Live! On Stage!

Going to the outdoor theatre and seeing Blithe Spirit last week brought back memories of the stage. It’s true: not all of them were happy memories.



Picture Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord


I think I mentioned once that I didn’t enjoy being a model. Even still in ruffled baby pants, I was pretty sure that boop-boop-ee-doo bending over to show that big appliqued valentine was funny for everyone except me. I didn’t like the attention. How could a three-year-old conclude that they were not giving me attention, they just liked the cute clothes on the little blonde girl. It was nothing personal.

I greeted my modeling days with the same joy I did sitting on “Santa’s” lap, that guy in the red suit who smelled like booze and tobacco. I didn’t like the Easter Bunny in the department store either.

Not that I didn’t try my hand at performing now and again. Dancing lessons were a flop, but, oh, that chicky costume! Mrs. T’s piano lessons were much better for the costumes than the music. I thought so at the time. Having learned grace under pressure as a runway—should that be toddleway?—model I was able to gut it out through bad fingering and crashing chords, curtsey, retreat to backstage. Only then did I faint. What a trouper!

I don’t know why I kept trying the stage when I hated it. I think in some ways it was a sense of altruism, volunteering to save some other child from the mortification and terror of being under public scrutiny for their entertainment, not one’s own. This form of self-sacrifice was mistaken for a craving for attention of the thespian variety.

It didn’t take me long to convince myself that I was not leading lady material. But funny girls can be sidekicks, supporting actresses, comic relief, “wing chicks.” And there I found my comfort zone.

Pressing still on my urge for creative expression was my consideration for my older brother. He played the part of the husband in the 9^th grade’s production of Wait Until Dark. In spite of the fact that he was my brother, the one I had known all my life, through squirt guns, sandbox squabbles, he, the one who lost his pet mouse in his room, in spite of all that, he was pretty good, I had to admit.  He played guitar in a band. We had been so competitive all our lives but in junior high I became embarrassed about competing with him academically. We had both made difficult transitions moving from Florida to New Mexico. We found out quickly that our new school chums were critical of kids who made good grades. My brother ditched his grades purposefully to make friends; I would not, preferring to be hated for the truth than liked for a lie. Or, that’s how I saw it at the time. Junior high kids can be so…dramatic.

When he showed his flair for theatre and music, I postponed those activities until after he graduated from high school. In my senior year, I went hog wild. Literally.

I remember cringing once at a customer in the antique shop who was trying to be kind and chirped, “Oh, to be sixteen and beautiful again! This is the best time of your life.” I thought glumly, If it’s downhill from here, someone please just park me in the sand dunes and let me dry up. Then, the only consolation about having boys talk to my chest was that they weren’t inspecting my unreliable complexion.

In my senior year, I suddenly relaxed, no longer in fear of outshining my brother. He had gone on to college, even though the university was closer to the house than the high school. I had come into my own. I was the editor of the yearbook, something I had aspired to since 7^th grade. I sang in choir and madrigals. Our high school went to All-State and I passed the audition to be in the All-State Choir. I tried out for the school play and won a part as The Maid; my hair, dress and make-up so “good” that I could hear kids in the audience asking, “Who is that?” Perfect, I thought, perfect.

I would later go on to be a newscaster for a radio station, citing my lack of nervousness as being my point of view. I wasn’t talking to 30,000 listeners. I was talking to a hunk of metal on a stand, a microphone, safe from stage fright by speaking earnestly to an inanimate object. I sang tenor with Sweet Adelines and was a member of a quartet, finding my safe zone to be the barrier that was the edge of the stage. After the performance, in hands of my octogenarian adoring fans I was once again terrified.

One performance, though, filled me with perfect ease. It was my senior year of high school, that moment when I was sure that I was bright with a brilliant future ahead of me. It was the All-School Program and there was a Show to put on. Super Bill, our choir director had some ideas about a few light-hearted acts to put on in between the sincere performances of folk song and ballet. There were costumes. There were microphones. We were going to sing and dance.

We were The Three Little Pigs.

Super Bill rightly assessed his performers. Kathy, Earlene and I actually did have the brass to dress up in pig costumes and sing and dance on stage. Brian, handsome, glib, dangerous, a wolf in real life with an endless string of attempted conquests in his reputation, was The Big Bad Wolf.

