Woodland Park | June's Boy

It’s 1989.

It’s warm June evening.

We’re rehearsing KING LEAR.

Wait…

It’s an older story than that.

It’s an old and favorite tale among theatre folks, told a variety of ways. Here’s how I remember hearing it first (probably from my raconteur friend Chuck Pogue, a man untethered to accuracy, but always firmly adhered to poetic truth).

Sir Laurence Olivier was on a train, passing the journey studying the script of a possible next project on the stage, when another traveler plopped himself into the seat adjacent. The gentleman noticed Olivier’s reading material, expressed interest, and introductions ensued. The gentleman, it turned out was an avid actor in a small village theatre. He energetically regaled Sir Laurence with his hilarious and tedious adventures and misadventures on the boards as the miles dripped away ever more slowly.

Know anyone like that?

I can only sense your smirk and assure you this narrator is fully cognizant of “there, but for the grace of God…”

Eventually the gentleman thespian reached his stop. He rose from his seat, looked back at Olivier, and smiling sadly farewelled; “Why do we do it, Larry?”

Well…

…I have a thought or two.

It’s 1989.

It’s warm June evening.

We’re rehearsing KING LEAR.

It’s an outdoor summer Shakespeare festival in Woodland Park in Lexington, Kentucky. We’re rehearsing on the usable parts of a set still under construction built around a big tree that just might be as old as the play. At least we like think so. An anachronistic concrete sidewalk slashes about 20 feet across the front of our stage. It originates from the park’s swimming pool up the hill. The pool is not as old as the play.

In fact…

(Oh my God, here comes another side note.)

The pool in Woodland Park is another symptom of Lexington’s perverse love/hate of water.

I’ve been told that Lexington is the largest North American city lacking a large element of water. No ocean, no lake, no river, no bay.

Yet, I believe we harbor (le mot juste) a genetic longing for water.

The Town Branch of Elkhorn Creek formerly ran through downtown Lexington. It wasn’t scenic or particularly useful and it may have contributed to the cholera epidemics in Lexington in the mid-1800’s. We covered it up with concrete and bank buildings. It still runs under downtown Lexington. A few years ago, as an art installation, a microphone was lowered to the underground branch and as you walked between businesses on Vine Street, one could faintly hear the sound of running water. Today, Lexington is building a new park and hiking trail in the downtown area and striving to include some semblance of flowing water.

Similarly…sorta…

In 1885, Woodland Park had a lake; Lake Chenosa. Lexingtonians recreated on Lake Chenosa until the 1950’s when the city drained it and made baseball fields instead. Now, I love baseball, but…what kind of mind? But Lexington’s longing for water will not be denied. Lake Chenosa was replaced by a public swimming pool. Go figger.

(End of side note…thank…)

So…

…we were rehearsing KING LEAR. Lear had just been advised; “Thou should not have been old till thou hadst been wise.” (a line delivered precisely and definitively by yours truly.)

Three young boys strolled up the sidewalk from the pool. They looked to be nine or ten years old; barefoot, swimming trunks, no shirts, towels draped about their necks; last icons of a Huck Finn summer. They paused and listened to us for a few minutes, then gathered their satiated, chlorine-wearied towels of gold and moved silent on the road to Elsinore (apologies to Tom Stoppard).

A bit later, I was watching from the wings as Lear roared; “Blow winds and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow, you cataracts and hurricanoes.” I noticed that one of our swimmers had returned, spread his towel on the sidewalk, and was sitting akimbo and devouring every line. He stayed until we finished; “We that are young shall never see so much, nor live so long.”

Why do we do it?

We do it for the applause, the instant gratification.

We do it for the narcissistic thrill of hearing great lines launched into the ether by our voices.

We do it (as Stephen King suggests) to let the gorillas out.

Yes, I believe all that is so.

But perhaps the collateral benefit might be to at least intrigue, and at best inspire young swimmers.

Perhaps it’s a genetic longing.

Perhaps it’s a story older than KING LEAR.

I dunno.

It’s above my pay grade…

…sigh…

…but I did deliver that one line pretty well, dammit.

The first house I bought in Lexington was a block away from Castlewood Park in the 1980’s. This neighborhood was home to me. I grew up off Meadow Lane, played Little League baseball and basketball in Castlewood Park. The basketball court then was in the Louden Castle, now home to the Lexington Art League.

In the eighties, I was doing a lot of summer theatre in Woodland Park, and with Dr. Jim Rodgers at UK…and I was bicycling to rehearsal many nights. Pedaling through these Northside streets also felt like home. Growing up, my friends and I biked everywhere and all the time. There were long summer days when we were up and rolling by 8am and still rolling strong at 10pm. Our parents didn’t worry about it since all the parents on the street kept half an eye on all the kids. Every kid’s house was a refuge from weather, hunger, or the calls of nature.

We were excellently-equipped to face our world. We had baseball cards flapping and snapping on the spokes of our wheels, and when the sun went down we had soft drink cans. We had perfected the technique of stomping on the middle of empty cans in such a way that as the can was crushed, it curled around and clung to the sole of our sneaker. Thus shod, we would mount our bikes, attain the speed of light, and drop the lethal sneaker to the asphalt. The night would come alive with streaks of sparks and screams of burning metal…followed instantly by the wails of the neighbors.

Clearly, the offended neighbors were unaware that America was great then.

So…there I was in the 80’s, twenty years older, back in the neighborhood, biking those streets again.

Now though, I was biking alone at night and no one was watching or listening. The residents were self-sequestered in their air-conditioned nests with cable TV. The streets were silent. I was invisible. How cool is that?

However, part of my ride to rehearsal each night would take me through what I came to refer to as the “NACZ” – the no air-conditioning zone. The difference was stark. In the NACZ I was not invisible, I was a participant once more. People sitting on their porches would greet me. I could hear their conversations. The windows were open. I could hear their phones ringing and could hear what was on TV. I loved it. On those “dark, warm, narcotic American nights” (thank you forever for that description, Tom Waits) I once again became a ten-year-old Prometheus on a 5-speed with a beverage can clamped to my sneaker ready to leave a trail of sparks and screeches and devastation to the dismay of my parents and neighbors out on their porches.

Of course I didn’t actually do that now.

I was a responsible adult now…

…riding a bike to a place where I would spend the evening pretending to be King Arthur, or Don Quixote, or a murderous barber, or a pleasant man with an invisible bunny for a drinking buddy.

Also, my mom had thrown all my baseball cards away.

Yeah…

…that was it.

June's Boy

Tag Archives: Woodland Park

Why Do We Do It?

Bicycles, Air-Conditioning, and Invisible Bunnies