After
over a decade of living in this community often referred to as an
“artists' colony,” I finally attended Leonia Reads,
an annual event of the The
Players Guild of Leonia held at the Civil War Drill Hall Theater, where Leonia writers read pieces they
have written. I have often
thought of attending several times leading up to the previous 13
readings—even envisioned getting up and reading one of my pieces
myself—but I thought there was probably some sort of “writer's
etiquette” that says you don't just show up your first time to a
reading and expect to read yourself (although I learned from my
friend Ann
Piccirrillo, who also read one of her writings, that she has only
been two times and has done readings both times. But she grew up on
the East Coast and has hutzpah while
I'm a shy Midwesterner).
Besides, I had this fear that I would get up and read something and
people would think, “How did he
get in here? Don't they check on these people?” So I drove down on
a beautiful Saturday afternoon with a pocket full of change, parked,
and jaywalked across Grand Avenue to get into the free event.
The
event started right on time. I saw a few people I know sitting in the
audience, and saw Ann's husband Jim and their children, so I walked
over and sat near him. This turned out to be a good move because
early in the program, I slightly slumped down in my chair and change
started falling out my pocket, some rolling down to the bleaches to
the lower rows (I was on the back row) and some falling in between
the bleachers. Although it couldn't have been more than a dollar's
worth of change, it sounded like I was loaded and ready to go to the
laundromat with all of the clanging. The reader kept her composure
and just kept reading, even though I'm sure she wanted to scream. I
think most people thought it was Jim and his children, who were
dressed in their soccer uniforms. Because I also sensed that
everyone thought it was actually Jim, I quickly recovered from the
shame and humiliation and enjoyed the readings.
Reader
six was Marvin Kitman
reading “My Friend Bob.” I had never heard of Marvin
Kitman—remember I'm a Midwesterner--but thought his default facial
expression looked as if he was about to burst out laughing at any
moment. He read a brilliant humor piece about his former neighbor,
Robert Ludlum, whose name sounded vaguely familiar. I looked them both
up afterward and was glad I had chosen not to read on this first
visit—Kitman is a legendary former Newsday columnist and Ludlum
wrote The
Bourne Identity among his
many novels, which I had of course heard of because of the movie.
Leonia Reads is
also a good way to find out your neighbors names. A little later I
saw Paul Leibow, who lives just up the street from me, and he read
three of his poems. I found out later he is actually an artist. I
haven't met too many artists in my lifetime, but he certainly doesn't
look like one to me.
Number
fourteen was Blair
Birmelin, whom I figured out was the lady who swims laps at the
pool. Since she usually wears a swim cap while she swims, it took
me a while to make the connection. Next was a young lady named
Petaluma Vale, whose name
I just sat and kept saying over and over in my head because it had
such a poetic ring too it. That name gives her a head start over the
other poets, but her poetry lived up to the name. It was good.
Michael
Perino read from an actual hardcover book—The Hellhound of Wall
Street--unlike many of the others who had various binders or papers
in folders. (Note to self: It looks really cool when you
walk to the podium to read from your own hardcover book!)
I later found out he was a law
professor at St. John's. His book was about a federal prosecutor who
prosecuted people implicated in the Stock Market Crash of 1929.
A
little later, Rowena
Wangenheim mesmerized the audience with her dramatic reading from
a new play by Kathleen
Clark about a woman who kills her husband over a
misinterpretation of something he says in a dream. I coached soccer
nearly ten years ago with Kathleen the year that she got hit right
between the eyes with a soccer ball and went flying backwards during
our last game of the season. I remember saying to her as she sat on
the ground trying to regain her composure, “I think God is trying
to tell you something!” She apparently went home and rewrote the
ending to her play Soccer
Moms that played for a while
in New York after her little soccer incident. I'm still a little
upset that she scheduled all of the soccer practices that year right
after school when I couldn't go to them.
The
readings ended with Paul Byerly, a guy I used to coach against in
softball a few years ago in the Leonia
Junior Girls Softball League. He looked exactly the same as he
did then and still wore a ball cap and had a beard. I had no idea he
could write such a fine piece on “Pet Care.” After he ended, I
smiled at a few people and left to go home, amazed that such a small
town could have such a high concentration of talented writers.
Fortunately, my high self esteem will serve me well in his town.