It was dress rehearsal night. We ran through the entire show in costume, with the band, the props, the sets, the whole enchilada. It was Pig Time and we were on. And suddenly I noticed that my microphone wasn’t there, no stand, no mike, no cord.

“Super Bill!” I wailed through my pink pig persona, “my microphone!”

“Aw, go ahead and sing,” Bill cajoled me back to pig performance. “We’ll get another one for you tomorrow night.”

So, in my best deep-breathing projection, I tried to compensate for the lack of electric amplification, belted out my Number Two Pig solo, sang and danced with my pretend-porcines and screamed and ran, perhaps with all too real horror, from Brian the Big Bad Wolf.

At the end of the Pig Performance, we awaited the assessment. Was it OK or do we need to do it again? A call came from the darkened back row of the theatre. Who it was I will never know, but he proclaimed what my brother had suggested for years.

The Queen of Wands is the life of the party. She is in her element not necessarily as the Star of the Show but in the thick of the energy. She encourages those around her to join in. She loves a crowd. She need not be the prettiest girl in the room. She’s on fire. She might be one of the most interesting people you’ll ever talk to, Dos Equis or not. She might wear you out.

“Marcia doesn’t need a microphone.”

Well. The show was a success. My microphone made a mysterious reappearance on the night of the performance. But I have since retired from the stage.

Best wishes.

Pink Bubbly

A long time ago – it seems like a lifetime now – when I was married to the wrong guy, his family decided to have Easter with Grandma in Chicago.

Ah, Grandma! She was a rock, but maybe something softer than that. She had come with her family from Poland. She was sensible, practical. She knew how to take care of things and she knew how to get over things. She was round all over. She cooked Polish food and knew where to get the best stuff in Chicago.

The best Polish sausage came from a butcher who wasn’t even Polish. That was something of a secret so of course I won’t tell, even though Grandma is long at rest and I left the wrong guy far behind. But it was, after all, Grandma’s secret to success and it wouldn’t be right to give it away even now.

Grandma had come to America with her parents when she was 4. Her sister Ann was born in the United States. While it was never said aloud, this small difference seemed to make Grandma the authentically Polish one with Ann as the American one. The two sisters were quite different from each other in many ways. As practical and down-to-earth as Grandma was, Aunt Ann was as flighty, superficial and impractical. Remarkably, they lived in the same house on the south side of Chicago, a neighborhood undergoing great changes when I first arrived there, changes beyond the matter/anti-matter drive that were Grandma and Aunt Ann.

When I was first introduced to the family, they were skeptical. It was with good reason but I did want to make a good impression.

“Where are you from?” they asked. “McCord, that’s Irish, right?”

Aunt Ann had married Jack who was Irish, so it wasn’t like Irish was a bad answer. They just wanted a better answer than Irish, something they could relate to. They inspected me, all blonde and blue with those dark eyebrows, searching for more.

I stuttered to list the litany of my mutt-like heritage, Irish, English, Scots, French, German, Czech, Bohemian….

“Bohunk!” They seized upon the familiar with delight. “Oh, if you’re Bohunk, you’re OK!”

I was relieved to have passed the test since my next listed heritage is Gypsy or more correctly Rom. This usually does not garner cries of delight from folks from the Old Country. I’m here to say I have never stolen a baby or a chicken from anyone in spite of rumors. There’s a lot of bad press out there for the Rom. If Grandma and Aunt Ann were happy, I was happy. I wasn’t sure it was OK to call Bohemian “Bohunk” but I wasn’t going to argue with the matriarchs. I was in another country after all.

Art Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

We all set about doing Easter things, which was mostly wearing a pink dress and sitting in a chair to stay out of the way for me. I went grocery shopping with them. Aunt Ann took Hubs-1’s sisters and me out on a rollicking shopping trip to Marshall Fields. We stopped at the perfume counter where Aunt Ann’s friend worked and were passed a discreet bag of goodies, expensive perfumes and cosmetics with bent boxes. A treasure trove! We ate Frangi-Pangi chocolates and returned to the double-decker shotgun-style house where Grandma, Aunt Ann and Uncle Jack lived.

