Puppetry is an art form and I wanted to perfect it. I knew I would never perform in public unless I trained with a professional. I found Hans Schmidt who had a studio in Lincoln Park and I studied working … Continue reading “I Know How You Did That!”
“Hello, Susan Marcus? “Yes, who’s calling, please?” “This is Karen Smith. [name changed to protect myself!] You’re the puppet lady?” “(Clears throat) Yes, I am a puppeteer.” “And you do birthday parties?” “All the time, but I’m booked up for … Continue reading A Bizarre Birthday Bash
She leaves the book splayed on her breakfast table and rinses her cereal bowl in the sink before returning to the table with a small cup of coffee. Her electric espresso machine makes a doppio nearly comparable to those she … Continue reading No Regrets
My career in puppetry had its roots in a childhood fascination with puppet shows and their characters, stages, props, and sets. Long before the 1969 premier of Sesame Street, Chicago-area children like me could watch a bevy of puppets on … Continue reading She Becomes a Puppeteer
Passersby gathered near the arguing pair of men. With his sharp chin, one man in a silly, high-pitched voice taunted a roly-poly policeman then hit him with a flat stick, on top of his head and across his belly. As … Continue reading Pleased as Punch
It’s October 1993. Our son Ben is working in Boston during a gap year between college and medical school. Stephen, my husband, and I, intending to check out Ben’s apartment and see how he’s doing, pack our bags and visit … Continue reading October 1993
Stories that evoke our deepest pains, like our regret for withholding love from those closest to us, like a need to fill the void of their absence, or our inconsolable calls to their spirits—in the dark, in the shower, or … Continue reading Of Love and Regret
Next to the kitchen’s French doors hung a cage large enough for several uccelli or songbirds, gorging on grains and figs or singing their full-throated calls. Continue reading Birdsong in the Kitchen
Every morning around 7:00 in casa Chellini, Teresa the all-purpose donna, housemaid, and scullion would knock on our bedroom door, ask “Si puo?”which meant, “May I come in?” and after hearing one of us answer, would enter bearing a wooden tray always set with the same objects: several thin slices of stale bread or dry toast, two small slabs of butter, a tiny pot of jam, two coffee cups and saucers, and a small pot of bitter coffee next to a little sugar dish,two tiny spoons, and a small pitcher of milk. Continue reading A Tavola: Breakfast in Firenze
I was nineteen years-old, far from all that was familiar, and immersed in a new language I’d only begun to study seriously a year earlier. I’ve been musing lately about those first six weeks outside Siena Continue reading In Casa Vivante, or a First Stay in Tuscany
