On the Street Where I Lived

When I was eight years old, my mother enrolled me in the “Actors Company.”  Minnie Galatzer was the director, a short, hefty lady who wore crisp dark suits and laughed easily and deeply from her heart, exposing a space between her two front teeth, her merry eyes sparkling, ever bursting with passion for acting.

Every Saturday morning we took the bus downtown and then walked from Michigan Avenue to the Garrick Building at State and Lake Streets, near the Chicago Theatre.  Ina and Aunt Jeanette joined us.  From ten in the morning until noon, Ina and I took classes that introduced us to a whole new way of life, while our mothers waited in the lobby on long and aged leather sofas darkened and creased with the history of tired actors resting between scenes.

Our initiation began in September when we attended the first class in the company’s theater.  Minnie Galatzer laughed with relish as she held an imaginary piece of fudge between her index finger and her thumb, level with her lips, resting her elbow comfortably against her chest.  Sitting in the first row alongside her, we could see the effect of the incoming light from the windows making a solid sunny line all along the side of her happy face, from her forehead to her chin. My mouth began watering uncontrollably.  With delight, she offered us the exquisite effect of pantomime.