"Mom memories - one slice of a 52 year old pie"
by Erin Rollins
My mother is and was many things. One thing she was, was an actress.
It was my mother who introduced me into the world of theater. It was my life, in fact, from a very young age, and that is also because of Mom. She had been told by a professor in college that she would never be a professional actress, and dejectedly studied English Education instead. But she couldn't get performing out of her system, and as a result my entire early childhood was a montage of shows... Music Man, Annie, Camelot, Mikado, South Pacific, Sound of Music, Fiddler on the Roof, HMS Pinafore. I didn't participate in all of them, but I remember every single one. She was pregnant with Anne when she was a nun in Sound of Music--they needed her voice, and the habit covered the bulge. She was Fanny in South Pacific, and she had to kiss another man. Dad kept smiling amusedly because it was so weird.
It wasn't long before I was participating. Mom had taken a small role in a college production of A Dolls House. I believe the conversation went something like "I really need to find three girls ages about six, four and two." "Um, I have three daughters aged six, four and two..." And next thing I knew I had a pretty blue velvet dress and two lines to say and the director was exhorting me to speak up because he couldn't hear me from the back row of the theater (which was only about twenty feet from the stage). Next was Music Man, then I think Camelot. Then auditions for Annie were announced, and I asked if I could go. I got in, and Mom staunchly announced she was not taking part. She relished the thought of just being a stage mom for a bit. She would work with me at home, help me with my lines, with my vocal intonation, watch me practice my tap number (the dance captain had to teach me separately, because I had no idea how to tap dance). But then the director started begging "I just need a singer, Lynn, just for two minutes. C'mon, Lynn, please, it's only a bit part." "No, no! This is Erin's show!" But she finally gave in. She was poised, beautiful, talented. And dogged. I remember hearing stories of how, during Fiddler on the Roof, she caught some sort of horrible sickness, and kept pushing herself to stay upright until she would get offstage. Then she would faint and her stage husband would have to revive her.
After a few years her involvement in the local theater scene abated somewhat. But there was still the local summer ampitheater show, year after year, part after part. She taught us stage makeup, acted in dinner theaters and church shows. I remember once her doing some really serious aging makeup on me. I was doing a small dinner show where I had to play a 90 year old woman. She taught me how to make my hands shake, how to walk. I left the makeup area to change, and came back practicing my walk. She started. "I didn't recognize you! I thought some old lady had walked into the room!" By the time I was in high school, performing had become something I just did. An intregal part of life. Play at home, go to kids choir, do a show. Go to band practice, run track, do a show. And Mom was always there. Singing, taking lead characters or a bit role, helping write puppet shows for kids, whatever. And no matter how many compliments I got, how many praises came my way, it was Mom's opinion that mattered the most. I somehow could never form an opinion about my own work until I had heard her thoughts. She never sugar coated, and often corrected some aspect of my performance, like the coach she was. And I knew she knew better. My senior year I got the lead in the high school musical (she did all the makeup, by the way), and when I got off stage after opening night, I asked the fatal question. "How'd I do?" "I couldn't tell it was you," she said. I felt, somehow, like I had arrived.
When it was time to go to college, I expressed a wish to be an actress. Later I would hear stories of people who's parents fought them tooth and nail to keep them from pursuing an artistic career, and I was always surprised. Mom and Dad never batted an eyelash when I announced I wanted to perform. Mom explained the realities of the profession, warned me of it's struggles, and then never said another word.
Then I began working for the ballet. Now, an interesting thing about Mom is that she could sing, she could act, play piano and guitar, but when it came to dancing she had two left feet. Slow dancing gave her motion sickness. But she adores dance, and especially ballet. It's one of the few things that puts stars in her eyes. I remember my first season of Nutcracker, an injured dancer was incorrectly diagnosed and frustrated, and I tentatively offered my father- who is an athletic trainer- as a second opinion. He was delighted, and we made plans to have Dad come backstage during intermission and meet him at a specific location. I called Dad to inform him of the plan, and it was hilarious to hear him struggle between absolute glee and professional inquiry. I hung up with him and two minutes later my phone rang again. It was Mom, and her voice was plaintive and whining... "Dad gets to go backstaaaaage??? Can't I go backstaaaage?" I had never heard her like that before. "Mom, I can't... I just got here... I already had to go through red tape to get Dad back here, I don't wanna get in trouble..." I ended up asking my boss if Mom could accompany Dad. She looked at me like I had two heads and said "Of course!" I'd never heard Mom so excited.
I heard later that, on her way across the stage, she had grabbed Dad's arm and practically squealed as she caught sight of the lighting instruments used to color the cyc. Once they reached the dressing rooms, she became her usual professional self, gracious and at ease. But I could see beneath the exterior that she was only barely containing her excitement. It was all she could talk about later "He was so polite and handsome! SUCH a nice man!" Mom was an avid fan of BalletMet for many years after that, even dragging her 5th grade class to see a performance. "Now boys, watch their muscles. Think about how hard it is to do this! They're lifting over 100 pounds in the air and then running around with it!" She triumphed when she saw her boys leaning forward in their chairs, mesmerized by the athleticism.
The many years of acting were behind her by that point. She was too tired for it, she said, and the opportunities had dwindled. It wasn't until well after college that I began to comprehend that my childhood had been somewhat different than many-- that my mother had surrounded me with artists, because she herself was surrounded by artists. Some thought she was wonderful, some thought her mediocre. And she cared what they thought. She cared a lot. But in the end it didn't stop her. She did what she loved, and didn't think twice about encouraging me to do the same. I tried to thank her for this last week, kneeling by her bed in the dark. I messed it up totally, said something incoherent about being poised. A moment later she responded. "Well, of course you're poised!" Fail. :) But it doesn't matter. It was something she gave me, something she lived. My mother is and was many things. And one thing she was, was an actress.
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