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You've Got it Forever Now

My Mentor... a Man Named Ralph

By D.P. MartinPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 16 min read
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The Spruces in its heyday: The windows on the lower left would become our office's.

More than a quarter of a century after making your acquaintance, I still find myself in awe of you.

I can tell you the day – June 19th, 1995 – as well as the hour. It was one o’clock in the afternoon when I arrived for the first time at the Spruces, the 19th century hotel then being used as the residence for the cast and crew of the Weathervane Theatre. Even before I was parked, I realized that the building was many decades past its heyday, in an era when wealthier Bostonians and New Yorkers could board a train north during the summer months to holiday in the cooler air of New Hampshire’s White Mountains. I immediately wondered what I had gotten myself into.

Just two months earlier I was packing up my books at the end of an English composition class when my professor asked his students, “if anyone is interested in an internship at a summer stock theatre this summer, come up and see me.” The sentence completely changed the trajectory of my life. I was the lone responder to that invitation, and my first impressions upon beginning that internship – and seeing the dirt-and-rock-drivewayed Spruces – left me tempted to get right back into my pick-up truck and drive the three hours home. I sighed. “So, the paint is peeling… and the building is crooked. It’s what’s on the inside that matters.” I walked in.

Yeah, the inside was worse.

It was also a hundred degrees in the shade, and there was no way the electrical system of this building could withstand the demands of even one small air conditioner. There were very few people in the building – apparently, I was early – and I didn’t know any one of those few people. Again I was literally seconds away from getting back into my red Dodge Dakota – which had wonderful air conditioning and still contained my luggage – when a tall, white-mustached man approached me, adjusting his glasses to get a good look. He cocked his head upward slightly and extended his right hand.

“And you must be Don Paul Martin,” you said in a dramatic, melodic cadence, “I’m the General Manager, Ralph Odom.” That was the first time I shook your hand. I didn’t realize it at that moment, but what an impressive deduction it was for you to identify me given how many people would arrive that day and in the days to follow. You blocked me from rejoining the bewitchingly cold air of my Dakota.

You gave me the red carpet tour of the dilapidated building – one which would become my second home over the next four summers – introducing me to each and every person we saw on the warped floors and slightly-skewed halls along the way. These people I would love for the rest of my life. My brothers and sisters in art and kindness, in the human condition. A family by choice and acceptance. I learned their names right away that day, which is amazing since I could never readily absorb names. Your flair was apparently the first outstanding tool you bestowed upon me: memorization through larger-than-life emphasis and enthusiasm. “Emphusiasm. “

In the early summer of 1995, I turned 27 years old. I was older than any of the other interns by at least seven years, and would be a part of an intern program which would resurrect the Patchwork Players, the theatrical performers of plays for the youngest members of the Weathervane audience. My writing abilities had recruited me to be your personal intern for the development office whenever I had time away from the Patchwork Players, and those times were my favorite times. That’s where I really learned what a mentor was.

That little office on the south side of the Spruces was the heart of the company headquarters each summer. The vivacity, the action. The sound of landline phones ringing off the hook and calls being made in the last few summers before cellular and smart phones took over, the smell of hot toner from my laser printer constantly pumping out pages of posters or notes or drafts of grant proposals. People coming in, asking questions, leaving as quickly as they had arrived, me chasing down people to sign their tax forms, photocopying their driver’s licenses on the ancient Xerox (God, was it the original Xerox?!?), capturing contact information. Each day was different, but with you sitting at the next desk over, I had a calm, gallant, seasoned manager of people and projects and situations at my left hand.

It’s hard to believe, looking back, that I was a cigarette-smoker in those years, but if there was a bright side to that, it was at least a habit that we shared. It’s even harder to believe that we had no problems whatsoever sparking up in that office. It created an old-fashioned newsroom vibe, didn’t it? Huntley and Brinkley, or maybe Woodward and Bernstein, or even Edward R. Murrow and our viewers. Most of the time, though, you and I would walk out through the screen door and on to the far end of the Spruce’s wrap-around veranda, park ourselves at that remote, old round wooden table, and smoke cigarettes while studying notebook pages of upcoming events or grant research print-outs. Our one-on-one brainstorming discussions allowed me to be privy to the behind-the-scenes workings of the board of trustees or your insights to the mindsets of artists, fund-givers, producers, and even the average Joe, all in full-color Ralph “emphusiasm.” These were some of the best moments of my day, even though your rich experience and depth of knowledge made you one formidable, intimidating presence. I guess that’s to be expected when you find a kindred spirit and you realize you just want to make them proud of you.

