Performing with a local legend

I wanted a female singer to join me in a funny song about growing old for the annual “Sunday Funnies” show put on by seniors in Clarksville.

Out of the blue, I got an unexpected volunteer: Nancy Barden, age 91, who retired from the “Double Nickel Players” several years ago.

What a prize! Dare I call Nancy the “grande dame” of Clarksville? With a “lifelong love affair with the stage,”  Nancy helped revive the Halifax County Little Theatre with Dot Crews in 1962 and directed seven plays and performed in 12 in Clarksville. On a smaller scale, it was like pulling Meryl Streep or Elizabeth Taylor out of retirement.

“Here I am again, unable to let it go and once again saying, ‘This is the last time.’ Nancy told me.

 

The song, “No Time at All,” from the 1972 musical “Pippin” is about an older woman advising a young man about the perils of aging. She is supposed to be 66, which was 25 years younger than Nancy!

 

I have to say our practices together were a bit rocky at first. I recorded a piano track for us to sing against, and we both had trouble getting in sync.

 

She didn’t want to sing such lines as  “I won’t date a man who’ll call me Granny,” so we took them out.

 

I couldn’t memorize any piano music by the time I reached 35, so we were quite challenged in recalling the words. Well, so are the actors in the hilarious Sunday Funnies skits, who have to rehearse a lot more than younger performers.

 

Nancy got discouraged despite her pedigreee. “I had about six solos in ‘Anything Goes’ but I think I have reached my level of incompetency now.”

 

But this is show business! By showtime, on May 4, things seemed to come together. In front of 250 people, we sang, “Oh, it’s time to keep living…for spring will turn to fall in just no time at all.“

 

Then it was her turn: “Now, I've known the fears of 91years I've had troubles and tears by the score. But the only thing I'd trade them for is 92 years more!”

 

She spoke rather than sang some of the lines, but she looked like she meant every word. The crowd loved it.  Flowers were presented. A former high school student of hers came up and congratulated her.

 

I got to perform with a local legend. What a thrill!

 

Here’s to 92 years more!

Talking to lakes and cemeteries Am I nuts?

I was thrilled to get a summer job as a busboy at my favorite place in the world—Lake Tahoe—in June, 1960.

What a life, residing in a cabin amid pine trees beside an enormous lake surrounded by spectacular mountains.

But the beginning did not go well at Zephyr Cove Lodge. I broke so many glasses that the chef insisted I must be working for the glass manufacturer. My boss was horrified at my scruffy clothes and wrinkled shirts. Then a waiter hit me in the face with a a wet table-cleaning cloth. “Dirty!” He yelled.

How to cope? I got the good idea to go down to the beach at sunset and sit on a log and tell the lake about my troubles.

There was a bright moon, reflected on the blue waters. The mountains, still with some snow, were beautiful.

And I talked. I told the lake all my worries and asked what to do.

I was praying and didn’t even realize it.

I was tempted to return home in defeat, but good things happened. My parents mailed me some new white shirts. The same chef loaned me a couple of white “bus jackets.” I got better at the job. The experienced waiter, kind of apologetically, called me “the best busboy I have ever seen.” I worked there for two more summers as the head busboy and returned to ski for many years after.

Over time, I have been occasionally able to find a quiet place to reflect. When my mother, at age 65, had surgery for very serious colon cancer, I spent time at the chapel in the hospital at Placerville, Calif. Chapels are a quiet place in the midst of suffering, pain and death.

My mother made it to 98, and after she died, I visited the cemetery and talked to my deceased relatives. “Aunt Adele, remember those fun card games we used to play?”“Uncle Fred, I loved those letters you used to send me.” I think they liked me.

I thought of these experiences just a few weeks ago, when I was in the midst of a temporary health problem. Depressed, suddenly I decided to walk only a few steps to the graveyard of Pickett’s family members dating to theearly 1800s. Sometimes I have felt their presence when I have cleared weeds or mowed the lawn around them. 

I never met any of these people. But I talked to them anyway. They assured me that things would be all right, and they were.

They also liked me - most of them, anyway. Some day I will join them there. I felt welcomed. And loved.

