Uncategorized Archives : Page 3 of 25 : The Aging of Aquarius

Act Two

Sacramento’s Stagedoor Comedy Playhouse was my home away from home in the 80s and 90s. For several of those years between marriages, it was my home instead of home.

I was Felix to Dave Grosby’s Oscar in Neil Simon’s “The Odd Couple” Gosh, we were terrific.

I don’t have an exact count but I’d guess I performed in some 20 plays at Stagedoor and directed another ten or so. I wrote a few, too. After each performance, the cast and crew would gather around the beer and wine bar in the lobby and relive the glories and horrors of that night’s show. We drank and laughed while learning the fine points of our craft, of action, reaction and timing, through our shared experience. We kept at it until the wee hours, then reluctantly headed to the parking lot with the happy promise that we’d all get together the next night and do it all again.

I was in my thirties then and thoroughly immersed in my life as a single father and my blossoming radio career. But I still had dreams of a different, distant future.

“When I get old,” I told my theater family, “I’m going to get acting jobs in movies and TV. All the young, hot bodies are fighting for stardom. I’ll wait until they’ve all burned out,” I said. “Then I’ll just scoop up all the old man character roles.”

Remember this old man? Burt Mustin. He was on every big and small screen in the 1950s and 60s.

It was my retirement plan. Seemed like a good idea at the time when TV shows all featured the same two or three old men playing minor roles and window dressing, actors who had been around forever learning technique and aging into the life experience needed for old man character roles.

Forty years have slipped away. I guess it’s time.

I just filled out a form for a casting agency to appear as an extra in a TV series filming in the Fort Worth Stockyards. It’s a prequel to the hit series, “Yellowstone”, called “1883”.

I love Westerns. I’ve eaten dust on horseback.

I loved playing cowboy 60 years ago and I loved being on stage 20 years later. Maybe I’m ready to saddle up again, or just walk down a wood plank sidewalk as a body comes flying through the swinging doors of a saloon.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Our 50th Anti-Versary

by Dave Williams

August 21, 2021

50 years ago today I got married. We were both barely 20.

Five years later we had a son. Five years after that we got divorced.

Today is our 50th anti-versary. That’s the term I invented a few years after we split up when the emotional angst was mostly behind me and I realized something I still think was pretty insightful:

Our marriage didn’t fail, it just ended.

Now, 50 years later I’m proud to say that my high school sweetheart is still my close friend. So is her husband, and they share a happy friendship with my wife of 33 years.

We’ve all shared the best of life over the past several decades: kids, grandkids, a wonderful daughter-in-law and her loving family, holiday gatherings and a lot of happy memories made of special events and activities.

Jeremy & Emily’s wedding, 1997. The kids pledged their eternal love as John and I sealed our family ties.
L-R: Emily’s parents, Gloria and George, Karen, Emily, Jeremy, John, CarolAnn, me.

My wives, former and current, have spent days together shopping and taking the grandsons to Disneyland. This past June my ex and her hubby joined us for a weekend road trip celebrating CarolAnn’s and my anniversary.

Some people think this is highly unusual if not downright weird. But I ask you, how do you throw away 50 years of love and respect out of spite? Why would you do that?

The four of us are separately happy together.

Karen and I learned to keep the good times and dump the bad.

So, happy anti-versary, Karen. Give John a hug for CarolAnn and me.

And thanks, for everything.

I got the Willies

by Dave Williams

I heard a guy on the radio this morning waxing nostalgic about the time he met his childhood hero, Bart Starr. At that point he employed a clever trick we radio talkers carry in our toolbox, asking rhetorically, “Did you ever have a chance to talk with your idol?”

It’s what we call a hook. It engages the listener. We get you personally involved in a topic. This is called active rather than passive listening. It works every time, even on me.

I’ve told these stories here before but hell, I’ve been telling one of them for about 60 years, the other for 32. Why stop now? They still haunt me.

I met Willie Mays when I was ten or twelve years old. For reasons I still don’t understand a security guard protecting the San Francisco Giants players’ parking lot from a rowdy crowd of kids waving pens and gloves opened his gate just wide enough to admit me, and me alone, into the autograph promised land. The other several dozen kids were left clamoring at the chainlink barrier like starving waifs in a Dickens novel.

