Life Is Not a Stage Florence Henderson (13 ebook reader .txt) 📖

There was more to it than just saving face when I told them with assurance, “I’m going to the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City.” I had first learned about the school while leafing through the thick college guidebook in the school library. “Founded in 1884, it was the first conservatory for actors in the English-speaking world…its mission is to provide students with the tools needed to make acting their profession.” Immediately, I was certain that this was the place for me. But as good of an imagination as I had, I did not see any possible way of getting there. It was more in the category of a wild hope.

Ruth Helen knew of my dream and decided to take initiative on her own. Her family was very wealthy, and she was extra sensitive to my circumstances because of her father’s alcoholism. She also loved music, and at her house I had heard a recording of opera for the first time, a performance by a Brazilian soprano named Bidú Sayão. Ruth Helen decided to talk to her family and explain how badly I wanted to go to New York. They knew me, but why would they want to help me? Ruth Helen and I had talked about it, and of course, I felt a little uncomfortable simply because I needed help. But I trusted her (and still do), and I was honored that she believed in me enough to take action.

“She’s the lead in the school musical. Please come and hear her,” Ruth Helen told them. So her family agreed to come see me in Jerry of Jericho Road, a popular operetta in school performance repertory at the time.

“She’s good,” they said after the performance, but they had another thought in mind. They knew Christine Johnson, a very successful singer who had recently moved back from New York to Owensboro to marry her childhood sweetheart. Christine had created the role of Aunt Nettie in the original Broadway production of Carousel and was the first to sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” and “June Is Bustin’ Out All Over,” which became popular standards. She was also a distinguished operatic singer with the Met. So Ruth Helen’s parents took me to sing for her to find out what she thought.

Christine was very tall with a powerful and imposing presence complemented by a very open face. She was also pregnant with her first child at the time. Christine took me through some vocal exercises, a type of training totally new to me that I really enjoyed. She also spent time talking to me and asking me questions. “What do you know about New York?” she inquired. I told her what little I had learned from going to the movies. She listened and set me straight with good advice on what I should expect if I ended up going there. For example, she told me how the streets ran, the avenues from north to south and streets from east to west, and how the subways and buses worked.

But her questions had a more serious purpose. She had heard me sing and was impressed sufficiently enough to want to work further with me and put in the time. She wanted to make sure that I wasn’t just some silly girl with unreasonable expectations. “And what are your goals?” I told her that I wanted to be an entertainer, a good singer, and a good actress. From the time we spent together, about ten sessions or so in total, she saw that my desire and dedication were rock solid.

I remember how Christine always smelled so good, an impression made stronger by the fact that perfume and cologne were luxuries that had not existed in my world. The other delightful smell in her house came from the kitchen. She loved to bake and made sure I had a piece of her apple pie or anything else she might have on hand.

On one occasion, I came to her door in the cold pouring rain with neither raincoat nor scarf to protect my throat, which in her world was unthinkable. “If you want to be a singer, you can’t go out like this,” she admonished me. I did not volunteer that I owned no raincoat, scarf, nor umbrella.

During our visits, she would sing with me. She had a magnificent voice, a beautiful and unforgettable mezzo-soprano. William Hawkins, a distinguished critic at the time and a friend of hers, told me that she had so much talent but that her voice was even more beautiful when he heard her sing in the kitchen rather than on the stage. This same writer—who became a good friend of mine as well—in an otherwise glowing review later made a comment about how he had first met me when I was a student. Hearing my thick country accent at the time, he had felt sure I would soon be back on the farm taking care of the pigs. Oink, oink.

One day, Christine called Ruth Helen’s family and gave her verdict. “I think this child has talent, and her head is screwed on straight. She deserves a break.” If Christine had said no, things would have been very different. She remained a mentor and an inspiration to me because she was such an incredibly positive person. Through the years, she came to see me in various shows, and even in her nineties she still wrote me long handwritten letters. She passed away in 2010 at the age of ninety-seven.

I do not remember squealing, jumping up and down, or yelling, “Oh my gosh” when I got the news. Don’t get me wrong, I was extremely grateful and very happy. But my mind was already focused on the concrete tasks ahead, no different than I am today when a new project comes my way. This was really happening! There was much to do to prepare over the next few weeks before moving in September. What to pack? Would I have