What;s this? A Diva in my household?

My wife, Pickett, was notorious for being unable to carry a tune. She would sing loudly and proudly off key at church and at the preschool she ran for many years.

 

So it was a surprise, maybe even a shock, when she told me a few weeks ago that she wanted to sing a duet with me at a parlor gathering we had with musical friends.

 

“I want to do that song you guys sang (at the Broadway choral concert in Danville), ‘Anything You Can Do, I can Do Better.’”

But how do I put this to her. “Pickett, we may have some trouble with the…uh…pitch.”

“I want to take voice lessons,” she said. “Oh, really? Wow!” I said. “Sure.”

 

We called Toni Howell, a local voice teacher who lives In Turbeville who had heard Pickett sing in church.

She agreed to take Pickett on, though she couldn’t promise any miracles. Yes, it would require a miracle.

 

Well, it was a miracle! I went with Pickett to her first lesson. Toni tried a few things and then gave a little half-shriek and told Pickett to try to match it.

 

“What?” I thought. “That’s too high for Pickett,” who talks with a fairly deep voice. But she nailed it!

 

Pretty soon Pickett was copying a lot, though not all, of Toni’s pitches. I heard a voice I had never heard before except maybe when she was laughing at a TV show. Could it be? She was a soprano!

 

We did the song together. She needed a lot of reminders to get back in tune, but most of it was pretty close. Toni reminded us that it takes lots of practice to sing in pitch. You can’t really learn it all in one or two lessons.

 

Back at home, I felt like Professor Henry Higgins working with Eliza Doolittle in “My Fair Lady.” “I think she’s got it. By George, she’s got it.”

 

Now how were we going to sing this together in public? The karaoke tracks were too fast. I needed to play piano as accompaniment. We tried that. But if I was plugging away, staring at the keys, she was staring at me, yelling,“Yes I can!” And I would be mumbling, without confidence, “No you can’t.” In front of any audience, she would win the argument hands down.

 

To defend my manhood, I had to memorize the piano music and stare back at her when I sang. Can’t let my gender down!

 

The outcome was hilarious. Pickett was quite animated screaming her parts whileI just sort of reacted defensively.  Sort of typical of our relationship!  And probably the way the song is meant to be, as Ethel Merman did it.  Our friends loved it. I can’t say, though, that Pickett was always on pitch.

 

It was especially memorable because I ha started the day in the emergency room to treat a leg infection but found out the infection was gone.

 

I recommend that other couples try this song, from the musical “Annie Get Your Gun” in1946. It is a terrific way for two people to work out their issues! When you get into a disagreement, just break into this song and laugh.

 

You will be able to see our version on YouTube by searching for the channel, Pickett Craddock and Mike  Doan or clicking on the video https://youtu.be/h7OYfoEcMUM?si=EjoEx7cIN4ODNGf6

Why I left the best job ever

 

At a Las Vegas restaurant, I stared at a scantily dressed waitress when she brought us lunch. “You’re going to like it here,” said the Associated Press correspondent that I was about to replace.

 

I did like it. I thought it would be the best job I would ever have. I was right!

From 1968 to 1970, long before the AP bureau grew to five reporters, I was the only one. In fact, I was the only one writing for out-of-town media other than the rival UPI correspondent.

 

Opening night for Frank Sinatra? Of course, I went. Elvis Presley’s debut? Got to see that. A real live elephant playing a jumbo slot machine? Sure, get a picture! Another nuclear test? I sat at the bar at the city’s tallest hotel and called the L.A. bureau. “It went off,” I said as I felt some shaking. And I had another drink.

 

I used to drool over the clippings I got from the Las Vegas News Bureau: Hundreds of newspapers had run my articles about a showgirls’ strike, Howard Hughes scooping up another hotel or Lana Turner’s wedding.

 

I covered lots of fights including one of George Foreman’s first and Sonny Liston’s last. At ringside, you didn’t dare wear a white shirt if one fighter bled a lot. I even asked Muhammad Ali a question at a press conference.

