Stories I Tell, Part 1

You can pick your friends, but you are stuck with family. The thing about family, though, is that you get lots of stories to tell over a beer with those friends you chose so well.

This story is about my grandparents on my father's side – my Gramma and Grampa Mac.

As children, we grow up wanting to please our parents, and by extension our grandparents. I was no different, but you learn the hard way that what's important to a child may not seem that big of a deal to a parent. My father is not culpable in this story – in his own way, he has shown me that he is proud of my accomplishments. My grandparents, though, were a whole different ball game. I'm sure neither of them – or even my mother's parents – really understood what motivated me, what was important to me. And I could say the same about them. They lived in a world completely foreign to mine.

So, I suppose a little background is needed. Charles McClannahan, my grandfather who everyone called Mac was a plumber when I knew him. His youth and life was one of tragedy followed by struggle. His father died in the Flu Epidemic in 1918 and his little brother died not much later of lockjaw, long before tetanus vaccinations

Grampa Mac

were invented. My grandfather spent his life working with his hands, but he was the smartest, most intimidating man I've ever known. His free time was spent reading and understanding the world around him.

He had once asked me if I had read Machiavelli's “The Prince.” When I said I hadn't, he accused me of not knowing anything. I suppose I didn't in his eyes.

My grandmother, the former Helen Dixon, was the daughter of a dance instructor and from what I saw in the old photos, something of a flapper. She also was a die-hard Republican who could not cook, although I don't believe the two are related. And ... well … she didn't seem to like kids very much, which is kind of difficult to understand if you are a kid.

Gramma Mac

By the time my grandparents were in their 70s, they had retired to southern New Mexico and would make occasional trips up to Albuquerque to see a doctor, or whatever it was they did. For the most part, though, if I wanted to see them, I'd have to drive down there. Which I did, but probably not enough.

I plead guilty of not seeing my grandparents enough. My excuse was that I was a young man who was doing as much as he could to enjoy life. One of those things was acting.

I was playing at the idea of being an actor, but not really. If I had wanted to make a go of that, I should have been living in L.A. or New York; not Albuquerque. I did it because it was fun. You get to pretend to be someone else and your talents can move an audience to laughter or sadness or anger. If you are an insecure person, there really is nothing like the ego stroke of someone gushing over a performance you gave. As an actor, though, I'm a pretty good writer.

Another reason, and probably the main reason I was into the Albuquerque theater scene, was the girls. That's where I met my wife, but that's another story and we're still on the subject of my grandparents.

It came to pass that I was cast in the Neil Simon comedy “StarSpangled Girl” at the Wool Warehouse Dinner Theater with my best friend Gary and my other friend Connie. It was a challenging production from the beginning – there was a bit of theater bitchiness involved that I honestly don't fully remember. But we made the best of it; and, despite the external factors, we had fun. People who participate in sports understand the pure joy of being part of a team, especially with your friends. It's not much different being on stage with your friends and making an audience laugh. Nothing can compare.

As with any other show in which I appeared, I invited my friends and family. Usually Dad would come, he actually enjoys live theater. With this performance, though, he wanted his parents – my grandparents – to see me on stage. Honestly, I was thrilled and I worked it out that they had great seats and got the deluxe treatment for the dinner. I was planning to bring them back stage after the show and maybe even go to the bar after that and have a cocktail.

Then the whole thing went off the rails.

My grandparents didn't want to leave their dog at home or with a neighbor while they came up to the show. So they

The Wool Warehouse

 

 

brought the dog along and left it in their truck parked out on the street. With dinner theater, the dinner is served first. The actors and tech folks are usually backstage getting ready for the performance. For me, that usually meant going over my lines and trying to calm my nerves.

Jennifer, the theater manager came back stage with a funny story. She said she had stopped an old man from taking a plate of food out the back door. She said he explained that his dog was in his truck and he was going out to keep the animal company and eat his dinner. Everyone got a good laugh out of this, but I didn't say anything. I peeked out of the stage door and into the lobby to see if I could find out what was going on.

In the lobby was my father. We made eye contact and he kind gave an exasperated shrug. He waved me off and I went back to getting ready for the show. The curtain went up and we started the first act. I don't remember much about my performance, but I imagine I was a bit off – my family was sitting right in front and all of them had a somewhat disinterested look on their faces.

The first act of the show lasted about an hour, I think, and my character wasn't on stage for the last 15 minutes. During this time, I would be back in the green room listening on the speaker to the show progressing. That matinée show was not a good one for any of us, and I found out at intermission what the problem was.

Connie came into the green room after the curtain dropped for intermission nearly in tears. She'd been holding in laughter and let it out once she was safely out of the audience's earshot. Gary followed in much the same condition.

“What?” I said, grinning at the thought of fit of stage giggles. I'd been part of those events before – yes, that's another story – and I wanted to know what had happened.

“Did you see the old lady?” she asked. “The one right in front? She feel asleep, her head thrown back and her mouth wide open.”

I knew the old lady but didn't say anything, the blood rushing to my face in embarrassment.

“She was snoring,” Gary said with a guffaw.

They thought it was that much funnier when I informed them that the snoring lady was my grandmother. Although there was some hurt feelings on my part, I did realize that it was pretty funny.

At least that's the way I look at it. There are too many times in the course of a day where it is easy to be offended by something someone says and does; and it can hurt even more when it's someone you are close to. I still get offended and I still sometimes get angry about comments directed at me. In the end, though, it doesn't make much difference and I try to remind myself that the truth of the matter is that most people are simply unaware their actions are offensive. I'll have my bursts of anger, and then I let them go.

Besides, I spent the second half of that performance doing everything I could to interrupt my grandmother's nap, and I succeeded a couple of times. She was a pretty heavy sleeper.

You can pick your friends …