Introduction - There's No Biz Like It

Contrary to what my dead brother might have told you before he was dead, I had great parents. He didn't, and I don't know how that happened. But that's neither here nor there. I bring this up because I am remembering that as a little boy I was exposed to many forms of art. For one huge thing, my dad was (is) a professional artist. He worked for National Geographic in Washington, DC from 1953 to '68. He started a commercial art business in Vero Beach, Florida in '68, which he sold in 1987, soon after I left for the big city of St. Cloud, Florida.


Some of my most vivid early memories are of trips to "far away" places to see shows. I have spotty memories of sitting in an outdoor amphitheater somewhere near Washington, DC, mesmerized by Danny Kaye, live and in person, singing, dancing, doing comedy schtick, just like on his television variety show. I vaguely remember a play called The Doctor's Dilemma at Center Stage in Baltimore. We saw a stage production of On A Clear Day You Can See Forever in downtown Baltimore. We went to Painter's Mill Music Fair outside of Baltimore to see The Sound of Music starring Shirley Jones. I could even throw in that I was on The Bozo Show once in Washington.

My grandmother on my mother's side LOVED musical theatre. It was her influence that carried us to On A Clear Day... Another time, she and I rode into DC with my dad and we saw Oliver! at the Lincoln Theatre. As I'm sure you recall, I was very intrigued with the sets. How do they do that? This was around 1966, long before automated scenery.

For my own part, I was drafted by the priest at our little Episcopal church in Odenton to be narrator of the Christmas play, years before I was confirmed and drafted to be an acolyte (altar boy.) This was my first active role in show business. Then in sixth grade I was drafted to play Santa Claus in a big PTA extravaganza. They also needed a sound technician with a reel-to-reel tape deck - my first of many sound gigs. I played the sound cue, grabbed my sack and bolted for the fireplace. Also in sixth grade, I cajoled three of my buddies to dress up as vegetables and sing The Jolly Green Giant at the Odenton Elementary talent show. We were a hit. I was a carrot. With a guitar.

Being me, I was unable (unwilling?) to let the onset of puberty be a good thing. I withdrew into my darkest self, had a spectacular "depressive reaction" in 8th grade, and found myself in the clutches of a psychiatrist. This was the beginning of my deep distrust of anyone medical. I mention this only because this was the time when I should have been blossoming into a theatre person. I even went to the Junior High School play with the girl next door. I was watching the play, thinking "I should do this stuff."

Then came the hardest, sharpest turning point of my entire life - yes, even bigger than moving to Albuquerque! My dad wanted out of the high-pressure world of National Geographic, where he was now Assistant Chief of the Art Department. My parents decided to move to Vero Beach, Florida, where my mother spent a large part of her life, where my dad was stationed in the Navy (the Japanese never dared to attack Vero Beach!) and where my grandmother still lived. They didn't take into account that in Odenton I had friends I'd gone to school with since Kindergarten; I had accrued quite a reputation as a photographer (with darkroom and enlarger) and was being recruited for the Yearbook staff; I was a good football player and was looking forward to being on the high school team; and I had a thing going with the girl next door. All of that came to a screeching halt when, in the summer of 1968, between 9th and 10th grades, between Junior and Senior High, between holding hands and kissing - we moved away. The end.

My Vero Beach High School yearbook has my picture and my name in its place alphabetically, just like everybody else. The only other mention is in the back, where all students are listed with all of their activities and accomplishments. Mine says "Emerson, James W. - Transfer '68."

I moved back to Maryland a couple of days after graduation. I rode the Greyhound bus with a duffel bag full of clothes and a few precious possessions. I got a job pumping gas at Montgomery Ward Auto Service in Glen Burnie, and after about eight months transferred to the Display Department. Building store displays professionally was the first big step into the world of scenic carpentry. Several of my coworkers were theatrical people. We were Firesign Theater fans, and did those wacky routines to amuse ourselves during the day. After the movie version of Jesus Christ Superstar came out, we did a fair job of performing it in the shop whenever the mood struck us. Dane was still in high school, and one night a bunch of us went to Glen Burnie High to see him in Annie Get Your Gun. A year or so later, Dane cajoled three of us into going with him to audition for You Can't Take It With You at Anne Arundel Community College. So yes, I have been to college. All four of us got parts. Dane was the romantic lead. Fred was a G-Man. Tina was Gay Wellington. I was Mr. DePinna. Within a week, Fred and Tina dropped out. They "didn't like the director." Then, about two weeks before opening night, Dane had a spectacular motorcycle accident, breaking both arms, both legs, multiple ribs, his collarbone and his jaw in several places. So of the four of us, I was in the show, my first "real" play. One other strange thing: the Guy who played Kolenkhov - his name was Guy - had been the boy next door (on the other side) when I lived in Odenton. We had been buddies for a while, then bitter enemies for years. We got along well enough to get through this show, but that was as far as it went.

A few months later, severely depressed, I set out for Kalispell, Montana, which you undoubtedly remember from "The Origin Issue" of The Gospel of Rand McNally. A few years of commuting between Maryland and Florida followed, with a trip to London to see four plays thrown in for spice. Later that summer, two of my Mongomery Ward buddies and I got together for a laugh and wrote and sang silly song parodies on a call-in radio show. Commander Jim got us a couple of (unpaid) gigs with him before he dropped us for the next novelty, and a beer drinking phase ensued, culminating in the famous Baltimore Bicentennial Backflip. I returned to Vero Beach, my depression deepening to impenetrable black, until Christmas night, 1976, after a day babysitting the grapefruit packing house where I worked, the depression lifted. Suddenly I had to learn to live without the comfortable blanket of depression to protect me from engaging in life. This is not as easy as it sounds.

January of 1977 brought with it a freeze of enormous proportions. My lung infection (or was it a blood clot?) followed soon after. I went back to Maryland for the last time that summer, and got the job delivering trucks all over the eastern United States (see the Gospel.) In March of '78 I moved back to Vero Beach, and my dad and I set out to make Emerson Art Service a force to be reckoned with. We upgraded our facilities, upgraded our equipment and within a year and a half, landed the Dodger account. Suddenly, I felt ready to do some theatre. So, at twenty-seven years old, I finally did what I'd thought I should do at fourteen. Boy howdy, did I.