I interviewed dozens of famous people: Dionne Warwick, Ramsey Lewis, Little Richard, Dizzy Dean, Hoagy Carmichael and Jose Feliciano. When Feliciano got in trouble for a bouncy national anthem in the World Series, he told an AP reporter, “Say hello to Mike Doan for me.”

 

So why am I not still there? I really got restless in that historical moment as the world seemed to be falling apart. When Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated, all I did was get gamblers’ reaction. The Vietnam War was in full blast, but I was writing about roulette and blackjack.

 

The demands of Nevada radio stations and newspapers were overwhelming. I did not want to write another article about an arraignment of some mobster accused of dumping a body in the desert. I didn’t want to set up my teletype machine in the convention center again for another statewide election.

There was no AP repairman within 280 miles. If a radio station’s machine broke down, I had to interrupt my news writing and remove it and put it on a bus for Los Angeles.

 

So, when an opening came for my hometown of San Francisco, I took it. Now I could get back to real journalism: students rioting, the Black Panthers, Indians occupying Alcatraz. Back to real life!

 

Like Going One-on-One with LeBron James

Buy now? Sell now? What do you do when the stock market is like a roller coaster ride?

The motto at the Kiplinger Editors, where I was a writer for 16 years, was “Buy good stocks and hold on to them.” I try to go along with that despite temptations to jump into the latest trend or dump everything when the market is shaky. Of course, the trick is finding out which stocks are good.

I’ve seen friends become day traders, sitting at a computer buying and selling stocks, thinking they can outsmart the market by following their latest whim. “Microsoft is hot. Think I’ll get in.” Or:  “I have a hunch that Toys.com will make it big.” If the stock has become popular, you are already too late. Many day traders were wiped out.

The trouble is, you are betting against people who have done real research: the experts at mutual funds or hedge funds who can really crunch numbers and even visit the companies they invest in. Why do you think you are wiser than them? Would you go one-on-one with LeBron James in basketball?

I remember buying stock in Mortgage Investors of Washington in 1971, thinking that Washington, D.C. real estate would take off. Well, that was right, but the company was poorly managed and tanked. My $15 per share investment turned into $3.50. I also thought “Annie” would be a big hit musical movie and placed my money on Columbia Pictures. I was right about the movie too, but the stock didn’t follow it.

So since then, I have put money into mutual funds or other instruments invested by others. I don’t know what they bought—don’t want to know. Usually, they are hedged enough with bonds or other instruments, where I don’t suffer big losses in a market downturn or leave me euphoric in a boom. At this stage of life, I am not trying to suddenly get rich.

My broker once had me invested in the stocks in the Dow-Jones Average of 30 of the biggest companies.  I got uncomfortable. “Conrail? ? General Motors? I don’t want those dinosaurs. Get me some new companies.” But many new companies don’t survive.

My broker tried to talk me out of dropping this investment, but it didn’t work.  I saved his note for some odd reason. What a mistake! The Dow has risen 2,500% in that time.

If I had it to do over, I would have put money in a fund that followed the Dow-Jones averages, or another that rides with the market.  Would I do that today? Well, no, at this stage in life I can’t risk the volatility.

At last. Now it can be told

 For years, I kept a dark secret, carefully hidden from public view. I was embarrassed to let the world know:

I was going to church.

 

Really? It’s no secret now. When you are 83 years old, with the grim reaper breathing down your neck, of course you go to church!

 

I am covering all bets now by being involved in three, yes three, churches: Mt. Carmel PresbyterianChurch in Turbeville, First Baptist Church in South Boston and Dumbarton United Methodist Church in Washington, D.C.

 

So, what happened? As a young adult, I didn’t go much but I found comfort in church as 21-year-oldreporter in Dover, Del. I even sang in the choir. My beliefs didn’t run very deep, but I liked a place where loving people set aside their weekday struggles to ponder the meaning of life. What and who is God?

 

No one I worked with knew I went there. I mean, it isn’t cool to go to church, especially as a journalist. Looking for scandal, you certainly believe in original sin, but not much in salvation. You are cynically uncovering the misdeeds of bad people and thrilled when you can say: “Gotcha!!” 

 

After I left Dover, a church member outed me to my former boss, who laughed out loud when he told me about it over the phone. He even put it in the history book he wrote about the newspaper!