This was my golden ticket, even before Willie Wonka was created.

When my hero emerged from the locker room door my heart started pounding and my mouth went dry. I walked toward him calmly, on rubber legs; I politely raised my baseball glove and pen to his world-famous face and muscular shoulders, forcing my thick, parched tongue to stammer, “Mr. Mays, can I have your autograph?”

Willie kept walking. He didn’t slow down, look at me, smile, or shoo me away.

He made me doubt my own existence.

Willie got in his car, I went back to my dad and we started the sad two-plus hours drive home.

Willie Nelson was much nicer. He smiled and nodded as I looked at him dumbly. I mean that in the literal definition of the word, I was struck dumb, so enamored by his presence that I was unable to utter a word.

I was no kid at this point. I was 38, host of the highest-rated morning radio show in Sacramento history, but at that moment I was dumb as a fencepost.

CarolAnn bailed me out, as she often still does in social settings. She smiled sweetly at Willie, fluttered those gorgeous eyes, and asked him to sign our ticket stubs. He did so with a charmed (and may I suggest, slightly lecherous) smile.

As I chewed on my tongue to reduce it to a usable size, my wife turned radio producer, asking Willie if he could find a few minutes to talk with me on the air the following morning by phone. He kindly explained that he’d love to but he would be sleeping in his bus hundreds of miles away on the road to Utah. He might not even have a cell phone connection.

Then the Red-Headed Stranger smiled again and tipped his hat to the love of my life, giving me a quick, curious glance as he left.

“Radio show?” he thought, “The guy can’t even talk.”

Grooming for a road trip

by Dave Williams

My travelogue: July 9, 2021
Wichita Falls, Texas

North Texas stays surprisingly green in the summer.

Nice things happen when scooting cumulus clouds briefly block the sun of a North Texas summer day. The heat becomes bearable and the breeze gives voice to the poplar trees which rattle their leaves in harmony. The birds and even the cicadas quiet down to listen.

I’m on another writing sabbatical. I just arrived. This is my warmup piece to loosen up the mind and cool down my inclination toward purple prose.

Before I left home today, I got a haircut and had a nice conversation with a thirty-something barber named Jade. Being naturally shy and a native Californian I don’t easily begin conversations with strangers – I feel like I’m intruding in their quiet thoughts – but Jade is a pure Texan with no conversational hesitancy. I don’t remember how she started but she quickly shared a synopsis of her life. She told me about her mother and her mother’s divorce from her father who recently passed, I learned she is remarried and heard a bit about her husband and their kids: a 14-year-old stepdaughter who lives with them, and their 10 month old son. She adores them all, she told me. And there, she stopped. I guessed it was my turn.

Texans suck me in like that. I started talking.

I told Jade I’ll be turning 70 in about a month and that’s a significant milestone. I explained that I, too, have been married twice and that CarolAnn and I each have sons and grandsons we’ve shared from our previous lives.

I may be shy but men staring 70 in the face have no reluctance in sharing our hard won wisdom of age with just the slightest encouragement. Being a Texan she was polite and attentive, which was good enough for me.

I told Jade that I have had many lives: as a child, as a young adult, and through the long journey to creeping old age. I am a man pretty well in tune with life, I said. It was a prideful statement but I said it with quiet dignity.

I explained that I work at staying current with events, social trends, and cultural changes, even the ones that baffle or annoy me. The trick is to go with the flow and don’t worry about things that don’t concern you. I only half jokingly told her I had spent decades trying to fix the world and change other people to my liking before I realized it’s a fool’s errand. I’m fixing myself and that’s all I can do, I declared. She seemed to like that and I took it as encouragement to continue.

I talked of lessons I’ve learned through the trauma of love lost, single parenthood and a new, lasting love found. My CarolAnn and I just celebrated our 33rd anniversary and are still on our honeymoon, I said proudly.

Jade was entranced. Or, she’s just a very good haircutter.

I told her that life will find its way to a happy conclusion if you’re a good person and get out of the way to let it happen.

Picking up the thread from a moment earlier Jade told me that her husband’s ex is a nice lady and that the two women are discovering the things they have in common. Sharing kids is a big achievement, she boasted. I told her my CarolAnn and I just shared our anniversary with my ex and her husband. Jade laughed and was thrilled by at that.

