Opening Night in Laguna de la Paz

A number of psychotherapists say that moving is right up there with death and divorce for pure, unadulterated stress. I don’t know about divorce because I have never had one, but the part about moving must be right.

The big truck will come up the driveway two days from now and take away the furniture. Most of the other stuff is gone in boxes and is now sitting in a locked garage in Laguna de la Paz in La Quinta.

My dear friend, David Steinbacher, and a friend of his named Mark went down yesterday. My house is not yet finished, but the ones that are show great promise. They are handsome, graceful, with well-proportioned rooms and where the lawns have been put in like quilting, they look great. My house faces southwest by northeast and looks out at mountains.

My son Tim and his wife, Geri, will come up on moving day and drive me down, which I am looking forward to. I will stay with Jean Erck for a week or so and then Peaches and I will move into a hotel.

Just yesterday I realized what moving is like for me. It’s like the night before opening night. That is the time you wonder how you got snookered into the theater. You think, I could have worked in a bookstore, been a dog walker, been a schoolteacher, any of a number of marvelous, decent, respectable pursuits. And now I am standing on the eve of a first night with my stomach full of butterflies or rather what my dear friend, Joe Depew, who had been there through years in the theater and the motion picture and television businesses, refers to as the inside sweats.

And yet with all the terror, there is marvelous anticipation. Will they like me? Will I look great? Will I get that chancy laugh in the first act on my exit? Of course.

The theories about moving are exactly the same. Will people like me? Can I hold the thing together for more than 15 minutes?

But here’s something to remember. When the script starts rolling, after you’ve heard that wonderful intake of breath come from out front, you know you can do no wrong, even if the stage door sticks.

Pasadena will be hard to leave. It has been an interesting 16 years, not without tears but with lots of laughs. I will miss the wonderful view of the dome on the City Hall, blue and yellow tile, glowing in Renaissance splendor, from Patsy’s upstairs bedroom window.

The Huntington Memorial Hospital is a fine place if you have to be sick with the warmest staff to help you through the long gray nights. I will miss my doctors, the entire brigade, who have kept me semi-mobile all these years.

When I first moved to Pasadena, Madeline Anderson, who has lived here all her life said: “If you can’t find it in Pasadena, you don’t need it.”

She’s right. I will leave Pasadena with respect and some good memories.

The people who bought my house are delightful. He is an accountant with one of the Big Eight and she is a delightful woman.

I have always walked out of a house leaving a bottle of Champagne in the entry hall so that the newcomers will know the house has been a place of laughter. My new lady won’t be here for a few days because she is having some painting and carpeting done. I’ll find a place to put it. Slainte, new friend, and happy times.

To the people who have helped me move, I am eternally grateful. Maryanne Thomas even brought me a beautiful pot of chrysanthemums, bright yellow because the boxes and empty space are so grim.

I think I’ll be ready for the opening performance two days from now. If I’m not I’ll vamp till ready. All right, take the curtain up.