Then and Now (22 page)

I'M EIGHTY-EIGHT YEARS
old and realize that I have arrived at the fourth stage of womanhood:

Childhood

Adolescence

Maturity

and . . . “You look wonderful!”

And, wonderful or not, I still believe I'm a work in progress. I'm still learning, still excited, still frustrated, but most of all still in the game. I don't make a point of memorizing reviews, good or bad because what matters is to keep growing, but Stephen Holden in the
New York Times
reviewed me fairly recently in terms that really resonated with me: “In whatever she sings, you sense a lifetime's experience being addressed from a perspective that is still capable of wonder. . . .” It's true. Perhaps when we get older we reexperience the sense of wonder we felt as youngsters, only now it's mixed in with a sense of gratitude. Note how the light hits the leaves on the tree. Look at the everyday beauty surrounding us . . .

I try to be fully present when I sing. If I'm fully engaged, there is a chance that my soul, for lack of a better word, can touch the souls of other people, and then there can be healing. We are, finally, so alone in this world, but sometimes, if only for a few moments, there can be a whole group of people blending with one
another. No matter what the medium, through authentic art can come healing.

I don't sing the way I used to. In some ways, I sing better. Better than I did five years ago, and I believe I'll sing even better five years from now (that is if I'm still around; I sometimes forget how old I am). I don't have the range I used to have, and my voice has surely gotten darker, but I have more and more courage to move deeper and deeper into the lyrics. I don't sing “Glitter and Be Gay” anymore, but I can pack a lifetime's worth of beauty and joy and pain into a lyric in a way I never could have fifty years ago.

In twelve-step programs you are taught “You will learn not to regret the past.” Well, I do regret the past, lots of it. I regret not being active in the theater when I was in my prime. It's painful to think of all those missed opportunities. But Adam, who is very wise in so many ways—certainly wiser than I am—sees the big picture in a way that I don't, and said something helpful to me on that very topic: “Mom, this is your journey. And where you are is pretty great. Look at you. Still singing. Still working. Respected in the business. Still with a thriving career. A lot of those people who were active when you wanted to be don't work anymore, or they are no longer with us. So—this is your journey.” And that really helped me. Wally used to tell me: “We'll keep going until you drop onstage—with your walker!”

I can still feel a bit of a twinge of jealousy when I see or hear about someone getting a great career opportunity that I wish I had. “Oh damn. Why didn't I get that?” But it's only a twinge. I used to play a game with myself about career opportunities that centered on: “How would I feel about this if Florence Henderson got it?” Back in 1955, my face was on a giant billboard overlooking Broadway for
Plain and Fancy
. That billboard was huge! It
was very impressive. The problem was that I just couldn't take it in. The best I could do was to think, “Well, if Florence Henderson was on the billboard I'd be impressed, so maybe the fact that I'm up there means something.” I liked Florence a lot. We had formed a fast friendship while touring a whole season together in
Oklahoma!
but I was making her the gauge for my own career. That thought process is completely foreign to me now. I can put aside thoughts of jealousy and immediately say to myself, “You know—that belongs to them. It's okay. This belongs to me. It's all okay.”

And it really is.

Sometimes life is so hard. But it's the only game in town, and we sure as hell didn't make the rules—so either we give up, which some people do, or we play along the best we can, and along the way there is glory, too.

I've been able to grasp bits of that glory all along the way.

I remain, most of all, grateful.

My handsome father in his World War I cavalry uniform.

Striding down the streets of Atlanta with my mother—and already in a New York state of mind.

Mrs. I. W. Curry's dance troupe entertaining at Fort Benning, Georgia, army base, 1944.

Tamiment, Pennsylvania, 1950. The best possible summer stock experience—and where I met my husband.

Flahooley
, 1951. My first Broadway show—with the Bil & Cora Baird Puppets.

Ali Hakim and Ado Annie. Touring in
Oklahoma!
with my husband, David LeGrant.
Photofest

Backstage at the Blackhawk Hotel in Chicago with David, touring in
Six on a Honeymoon.
I'm still not sure why he had those bandages!

As Carrie in
Carousel
—even more fun than playing the lead role of Julie.
Photofest

Plain and Fancy
—the show that put me on the map. I still have the wedding caps a lovely Amish woman sent me.
Photofest

Candide
rehearsals with our director, Tyrone Guthrie.
Photofest

Singing Leonard Bernstein's showstopping “Glitter and Be Gay” in
Candide
.

Publicity photo from the 1956 television production of
Bloomer Girl
, complete with Shirley Temple curls.