in a car without brakes. Mr. Woods had done the unforgivable, told them a lie, that he was unable to reach me. Nonsense! I was furious. Did he believe that I could sweet-talk the organization into changing its mind? It was a nasty trick, I told him, when I called him in Boston. I was so mad I literally saw red. (It can actually happen when one’s blood pressure goes wild.)

Mr. Woods wrote me several letters afterward, which I didn’t open. He didn’t receive any further reports from me. I must confess I got a kick imagining his frustration in not knowing what was going on with the show.

Perhaps I might have been less enraged had George Bailey told me the full story about the fiasco with the Rotarians, but, at that point, my nerves and my insides were sending me an urgent message: “Go home.”

Rotarians, he said, were the richest, strongest and most respected organization in town, and the stuffiest. (Even more so than the Episcopalians?)

“They really take themselves very seriously. So much so, that when the full membership heard about the ‘Circus’ idea they were appalled.”

Threatened with a loss of dignity, they voted to back out of the contact, even if it meant forfeiting the good faith deposit they’d left with the booker and losing the sum they’d put into escrow to cover the director’s expenses. ? No wonder, I thought, he’d striven so hard to sell the contact to another organization!

“So you knew, all the while, that I wouldn’t be stranded, homeless, starving and jobless?”

“Well, at least not homeless and hungry,” he admitted. ? “So you weren’t exactly the savior I thought you were.” I had to laugh.

When I told him of Mr. Woods’ under-handed treatment he reacted quickly. “The bastard! I wish we didn’t have to share any part of the take with him. But, for your sake, I’m glad everything’s going so well.

Yes, the first performance, at least, had been a success. Lots of people, lots of applause. It looked as if the Episcopalians might net enough to buy that carpeting for the altar area, and I might have enough to buy a train ticket on the sleeper to New York.

There was a large house for the next performance, thank God. I could hear a sound, growing in the audience, the kind of noise thousands of bees make when you remove the top of a hive.

While I was rushing around backstage, a young man was rapping on doors, looking very self-important, as he called out the curtain times. As I peeked through the curtain, checking the house, he ran up. Wailing, “Something awful’s happened! The clowns are drunk, and they’ve locked themselves in with the side show performers and refuse to come out!”

I felt like a runner on the last lap, who’s hit a trip wire. Drunken clowns could stagger through their routines and fool the audience, but the Sword Swallower, Fire Eater and Magician had to be cold sober. Their acts were crucial, particularly the Magician’s, which was the show’s finale. How to get them out of that room?

Fortunately, a fireman had been stationed back stage, and heard the to-do. “Hold it,” he said, “I think I can help you. All I need is a ladder. I’ll get those dummies out for you, lady.”

I didn’t know where he found that ladder, and I didn’t care, but somehow, he climbed up, crawled into a window, and unlocked the door. All were costumed and made-up. The clowns were tipsy but they were manageable, the others, thank God, were in good shape.

And so, the show went on, and the audience loved it.

The climax of the show, the magic act, was even better than usual. The Magician and his young assistant, both caped and turbaned, entered the stage. A recording of “To a Persian Garden” created a mystic, Eastern atmosphere. A large box was carried onstage, and at a signal from the Magician, the assistant stepped into it and very slowly, crouched down, out of sight. With much flourish, the Magician flung a light cloth over the box. Moments later (drum rolls) a head could be seen, under the cloth, rising slowly, then with a fearful shout, the Magician whipped out a large knife and drove it into the head! Screams and gasps from the audience. Another drum roll, the cloth’s yanked off and the assistant stands up intact. The secret, a cabbage held up for the “head.” Much applause, the curtain falls.

To my surprise, a party was held on the stage afterwards, with flowers from the Episcopalians and a startling, messy kiss from a clown. The next morning there was packing to be done, and the two “costume and scenery” crates shipped back to Boston, collect.

Then I phoned my mother, told her I’d be coming home and “Could you wire me some money?”

“I could and I will!” she exclaimed. I never heard her sound so ecstatic.

I didn’t go into details. No need to tell her how exhausting and exhilarating, how grim and hilarious, or how exasperating and rewarding this Southern adventure had been. After all, this was long distance, and I was running out of nickels.

 

Epilogue

Had I known what a challenge this Southern adventure would be, I never would have had the courage to take on the job. When I arrived back in New York, weary and penniless, I realized how pampered, privileged and protected my former life had been.

To have survived, even for a short period, as a “Pilgrim of the Impossible” was an incredible education for a naïve, 20-year-old. For that reason I turned down Mr. Woods’ offer for me to open a New York office and train other innocents as “directors.”

No, thank you. I had traveled that road, and it was a marvelous learning experience, but I didn’t have the heart to send any other trusting young women off on that perilous journey.

 

 

 

(That was a true story and fun to recall. I hope you enjoyed this slice of life in the South in the 1930′s.)