Fabrics
My father passed away in March. It’s not over yet. This is about one of the ways. I was waiting backstage on Sunday, Father’s Day, to go on for Act 3 of the current show I am in, Angel Street, at the Sammamish Valley Grange hall in Woodinville wine country. The black cloth masking the nearby window was no match for the afternoon light. It filtered onto the sportcoat, overcoat, and bowler hat – costume pieces – lying over the back of a chair, waiting for me to hear a certain line on stage and put them on for my entrance. My dad would have loved the show, and my character, if he had been able to see it. It’s a crime drama, melodrama really, with a suave yet snarling villain, pursued by a witty detective, with the victor to be determined by their ability or inability to gain the trust of a woman, the real hero of the piece. It’s noir, plus Sherlock Holmes plus a little bit of Columbo and Javert. Act 3 is when my character wins. He finally has the goods on the lout and is just waiting for