“Why shouldn’t we all be able to get along?” she exclaimed.

I told her about CarolAnn’s ex and how we’ve shared in raising their son, and that we all embrace the wonderful realities of our tangled lives:

“We were in love, once. We’re in love again,” I said. ‘Why should we lose any of that?”

It was a little like a barroom conversation except neither of us was drinking or bitching. We managed it all in about fifteen minutes.

Rising from the chair I said, “Jade, it was nice meeting you. You did a great job and I’ll book you again.” She smiled sweetly and told me she enjoyed our talk.

I tipped her appropriately but not too much. It was a good haircut but the conversation was priceless.

Precious, unmemorable days

This morning at 7:20 I had oral surgery to remove a tooth infected below the gum line. Scary, right? I didn’t feel a thing. Except, to be more accurate what the doctor told me is that I would essentially be awake for the procedure but when it was over I wouldn’t remember anything about it.

She was right. I really don’t remember anything at all between signing a credit card and what seemed like two seconds later being told I could go home. No time passed for me at all. That’s freaky.

I wonder if I kept them cracking up with witty dentist jokes while they were excavating my mouth? Probably not.

When I got home I continued reading a very interesting book called Mark Twain’s Other Woman. It’s about Sam Clemens’ relationships with his wife, daughters, and in particular, his personal assistant/secretary, Isabel Van Kleek Lyon. She was something of a writer, too. Happily, she made detailed notes about each day she spent with the Clemens family, and though she never expected anyone except herself to read them she unwittingly treated us to some wonderful historical insights and this gem of an observation:

As the days of life increase in value, the wit to write of them decreases – Their significance is too profound.
– Isabel Van Kleek Lyon

That was an epiphany. It validates the ways I’ve changed over the years. I don’t write as often as I used to for several reasons but chief among them is that I just can’t stop appreciating my ordinary days long enough to write about their mundane glories.

The oral surgeon said I must keep a patch of gauzelike material plugging the new hole in my gum for at least six hours and I was not to lie down. The antibiotics make me sleepy but the lovely-and-feisty Carolann Conley-Williams forbade me from napping today except upright in my chair. So, I flipped on YouTube and was sucked in by a series of videos, recent concert footage of members of the bands of my youth. I’m not usually nostalgic but sometimes I really enjoy an occasional visit to the past. Today was one of those.

So, that was my day, unremarkable except for its beginning. I have total faith in modern dentistry but the thought did lurk in the back of my head that people still occasionally die under general anesthesia with implements of destruction in their mouths. That didn’t happen so I came home and read a book and then watched some YouTube videos.

Nothing to write home about, really.

The days of our lives really do increase in value, even those that are unremarkable except for the everyday joys to be found in them that aren’t even worthy of comment.

Tomorrow you might actually enjoy the smell of coffee just as you do nearly every day. You could have a good hair day and like the new shirt you’re wearing. That will put a smile on your face.

When you leave home in the morning don’t just tell your dog goodbye, take a moment to really love him/her.

Take note of the first person or experience that makes you laugh tomorrow. It happens every day and it’s precious.

For me, Isabel was right, the wit to write about our days decreases. Their significance is too profound.

The forgotten art of conversation

This morning I had a nice hourlong conversation with my longtime friend and blogging partner, Anita Garner. I use the word “conversation” in its most literal definition: we actually talked, face to face, across hundreds of miles via Zoom.

While we don’t talk often Anita and I swap emails frequently and we both reply immediately with the grace of sincere friendship and the not insignificant abilities we each have in stringing words together.

But talking today was really a treat.

We laughed out loud without ever having to type “lol”. We excused ourselves when we accidentally spoke at the same time because that’s how humans stumble through communication.

“Wait, what?”
“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

That’s the pure form of a conversation between friends. Remember?

We listened and replied with only half-formed ideas. My friend heard my hesitation, and I, hers. We helped each other by better defining the original thought.

“What I mean is…” one of us would begin to explain. Then the other would arrive at the same mental place and agree, “Yes, that’s right!” or words to that effect.

The subject was thereby sealed. Our hearts did a fist bump.

