A Couple of Characters

Those crazy kids! (Cactus Flower)

                                                            With the cast of Fallen Angels

As the pandemic wears on, we are finally bored enough to tackle a wide variety of overdue tasks. Home repair? Deep cleaning? I think not! Obviously, the Number One Seyfried priority is….. 

Going through the gaggle of old photos from our dinner theatre days! Yes, some might argue that painting the family room and re-surfacing the driveway take precedence, but honestly? I don’t care! They’re my memories and I’ll sort if I want to!! 

Steve and I graced the stages of many suppertime extravaganzas for several years in the late 1970s (throughout the Southeast), and again for a bit after we settled in Philly in 1980. Going through the glossy photos reminded me that we were once really skinny (thanks not to dieting but to our ridiculously small grocery budget). Perusing the yellowed newspaper clippings, it became clear that these productions did not make any local theatre critic’s “Best Of…” list. Indeed, our shows tended to inspire headlines such as “Woody Allen’s Fun Comedy Goes Awry at Bartke’s Theatre” and “Laugh…But Not With My Daughter." 

The raves were even more embarrassing than the pans, though, because of the reporters’ ineptitude. One fellow used to comment on the various buffet line items right along with his critique: “Elise Cunningham was sweet as the ingenue--and so was the strawberry shortcake I enjoyed before the curtain!” Amazingly, these kudos did nothing for my acting career. 

But we had a lot of fun, Stevo and I. Back in those days, we were often cast as father and daughter (even then Steve had an “older guy” look, though he had to use gobs of white shoe polish to get his hair right). Our one and only stint as young lovers took place at Birmingham, Alabama’s Celebrity Dinner Theatre and Bowling Alley (you read that correctly), when we starred in Cactus Flower. I must say I much preferred those stage smooches, to those with the motley assortment of my other leading men--even though the romantic spell was often broken by the sound of bowling balls hurtling toward pins on the other side of the theatre wall. 

During that time, we encountered some fascinating folks (and one animal): an actress who made most of her living performing on cruise ships-and whose actual first name was Oceana! Eccentric, hard-drinking, cigar chomping director Mel Glass (a real Zero Mostel type). And then there was Doodles, the dog, who appeared in the dreadful Love is a Time of Day in Hurricane, West Virginia. Doodles was both a scene stealer and a nasty biter--and clearly got the job only because his owner was the producer. 

We may have lived in crummy rooms above theaters, and smuggled dinner rolls upstairs for our breakfast, but nostalgia bathes it all in a rosy glow. 

Then, as now, hubby and I were a couple of characters. We feel pretty lucky to be cast in the Show of Life together (Comedy? Tragedy? Both!) and hope our run extends for many years to come.

Caricature from Don't Drink the Water--can you spot us?

A is for Abecedarian

Lumi and Ruby out for a Brooklyn stroll

I’m taking a class on The Experimental Essay. Each week we work with a different form, such as the  “abecedarian” essay. Not what I’d thought it was at first; I’d assumed it was an essay form from Ancient Abecedaria (I knew I should have paid attention in World History class. There was no Abecedaria, of course! It was Acetominophen! Right?) In any case, it’s NOT an ancient form. It means using each letter of the alphabet sequentially, to begin the next line, phrase or paragraph. Like this…

After enjoying many decades of canine-free, 

Bark-less, non-shedding life, and resisting my kids’ pleas for a dog, I was sure that my sister, 

Carolyn, would remain the sole Puppy Parent in the family. And I didn’t mind her parade of pooches, from Nick to Murphy--

Delightful doggies all, the more so because I rarely saw them and never had to walk them in the dark in bad weather.

Ever grateful for my cozy house when I’d see neighbors, braving wind and icy rain because little 

Fido needed to go. “It’s wonderful exercise!” these folks would rave. “If you say so,” I’d reply.

Give me a good book and a comfy couch instead, I’d think.

Hadn’t the vaguest interest even in the Westminster Dog Show, (though I’d turn that on sometimes to see what the trainers were wearing). I didn’t know a chihuahua from a Saint Bernard,

Just that one used to deliver kegs of brandy to stranded travelers in the Alps. And I recently heard that is a myth!

Karma, my friends: 

I now have TWO dogs in my immediate family. 

Just last month, Julie and Gil adopted Lumi, a rescue destined for a meat market in Korea.

Korean rescues being a thing, apparently, Rose soon followed with her furry new addition, Ruby.

Lucky pups, especially since their alternative was a stew pot! But seriously, my daughters are in Heaven.

Many conversations with them now revolve around Pet Milestones, and I find myself actually interested.

Nowadays, Lumi is much less skittish than she was at first (wouldn’t you be, if you might have been sold by the pound?)

Oh, Ruby is still quite fearful, but she’s a newer acquisition and it’s taking her more time to feel at home. Isn’t this fascinating?

Plus, I'm learning lots about the best chew toys and dog treats! Really!

Quiz me on breeds! Go on! 

Rottweilers were among the first police dogs! Dachshunds have long low bodies and bold, vivacious personalities!

Shih Tzus are tiny dogs from Tibet! Snoopy is a cartoon beagle! 

This latter-day conversion to dog fancier surprises no one more than me,

Unless you count my sudden about-face on having children after seven years of marriage—

Very unexpected, that one! 

Will I take the next step and adopt my own puppy? No way! 

X in THAT box on the questionnaire!