 

I did go to church a few times in Las Vegas, but it was Sin City—not appropriate! Going to Glide Methodist Church in San Francisco was considered cool though—a defiant black pastor with a rock ‘n’ roll band.

 

In Washington, I found Dumbarton during a dark spot in my career when I had no one to turn to. I can’t say I was “born again,” but I found welcoming people in a kind of family away from my California hometown.

 

Of course, I didn’t tell my drinking buddies or fellow journalists about this highly subversive habit.  Meanwhile, I was churning out church publicity, the modern form of evangelism.

 

My secret interest became useful at U.S. News & World Report, where few on the staff knew anything about religion. I wrote about inclusive language in churches, television evangelists and the 200thanniversary of the Methodist Church in the U.S. in 1984.

 

The magazine called on maybe a dozen staff members to collaborate on a story, “the religious left fights back against Jerry Falwell and the right.” All I had to do was get out my church directory and call six or seven members of this left-leaning church who were active in the movement.

“We couldn’t have done this story without you,” my boss told me.

 

Since judgment day has not come yet, what tangible benefits have I gotten from my flirtation with the afterlife? Well, the main one came in 1981, when I was assigned with two others to help serve at Dumbarton’s coffee hour. “Who is this Pickett Craddock, on the list?” I asked a woman friend. “Oh, she’s a single woman, Mike. You ought to get to know her,” she said, pointing her finger at my nose.

Well, I did, and we are still together. I did better finding a woman at church than in a singles bar. I got one who shares my values.

 

And to this day Pickett still brings snacks and sometimes signature dishes from the bed & breakfast to Mt. Carmel on Sundays. (Hm, maybe I should help her.)

 

Why did’t I save more copies?

Imagine my shock when I found out last week that copies of Orbit Video magazine, which I managed, are now being sold online for $40 to $49 apiece.

Why didn’t I save more from the stacks of copies before it went under in 1989? (And why didn’t I save my old baseball cards?) I have one copy left, but I want to keep it.

Rare magazines often become collector’s items for some odd reason. Maybe we should have produced more of them.

It all started when my boss, the owner of Satellite Orbit magazine, decided to diversify with a monthly periodical that had reviews and features about movie stars. National Enquirer had just pulled the plug on the only other videotape magazine out there. But we figured we were smarter and could be successful by selling them directly at video stores.

We got tons of VHS tapes, reviewing from 50 to 100 new releases every month. One lady had the joy of reviewing maybe 30 of them, one per day. We took the rest of them home to look at. Unfortunately, most of them were utterly dreadful. There was a surplus of horror and gore films that were tough to watch.

We also had a videogame section. A 22-year-old guy was in charge of the reviews, a job that many teenage boys would have adored. I liked playing electronic golf games.

We added all kinds of features to the magazine. One of my biggest-ever challenges as an editor was handling a horoscope column. The writer was bored with simple lists of the month’s outlook for Leos and Sagittarius and wanted to write feature articles about astrology instead. No, thank you.

Our readership never took off. Research showed that customers at video stores were rarely happy. Theycouldn’t find the movie they wanted and were in no mood to buy a magazine. Just candy!

We found that our biggest fans were not Joe Sixpack butvideophiles--movie crazed people who would watch them endlessly all day.

Finally, after about 11 months, publication stopped. No more free movies and video games. We ended up with a negative circulation! How is that possible? We counted people as subscribers as soon as they signed up. But when they failed to pay, we had to dock them from the count, thus a negative circulation.

So, we stuck with Satellite Orbit, the viewing guide for people with large dishes. But we could see the writing on the wall: The TV networks started scrambling their satellite signals, making people pay for the shows they saw. And small dishes were hitting the market with online viewing guides that made paper guides unnecessary.

Now I have to pay for streaming movies. Yes, life is hard!

 

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Don’t miss “Fiddler on the Roof” by the Clarksville Community Players this weekend. On opening night last Friday, I thought the group put on one of its best performances ever. The singing, dancing and acting were terrific. Friday and Saturday at 7:30 p.m. and Sunday at 3 p.m.