Easter Sunday we went to mass. Grandma preferred the plainer local Polish Catholic Church. Aunt Ann liked the fancier, wealthier Lithuanian Catholic Church. At some point we went to both. This being post-Vatican II, the Lithuanian church mass was said in Lithuanian. Grandma and Ann marveled that I knew when to kneel and stand up since they were sure I didn’t understand Lithuanian. I tried to explain that the mass is the same in any language, but after they gave me that “two-heads” look, I just smiled and decided it was a compliment. I said thank you.

Back at the house, Ann and Jack made their way slowly upstairs to rest before Easter dinner. Jack had emphysema plus a pacemaker, so we didn’t want to wear him out. After all, living with Aunt Ann was like living with Tigger, bouncy, bouncy, so it was a silent understanding that Jack needed to lie down a while.

“We’re going to have pink champagne!” Ann announced. Grandma rolled her eyes and mentioned we already had wine to go with the feast that included potato cakes and jelly-filled cookies and other ethnic yummies. Ann insisted on the pink champagne. Hubs-1 and I, plus his two sisters, trooped up the back stairs with Aunt Ann to separate her from Grandma, hoping to stave off any Easter violence. Aunt Ann set the big bottle of pink champagne on the counter, preparing to take it downstairs. Then she got a phone call.

Aunt Ann was a talker, again the opposite of Grandma who used only the few words necessary to get her point across. After about an hour of waiting for Aunt Ann’s animated conversation to conclude, we all offered to help Uncle Jack down the stairs again. Dinner was almost ready. Yet Aunt Ann talked on and on. We could hear her from downstairs. Grandma rolled her eyes again and shook her head. They sent Hubs-1 back upstairs to retrieve Aunt Ann.

Happy as can be, Aunt Ann and the bottle of pink champagne came bouncing down the stairs.

“Bruce! You open this!” she insisted, thrusting the now warmed and shaken bottle at Hubs-1. We all muttered that we had wine. No, this was a special day. We were having pink champagne. Dutifully, he began to uncork the bottle.

I’m not sure if you realize this, but champagne is bottled under pressure. Like any drink that bubbles, when both warmed and shaken, pink bubbly can take on explosive properties during the uncorking.

Suddenly, the entire kitchen was awash in a geyser of pink, the majority of which sprayed Aunt Ann head to toe. We watched in horror as the volatile little sister was first stunned then furious, a 70-year-old wet hen. Valuing our lives, the rest of us said nothing, but all eyes were as big as saucers. All eyes, that is, except Jack’s, for he had begun to eat having waited for Aunt Ann all his married life and knew better than to wait further for a decent meal. At the fountain of half a bottle of pink champagne drenching his wife, he set down his fork. Taking as deep a breath as he could, considering the emphysema and pacemaker, he laughed.

We quickly mopped up Aunt Ann, poured what was left of the champagne into her cup, finished Easter dinner as if nothing at all had happened. After the cookies and the lamb cake and a little coffee, I could stand it no longer.

“Take me for a drive. Now,” I hissed. Hubs-1 was not particularly quick on the uptake. “NOW,” I stage-whispered through my teeth and smiled sweetly.

“Lovely spring day! We’re going for a little drive,” I said to the rest of the family.

In the car, I lasted just long enough to get to the next block. I exploded in helpless laughter, wracked with giggles that approached the Grand Mal stage.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Hubs-1 pouted.

“It was, too!” I gasped. “Keep driving. I have to get this all out. I can’t go back there and laugh.” We drove for about an hour, Mr. No Sense of Humor silent, apparently avoiding making my giggle fits any worse and feeling like the victim of a bad joke. Jack’s laugh at Ann’s misfortune had seemed like years of pent up told-you-so’s. This patient man had waited his whole life for this perfect moment and, taking one of his few remaining breaths, had laughed when no one else was allowed to. Tears streamed down my face. I howled. I hiccupped. I pounded the dash and stomped my feet.

The spray of pink foamy champagne over the family live wire, their own Queen of Wands, began to paint in Easter colors a journey with a family I was ultimately to decide I was not suited to. While it was not a successful relationship, however, it wasn’t without its laughs.

Best wishes!

This blog entry is part of a "blog chain" for a Tarot Blog Hop. Be sure to read the next blog entry in the chain and enjoy:  Hudson Valley Tarot  

To read the blog entry prior to my blog, click here and again enjoy: Tarot Inspired Life  

What’s New at the Magician’s Table

And now a word from the shameless self-promotion department (borrowed with respect from those crazy guys at Car Talk on Public Radio):

• Picture Postcard Tarot SOLD OUT
• Two more decks in progress and available now for pre-sales reservation!
• Tarot Class September 19, 2010, Benicia, CA

I am just thrilled that my Picture Postcard Tarot (self-published limited edition) has sold out. Almost all US mailings have been sent; the International mailings are being held waiting for a couple of spare King and Queen of Wands.