Seems like the most natural thing in the world, doesn’t it, conversation? Until you think about the last time you had an unguarded chat with someone you trusted to really hear you, respond with care, and offer to help whittle down the fine points of a topic. Then together you can peel it like an artichoke and get to the heart of the matter. You might learn more about your own original thought. You might even change your mind about something.

Epiphany, the ultimate satisfaction of conversation.

Talking with Anita about her book, my work, her granddaughter, and the big, gray mammal in the room, getting old, was fun and enlightening for me. In the course of a fast hour we each learned a little and found affirmation in understanding. We laughed when we agreed on something we had thought unique to our own experience. We remembered questions we wanted to ask each other thirty or forty years ago and finally, we ask, and get answers.

We touched upon the past but didn’t linger there. We are each still full of our nows and tomorrows.

A couple of hours later this has occurred to me:

You think you know a person but unless you catch up with her evolution from time to time you only know who you both were long ago.

Perspectives of an aging aquarian

by Dave Williams

January 19,2021: Tomorrow Joe Biden will be sworn in as the 46th President of the United States. Harry Truman was the 33rd president when I was born just shy of 70 years ago.

When I was a child my grandparents never wanted to talk about their own childhoods. I didn’t know why, they didn’t tell me. They just said it was a long time ago. “Go play”, they’d say. If I persisted and they weren’t so busy as to be annoyed they would eventually talk to me a bit about their old days. They amazed me with tales of the world in which they were kids. Cars, phones and electricity were becoming common in the early 20th century but a lot of people didn’t have them yet. Some homes still didn’t have inside plumbing.

My grandparents never saw an airplane until they were teenagers or young adults. This blew my mind.

I can remember when my parents got their first TV. It was a large piece of furniture with a screen the size of a small laptop.

This morning on the radio I suggested people go online for more information about something. These days we talk as if everybody knows how to go online and they do. We just say, “Get more information at the county website” and people know how to do that with no lengthy explanation and instruction. About 25 years ago when relatively few people owned home computers I had to read the entire web address aloud very slowly: “H-T-T-P, colon, forward slash – forward slash, saccounty – all one word (added for clarification), S-A-C county, – dot – com.”

Then I’d repeat it all to make sure everybody got it.

While you younger people wonder how we old farts ever got along without the Internet and 600 TV channels we wonder how you managed to grow up pen-bred, never free-range kids. We’re constantly wringing our hands over that. We worry that our grandkids will never skin their knees or learn the frustration of losing a game and not getting a trophy. Maybe games will be banned altogether soon because competition will be considered unfair and unhealthy.

I worry about that a bit but then I wonder if it really matters; I could be wrong about everything.

I just hope my grandkids will think to ask me about my childhood before I’m gone. If they don’t, I hope they at least wonder.

If they don’t wonder I suppose it won’t matter. It was a long time ago.

Go out and play. Be happy.

“The future is stupid”

by Dave Williams

Thanksgiving was the day before yesterday. My son and his family called CarolAnn and me as sons and daughters have always been obligated to do on holidays.

That’s a time-honored tradition that must never die, by the way.

We loved talking with them. As a special treat, they called again yesterday because it was CarolAnn’s birthday. Neither call was made via Zoom or Facetime.

A week or so ago I set up a call with my doctor. It was so insignificant I don’t even remember why I called but the fact that it was easy and super-efficient was a big motivator. I wouldn’t have made an office appointment for this particular issue, whatever it was, but now I can consult with my doctor face-to-face without leaving my La-Z-Boy or even having to put on pants.

What a world.

Doc Friendman and I have never met in person. Seriously. CarolAnn and I have been his patients for more than a year but in his office, we always met with Physician Assistants never with the guy whose name is on the door until last week when I met his lovely face on my phone.

The P.A. must have called in sick that day.

I’m fine with all of this. As I said, I love the convenience and the fact that so far my online medical consultations haven’t required that I open my mouth, lift my shirt or drop my drawers in front of my phone.

I just wonder why we have to see each other’s faces? Wouldn’t a simple voice call be just as effective?

When my kids phone I’m constantly aware of how Zoom and Facetime make me look like some sort of fat cadaver in bad lighting. I don’t like that.