Yet, I’ve been wrong about myself before. Animals aren’t just for living in

Zoos, I’ve learned. Sometimes, they’re for living in hearts. Maybe even mine.

Aunt C's dog Sydney visiting us, Thanksgiving 1998. Little Julie now has her own doggie!

Marketing Me

My books in a New Yorker tote--probably as close as I'll ever get to being "in" The New Yorker!

Ever since my freelance writing career launched, and with it the opportunity for public speaking gigs, I have found myself in the position of selling my wares, and it ain’t a comfortable place to be. While I can craft a decent pitch for editors, I am always loath to follow up, lest I be seen as a pest. As any successful writer/speaker will tell you, follow up is EVERYTHING. Most of the big publishing guns (the New York Times’ “Modern Love” column, for example) get many thousands of submissions every year, and the chances of rising to the top of the pile are slight indeed, without giving the gatekeepers a nudge. That’s when the polite little Catholic girl still lurking inside me steps aside and allows the brasher of my colleagues to make themselves known to Editor A or B. Which is (only) one reason why you haven’t seen my work in the NYT.

Same goes for my self-marketing as a public speaker. In a burst of ambition, I’ll come up with a glossy postcard, send it hither and yon briefly, and that’s it. As a result, I’m currently looking at a towering stack of out-of-date glossy postcards, collecting dust on my office bookshelf (and featuring a photo of me from 10 years ago to boot). That is also the bookshelf that houses MANY un-purchased copies of my four books of essays, so the entire piece of furniture is really just one big testament to my failures as a salesperson. I need to do something about this! Maybe put the books in the attic in boxes and throw away the postcards! Out of sight, out of mind!

But seriously, I do need to look at 2021 as the Year Elise Breaks Through. The pandemic has afforded me a bit more time than usual to come up with a marketing plan. I hear that lots of speakers are doing really well with Zoom engagements. And I do think my writing style, which leans towards the (very) short piece, is perfect for today’s distracted reader. One can be checking the news online, switch over to read one of my essays, and be right back on CNN in time for the next outrage!

How about this? 

Greetings, Editor or Event Planner as the Case May Be!

I saw your call for pitches/am a fan of your remarkable publication/am vaguely connected to you through an acquaintance! As a writer and/or speaker, I bring many years of expertise/a fine sense of humor/inexpensive books that make great gifts! I am available throughout the Philadelphia area/nation/world on very short notice and at an extremely reasonable price! I invite you to check out my website (perfectly fine if you don’t want to) and the attached clips (again, totally your call). 

I look forward to possibly hearing from you at your convenience/ at some point before my death. If I don’t, I promise never to bother you again! 

Hopefully yours,

Elise Seyfried

PS Enjoy the enclosed FREE glossy postcards! 

Take a postcard! Take 50!

Heart of a Hummingbird

                                   Photo by Christian Spencer

“Consider the hummingbird for a long moment. A humming-bird’s heart beats ten times a second. A hummingbird’s heart is the size of a pencil eraser. A hummingbird’s heart is a lot of the hummingbird. (They are) joyas voladoras, flying jewels…”                                         

                                                                                    –Brian Doyle 

I recently saw a photograph online that took my breath away. It was a hummingbird, hovering as they do, backlit by the sun. All the colors of the rainbow were reflected in its tiny feathers. As these dizzyingly fast miniature creatures are very hard to spot, much less to snap a picture of, this gorgeous shot seems miraculous. 

Brian Doyle was a prolific Catholic essayist, who died a few years ago, at age 60, after a brief bout with cancer. I have read and enjoyed a great many of his essays. Doyle was, like me, a writer who specialized in the “run-on sentence” (I hate that term, it sounds so critical! “Perfectly lengthy sentence”--that’s better). Someone once said that a typical Doyle sentence began on Tuesday and ended on Friday. But he wove a spell, with his insightful, often humorous, musings on life and faith. I have recently learned that several dear friends also read and love Brian Doyle’s work. 

Doyle’s essay “Joyas Voladoras” is often included in literary anthologies. Like its subject, it is a small jewel. Ever since reading it, I have thought of hummingbirds as little hearts in flight. Shimmering, evanescent, beating wildly, streaking through the world at breakneck speed. They visit a thousand flowers in a single day, yet go largely unnoticed. 

We live in a world that values bigger and better, larger and stronger. More. Yet I worship the God who created the hummingbird. And maybe, hidden in those rainbow-hued wings, God has a message for me. Perhaps the hummingbird’s beauty is that it is, literally, almost all heart. And maybe, just maybe, that is how I am to live: as if my heart takes up nearly all the space in my body. Just imagine if we could all live with overflowing hearts! Hearts of compassion and tenderness. Hearts that soothe and heal. And perhaps our hearts are meant to beat undetected, our deeds of kindness and mercy done in secret. Because the viewer who matters most, sees them anyway. 

As we begin a new year, I resolve to grow my heart, a little bit more each day. The more heart I have, of course, the more vulnerable I will become, open to the pain of the world. But what a way to live! Because the pain is counterbalanced by an ever larger capacity for joy and wonder. So, here’s a challenge for myself (for us?): let us take our cue from the hummingbird. Let us be filled to the brim with heart, and let's spread love, wherever life’s journey takes us. 

And so this year, may we each quietly reflect the glory of God through the goodness of our hearts. That, my friends, is how we change the world.

                                                                   "Hummingbird" by Seals and Crofts