Summer stock theatre is in itself a kind of boot camp, but when you do summer stock in alternating repertory – a musical one night, a British farce the next night, a drama the night after that, then children’s theatre the next afternoon followed by one of the other shows in the evening and then two performances of a different show the next day – well, that’s theatre’s version of special forces training. There were some actors who had the lead roles in two different shows while having minor roles in others, and they’d have to learn all those lines and staging and be off-book in a matter of a two weeks. And then, when that was all done… new shows would open while others concluded their runs. Tech staff would have to build sets, design lighting, find or create costumes, directors would need to find musicians for “the pit,” house management would need to find volunteers for ushering, car parking, and more, and everything would need to be changed over for the next show each day. It was carefully scheduled insanity, and days frequently lasted from sunrise until after midnight.

Through all of this, when something went wrong, all eyes seemed to turn to you for action, and you were stalwart. Unflappable. You turned odorous chaos into learning opportunity – cool magic, I told myself – your own alchemy in which you were handed a flaming disaster, then you immediately put your hand on my shoulder to tell me what we were going to do. Then we did it. There was no complaining about the situation because there was no time to dwell on anything from the perspective of outrage or injustice. The show had to go on. People depended on us. That was the bottom line. By the end of our three years together, I had transformed into your personal Radar O’Reilly: I could hear the helicopters coming ten minutes before anyone else could, and I knew what buttons needed to be pressed. I’ll never know quite how you accomplished that, but believe me, I remain amazed to this day.

Our last days in that New Hampshire mountain community was spent reviewing our accomplishments, rehashing stories of catastrophies averted, and spending time as friends. “What was your favorite moment?” you asked me one late summer day, smoking cigarettes at that round veranda table, and I told you the story of my first show as an actor for the children’s theatre. I had the biggest, most outrageous roles for this one show, “Around the World in 80 Minutes,” and hearing a houseful of kids laughing as hard as kids can laugh because of something I did is a feeling second to none. The actors would ‘meet and greet’ the audience at the front door of the ancient red barn theatre after each show, and when my first performance had concluded that hot, sunny Friday afternoon, I overheard a mom ask her son which ‘Patchwork Player’ was her favorite. “The real man,” the little boy replied, and I being the elder intern my first year, sporting a light beard to boot, I knew of whom he was speaking. It was the best compliment I ever received, and I doubt there will ever be one to surpass it. I saw your eyes gleam when I finished my answer to your question.

“That’s the magic of theatre, Kid,” you said. “You’ve got it forever now.”

After our Weathervane days had ended, our friendship and your mentorship continued. When I moved to New York City in 1998, you had become the managing director of an off-Broadway theatre near Union Square. Staying in touch might not have been a descent down a rickety flight of Spruce’s stairs anymore, but a short subway jaunt downtown still wasn’t that bad. I found a job at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and when I finished writing the first version of my first play, you found the time to critique it and help me revise it. What a treat it was to see you reading my work again, this time my creative writing instead of my grant writing, and in the big city instead of a mountain hamlet, but you still read it the same way, with pages akimbo and your head cocked to such an angle that your glasses dangled upon the end of your nose. When it was ready, you offered a beautiful space at your theatre for it to be read to a live audience. And when it was done, you put your hand on my shoulder, told me I’d done it, and asked what I’d learned.

I ask that to myself now. What did you teach me? Was it all about the business? Was it how to accomplish what needs to be done while under heavy fire? What kind of a mentor were you?

When I decided to publish my book of poetry in early 2003, I asked your advice. Personally, I just wanted to make sure that the collection I’d accumulated since I was a teenager would never be lost. A few poems were lost that I knew of… but all in all, this book was my diary in many ways. It contained the personal bullet points of my life: the incredible sadnesses, of losses, rejections, and unrequited passions of all of those moments a young man trying to figure out who he was. Maybe some of the poetry was self-indulgent or just plain bad, but it meant something to me.

“That’s all that matters, kid,” you told me. “It isn’t going to make the Times best seller list, but an ISBN is an ISBN, and if it’s on a shelf in the Library of Congress, it will outlive you. There’s something to be said of that. Who cares what anyone else thinks?” And that settled it. So I dedicated my book to you, and I looked forward to what you would say upon opening it up for the first time, and if you would perhaps shed a tear in seeing your own name in there.

You never got that chance.

On the afternoon I got that phone call – one where I thought at first that we were being called back to action because the theatre needed us! – I heard the news and slumped into my chair in shock, wondering if I would ever encounter another human being to compliment me like you did. I didn’t need a solitary second to answer it. No. There’s only one William Ralph Odom. People are different, and they’ll come into your life and leave your life, leaving marks in different ways. You had your own lasting signature on mine, and that page was uniquely yours. I thought about that first moment at the Spruces nearly eight years before when you introduced yourself to me and gave me that tour, and I saw that moment with a different set of eyes. I was a kid then. I was eternally alone. I was scared of most people, but more specifically, I was scared of people different from myself. New Hampshire is not a heterogeneous state, and perhaps my biggest fear was that in my own awkward skin I would say the wrong thing to someone and hurting them in some way for being who they are. I was terrified that such a stupid error would make me the bad guy, or worse, prove that I’d been a bad guy inside all along.