When I call the doctor for a face-to-face I don’t much care about my appearance. Seeing sick, fat, dying people is his job. But I wonder if Facetime, Zoom and Android Duo aren’t just an excuse to charge my insurance company for a regular office visit.

Sometimes technology has to explain to us why we need these “improvements”.

I’m reminded of a recent Tweet I saw:

Last night my friend asked to use a USB port to charge his cigarette, but I was using it to charge my book. The future is stupid.

Another goodbye

I took my little boy to the airport yesterday and said goodbye again.

Sending him off alone that way reminded me of another day when I had to turn my back and walk away. He was just four years old then and in his mother’s arms. I wasn’t walking away from him of course, nor from her for that matter. I walked away because I had to. Life sent three of us in two directions. We had no choice in the matter.

That day on Pier 39 in San Francisco my heart was torn with every step. “Daddy!” he kept crying, a little louder each time. It still rings in my ears. Tears flowed in a very public place. I didn’t care. I forced myself to walk away quickly. I wanted to turn around and run back but I stayed strong for them both. I walked away because we had no choice.

None of us have ever talked about that one infinite minute. I just assume Jeremy was too young to remember. Maybe he does. I should ask. I think I know his mother well enough to know her heart was also breaking for him at that moment. And maybe, just a little, for me too.

Life patches up the scars pretty well. Jeremy’s mom and I both fell in love again and married better. We stayed close.

The little boy I put on an airplane yesterday is 43 now. He was going home to his wife and their son but he will always be my little boy.

I hugged him tightly and told him I love him. He said he loves me, too.

Then I went home to my life as he flew home to his.

The time I met Jack Lemmon in his skivvies

by Dave Williams

One of the things I love about getting older is that I have a large box of memories to pick through when I’m in the mood. Sometimes they pop into mind for no apparent reason like an old photo that falls out of a drawer.

Here’s one I found this morning. I haven’t thought of it in many years. Sadly, there is no actual photograph.

In 1973 I was the Program Manager at KRTH 101.1 in Los Angeles which had a very small office and studio complex in a converted house on Venice at Fairfax, just off I-10 in West L.A. One Friday I left my briefcase at work. When I needed it the next day I drove back to get it.

K-eaRTH was automated at the time. We had no live disc jockeys, but we did have one studio we used for newscasts and recording commercials. On this particular weekend our company, RKO Radio, had granted permission to the American Film Institute to use the place as the setting for a short movie AFI was making about a radio talk show host who found himself trying to talk a crazed listener out of killing someone, maybe him or herself, I don’t remember. It was exciting. AFI made me a script consultant, asking me to look at the dialogue and make sure they were saying real radio-like things.

The legendary Jack Lemmon was the star of the film, donating his time and talent to the project.

“Failure seldom stops you. What stops you is the fear of failure.” – Jack Lemmon*

When I wandered in to pick up my briefcase that Saturday evening the tiny parking lot was crammed with production trucks, plugged in and humming. Cables ran everywhere, across the porch, through the doorway, and into the cramped studio area. The place was littered with professional lighting, sound equipment and very busy people carrying scripts, notebooks, and makeup kits.

My office was at the opposite end of the old house and as exciting as it all was I didn’t want to stand around and gawk like a rube so I just went straight to my office, inserted the key into the lock and opened the door.

Jack Lemmon froze when I entered, poised on one leg in my office in his skivvies, holding a pair of pants. He wore a white shirt and tie but my attention went to his legs; they were very white and kind of scraggly. I might have chuckled if I hadn’t been so surprised. He was surprised, too.

1972 Academy Awards, Jack Lemmon with Charlie Chaplin, both presumably wearing pants.
— Photo By Associated Press photographer – Public Domain

“Who are you?” he asked.

“This is my office,” I answered.

“Oh.” That’s all he said for a moment.

Then this magnificent and celebrated actor performed an unintentional but classic impersonation of himself, beaming with charm as he stammered, “Sorry. They… they told me I could use this as a dressing room. (A slight pause, a big grin.) Have a beer.”

There was a cold six-pack of Coors on my desk.

“Oh, thanks,” I said, “but I just came to grab my briefcase. I’m leaving.”

I grabbed my briefcase and said it was nice to meet him. He said “you, too” or something like that.

And then I left.

* I just found this quote. It haunts me.