Looking out my backdoor: Anything worth doing is worth doing badly

I don’t know why so many of my life’s lessons seem to require humiliation.

Learning has always come easily to me, book learning, that is. And in the grand scheme of things, I don’t think book learning counts for all that much. My school reports consistently lined out the A’s and the comportment side matched. Yes, I was one of those.

I’ll not soon forget my dad’s disappointment at my first B+ in freshman high school algebra. I was pleased and relieved with that B+. It could have been worse. But dad’s frown imprinted my psyche.

All manner of skills came easily to me. Some things I studied desperately before trying my hand. I wanted to do well. Doing poorly was not allowed. To my shame, other experiences I simply turned aside from even trying.

Back in a past lifetime, I accidentally got myself plunged into the world of theater. I’ve always loved plays. Heck, I blubber at young children’s church productions of the Christmas Story.

When I had my shop in Washington, the leader of a local community theater asked if I’d donate my skills, make tapestry bell pulls with tassels for a production.

Next thing, she asked if I’d sit on the board. That was my first mistake. Board membership meant warm bodies rubber stamping decisions. In short time, that leader left.

The remainder of the board, and I truly didn’t see this coming, asked if I’d step in and be president. These good people lied to me. They said, “All you have to do as president is lead meetings.”

“We want to mount plays that mean something,” they told me. “We think community theater groups can produce work just as skilled as professional groups.” That hooked me.

At that point, ignorant of any aspect of play production, I knew that to lead this group well I had to educate myself. Seattle is a hotbed of theatrical productions of all kinds; amateur, professional, university and garage-groups. Classes and workshops abound.

I plunged into learning. I attended plays from Everett to Tacoma. A weekend lighting and sound class left me with glazed eyes but taught me I needed to recruit good accomplices. Play-writing. Directing. Acting. Stage management. I loved it.

I have an entire encyclopedia of brag stories about our little group and what we accomplished. But those stories are not for now.

Along came Improv. The group in North Seattle consisted of professional actors, wannabes, amateurs there to hone their skills and new-comers, like me. I had no choice. I signed up, paid my fees and plunged into the fray.

I’m the person who thinks of that perfect comeback to your scathing remark three hours later. That explains me in Improv class. Mortified because my lack of comeback was visible to all.

In the midst of my second “class,” I had a light-bulb moment. Somebody had to be “last.” Somebody, on the scale of best to worst, hit bottom. That was me. At that moment of understanding, I became willing to be “worst.” An “F” on my report card, in red ink.

Improv. was never easy, but as the worst of the bunch, I relaxed and the dread dropped away. The willingness to be “worst” stayed with me, a valuable skill.

Today, of necessity, I’m snipping into another area of necessity, similar to Improv., in which I have no expertise. N_O_N_E.

History: I know my mother only through stories from my aunts. My mother could cut anybody’s hair, intuitively knew what style suited best, even cut her own hair. My sister inherited Mom’s hair-cutting genes and used her skills to make a living. I inherited my Mom’s middle name “Jean.”

Today, I’ll attempt to cut my hair, not just bangs, the whole overgrown mess. I know it will be lopsided and ragged at best. Here goes. Report to follow.

More history: Back when I was first married and living on the ranch south of Dodson, we had a shepherd mix, a good cow dog. That summer Mike was miserable, his hair matted with winter fur, thick with clumps of cockleburs and hitchhikers. My husband trimmed him down with the horse clippers, leaving only a ruff around his neck. He looked like an underfed lion. We giggled.

Poor Mike. He backed himself into the chokecherry bushes along the creek and refused to come out for a month. I had to carry him food and water.

Today I’m joining Mike in the brush.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].