Then life brought me you, a tall, gallant, gray-mustached gay man with a penchant for kindness, a world-class intellect, and a charisma strong enough to generate its own gravitational pull.

What did you teach me? Life gave me someone who not only took me under his wing, but from there made me comprehend that it was absolutely okay to be myself and made me feel that I was more than just important, but quite vital for having the talents I have rather than having the spectacular talents that others in theatre or in life might enjoy. You also helped me to develop skills but weren’t afraid to laugh at me like a hyena if I took a misstep while developing them. I definitely learned to not take myself too seriously while under your wing (and never, never again would I use the word ‘fortnight’ in a grant proposal).

Was it all about the business? No, it sure wasn’t. Life brought me a friend who I could call at two in the morning and listen to me weep over a girl who broke my heart. A friend who took a day off from work so he could bring me clothes shopping at his favorite stores in preparation for a job interview. A friend who made sure I had a seat right next to him at his table on Thanksgiving Day when I didn’t have enough money to go buy a sandwich, never mind to go home.

And what kind of a mentor were you?

After dinner on that Thanksgiving Day, you took me aside and told me something that still haunts me to this day. “I don’t know how much longer I have, kid,” you said. “Promise me you’ll be a mentor to someone like I’ve been a mentor to you.” I thought the holiday wine was speaking. You never shared anything about any health issues with me, and you had expressed so much joy about your time spent at the gym. I thought you looked better than ever. I left that day a little shaken about the ‘time left’ comment, but more than anything else I was focused on how I could become a mentor to someone someday the way you had always been for me.

Simply stated, I had no idea how to do that other than that it was going to have to be a very long-term endeavor. I didn’t have the Rhodes Scholar pedigree you had, the decades of travel, study, and life experience. I was living in Pennsylvania and locked in a hopeless relationship when I heard the dreadful news of your passing – which was in New Hampshire, of all places – and knew I had to get my own life in order before I could be a teacher of any kind to anyone else. And I had to do all this knowing that I’d never enjoy your counsel again.

Later that year, I got a job that I’d keep for decades, and I met my future wife. You would have been my best man at the wedding if you hadn't left me, but I was fortunate to have a life-long friend to cover you in that role. It took years of trying before Jess and I would welcome Jacoby, whose middle name was almost Odom until both of my grandfathers’ names took that honor. Before I knew it, my son had grown taller than his mother, and had a character all his own. You would get such a kick out of him, that he comes up with stories from out of thin air, that he absorbs history and trivia like a sponge, and that his favorite game, for the longest time, was ‘Fortnite.’ Well, at least that makes me laugh. .. you would be baffled by the lack of context.

Last Christmas, Jacoby and I watched “The Polar Express” together, as we do every year, a big bucket of stove-popped popcorn in a darkened room with tall glasses of lemonade and sleeping cats. Each year I make a point of watching it for several reasons, but my favorite is that the conductor of the mythical train in the movie, voiced by Tom Hanks, is an amazing manifestation of your personality. Emphusiasm with a touch of comic snarkiness, not to mention your authority, which lightly masks the caring you have for all of your passengers. I tell Jacoby about you each year we watch it. This year, for the first time, he asked about you as soon as he saw that character on the screen – he calls him Ralph, of course – even before I could bring you up. I hit pause, and the two of us taking turns wolfing down popcorn, I told Jacoby about you as if you were a new joyous Christmas carol. I tell him about Ralph and the summer home in the mountains we lived in, surrounded by people we loved, doing great things to make people happy. All the while as I tell him this, I’m looking at the picture of you above our couch. That’s where we have a set of three long wooden shelves, backed by mirrors, and the shelves are filled with all kinds of family photos: our brothers and brothers-in-law, our sisters and sisters-in-law, our parents, our grandparents, all of our nieces and nephews. And there’s Jess, and Jacoby, and me.

And a great picture of you.

Almost twenty years after the last time we spoke in this life, I’m still not a Rhode Scholar. I’m not particularly well-traveled. But now I do have a lot more life experience. And what I still carry with me and hold dear from our years together is that you took me in, we all accepted each other, cared about each other, and we wanted each other to be happy and live the best lives we could with the time we had together.

What kind of a mentor were you? You were the family kind. You were my family, Ralph. You still are, and you always will be.

What an amazing lesson. Don’t worry, Ralph. I’ve got it forever now.

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About the Creator

D.P. Martin

D.P. Martin began writing a first novel in third grade - and had it survived mom's cleaning habit, it would certainly have been a number one best seller. D.P. calls New Hampshire home, raising one son and three hyperactive cats.

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