I remember thinking, "This is the greatest day of my life!". My father woke me up in the morning and told me I didn't have to go to school that day.  He also gave me a QUARTER to buy candy  (yeah, candy was pretty darn cheap back then!). And my best friend Desi had the day off as well so we spent the entire day just playing together.

The perfect day for an 8 year old.



The night before (a school night like most others), I sat at my dinner table with my mother and my sister. Eating my food, but not my vegetables, much to my mother's nightly frustration.  My dad hadn't arrived home yet from work to join us.  He'd usually come in mid-meal still wearing his blue collar work uniform.
My mother said she was going to lie down in her bed because of a bad headache. I continued to sit at the table picking at my string beans until my father came in the door. He asked where my mother was and my sister (who was a year and a half older than me) said that she went to lie down.
Everything was a blur after that.

Shortly afterwards an ambulance came and a stretcher was brought through our front door. I remember thinking that I had never seen one in real life - only on television.  It was odd.
I don't remember much other than being afraid that night when I went to sleep.  For the first time ever, my mother wasn't present when I was put to bed.

The next morning my father woke us and let us know we didn't have to go to school that day. I was in third grade at the time, and pretty darned thrilled with having a day off.  My dad then handed my sister and I a quarter each and said that we'd be spending the day at our neighbor's house - the mother of my friend Desi and his sister, who was also my sister Donna's friend.

It was May 28th and the weather was lovely.  Desi and I spent most of the day outdoors but occasionally we'd go into his house for some reason - only to see many of our neighbors sitting at their kitchen table with his mother. We were promptly "shushed" out. I think I made two or three trips to the candy store that day.  Sheer heaven for an 8 year old boy with a sweet tooth.

Around 4pm my father found my sister and I playing outside and asked us to come in. I saw a car pull up and our church's priest come out of it. He began to walk towards my house. 

I had a bad feeling.

After sitting down in our living room the priest engaged my sister and I in some small talk about going to church, being good Catholic children, etc.

He then said that he had some bad news, "God took your mother.".

There were no words.

 

There still aren't.

My father died that day, too, in many respects.  He became an alcoholic for the next 6 or so years.  He was alive but a shell of the man he was, even after he entered AA.  I didn't understand everything that was going on back then, but I knew that I was now alone. That I no longer had someone who looked at my crayon drawings and said, "Wow!  That is beautiful, John!", then promptly put them in the dresser drawer for safe keeping.  No one to tell my stories to.  No one to make funny faces to, so I could try to make them laugh. Nothing.  Never an encouraging word or sign that I even existed other than being told I was a burden and how my dad wished he had never gotten married or had kids during one of his drunken rants.

For anyone who has read my previous blog postings you're aware that I graduated from the School Of Visual Arts in NYC. That's where I was introduced to improv during a playwriting class by a gentleman named Tony Knoll.

As I stated in an earlier blog post, one of the most amazing things I discovered in improv was the sense of support. To say yes to whatever someone is doing and to go out on a limb with them. To make them feel safe.

That felt like my old home to me.  Like the way things used to be.  A place where I could play, with encouragement from others, and be supported.  So I "stayed". 

One of the things that I've tried to do, in my performing, teaching, and in attending improv shows is to offer as much support as possible. Especially when I attend shows.  Why? It doesn't cost me anything but my time when I see an improv show (and sometimes a few dollars).  Now, mind you, not every improv show is a gem, but ya know what, I think that's when your friends/peers appreciate you even more!  If you're an improv performer you're most likely not getting rich off of it. So I like to think of my support as the fuel which keeps many of my friends, acquaintances, hell - even total strangers going!  Every performer needs an audience, right?

Time has not diminished my love for my mother.  Or the pain and sadness I sometimes feel.  But what I try to do is carry on her spirit, her sense of playfulness, and support that she instilled in me.  And hopefully pass that gift onto others on my improv journey.



Happy Mother's Day, Mom. 


I still have my drawings. 


And I still love you.

- John