My first venture into self-publishing was exciting, obsessive, perhaps even mirage-like in its quality for me. Just a few of the decks suffered from a problem where the King and Queen of Wands were stuck together. When pulled apart, they left part of the images on each other, just like all the CSI shows tell you about the rules of physical evidence. And boo-hiss to that little snafu! The printer, however, has been just excellent about it and is shipping the replacement cards to me now. So if those over-heated King and Queen of Wands are stuck on your copy of the deck, never fear, cooler cards will also be yours.

Who knew Wild Bill Hickok had such a thing for that Party Girl? Get a room!

Many thanks to those who ordered one or more decks, making this experiment possible.

**Update!  Aeclectic Tarot has posted a review and images of the Picture Postcard Tarot.  Click here
http://www.aeclectic.net/tarot/cards/picture-postcard/index.shtml

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Following closely on the heels of my first tarot deck are my next two tarot decks. Like the Picture Postcard Tarot, these will be self-published numbered limited editions. However, both of these decks will be limited editions of 100 instead of 50. The cost will be $25.00 USD per deck plus postage. I intend to publish both before the end of the year and am taking pre-order reservations now. If you would like one or more of these decks, please contact me at my email address which is listed in several places in this blog for more information.

The Art Postcard Tarot is the second in my study of antique postcards from 1900-1909. It is a deck of 78 cards, plus a “Happy Squirrel” and a cover card. Again all images were taken from real antique postcards from that time; the images themselves may be older, but somewhere someone thought it would make a good visual to send their message. The artwork is generally light-hearted, even when dealing with difficult themes. There are portraits, serious art, cartoons and illustrations.

The cover card shows a “romantic harem” theme with the lovelies contemplating their own fortune. The Ace of Swords is atypical of the usual portrayal but shows that not all our new ideas are necessarily good ones. The Hermit walks the night alone. The Queen of Wands is a lively redhead bursting with energy.

The Victorian Trade Card Tarot is the third of my limited edition decks. It too is a deck of 78 cards, plus a “Happy Squirrel” and a cover card. The images on this tarot were taken from trade cards used as business cards between 1870-1890. Trade cards were an interesting phenomenon that had a short but exciting life in the history of advertising. Even during their own time, they were collected and pasted into albums as novelties. They came in all shapes and sizes and, unlike our business cards today, were not personal contacts at a company but rather advertised a business or product in general. Again, I’ve aimed for a light-hearted theme. Often the pictures on the trade cards had little to do with the product being advertised. Looking at some of the ads on television lately, I think we may have come full circle!

The cover card shows a wizened fortune teller and her young clients. Is she telling them to listen to her words or explaining that she has to eat, too? The Emperor is advertising ham even if the pig looks more like an elephant. The Devil is demon temptation, especially for the shoe-lovers among us. Who hasn’t heard that little voice over the left shoulder whisper, “But they are so YOU!” The 6 of Swords illustrates how the picture often had little to do with the product. The advertising for tea is seemingly disconnected from our well-dressed travelers, unless you consider Mom needed that extra shot of caffeine to get the boat going.

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Finally, I’m teaching a class using tarot for creative inspiration on Sunday afternoon, 3 pm – 5 pm, September 19, 2010, at Angel Heart 4 You, 501 First Street, Benicia, California. The class is $35 per person. It is called Fire - Inspired Tarot. Collecting, Writing and Creating Tarot and will feature the work of local artists, plus a hands-on workshop for you to create your own art using the tarot as inspiration. I’ll talk just a little about creating these limited edition decks and what it takes to get them from concept to realization, a Fool’s Journey in itself! I’ll also bring some of my collection of antique and limited edition “art decks” with a little bit of information about each of them. It will be a fun class. If you have already created something inspired by the tarot, you are encouraged to bring that. Advance reservations are encouraged (you can pay when you get there). Call Angel Heart 4 You at 707-745-2024 and sign up. There’s no telling what we will come up with!

Best wishes!