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Townsman, 1991-09, Page 34C© Dangers of wearing too many hats By Keith Roulston Some our readers will know that I live a schizophrenic life, a little bit of this career, a little bit of that. Nobody but one who has lived it, however, can know the danger of whiplash you can get slipping from one world into another. I suppose if I could define myself by one part of my mixed up life, I'd like most to be called a writer of fic- tion: mostly playwrighting, sometimes short stories. That, however, doesn't fill the ever -hungry stomachs of teenage children so 1 get my pay- cheque in journalism. But I'm a farm boy by birth and still like to live in the country, raising a few chickens and ducks each sum- mer. I live among farmers, meet them every day on the street, write about them in news stories, and even pub- lish a magazine for them. Which also makes me a business- person, dealing daily with other peo- ple who try to meet a payroll. On top of that, I'm a man who has always worked in offices where women greatly outnumbered men. The dangers lie in these worlds is when you confuse world you're in. It took me a long time, country boy that I am, to adjust myself to my involvement in the theatre. Country people don't go around showing open emotion a lot. A hug and a kiss in the world I grew up in, usually meant something serious was taking place between two people. It was something of a shock then, at an emotional closing -night party in the very first season of our local the- atre 17 years ago, when a very attrac- tive actress came up to me, threw her arms around me and gave me a kiss and a long squeeze. I didn't even do this with my mother! I mean, what do you do with your hands? And where was that kiss that was coming out of the blue supposed to land, on the cheek? On the lips? Did you squeeze back? How long did this go on? Over the years involved with the- atre people, I learned to adjust to the different social contact of outgoing, emotional theatre friends compared to the proper, keep -your -distance man- ners of rural Ontario. It was an adjust- ment to the system each spring when, after a winter of living by rural Ontario rules, the theatre crowd came back to town and you were used to friendly hugging and kissing again. The first few hugs and kisses you'd feel yourself a little stiff but after a while it became comfortable greeting old friends with a hug again and you learned just where the kiss was expected to land. Generally, this all worked because you managed to keep your huggy- kissy theatre friends separated from you firm -handshake rural friends. The problems come in when the lines get blurred. Take the situation I found myself in the other day. In our town there's a bar, fondly nick -named "The Rubber Boot" which is strangely representa- tive of the split personality of our town. In that bar you'll find farmers who have just come in for a load of feed at the feedmill or from delivering pigs to the hog assembly yard. You'll find carpenters and painters and the usual assortment of people you'll find in a western Ontario bar. But because of our town's well- known theatre, there is also a heavy artistic bent to the Rubber Boot in the summer months. There have been nights when, if an explosion had lev- eled The Rubber Boot, a sizeable por- tion of Canada's theatre leadership would have been wiped out. Even during the day writers and directors, 32 TOWNSMAN/SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER 1991 actors, singers and musicians use it as a place to have lunch, let off steam, or even work out problems with a script or scene. The two groups get along together, sometimes even develop friendships, but generally they still remain firmly on one side or the other of an invisible fence that divides the two worlds: they don't straddle it. Recently I'd been working on a new play in a workshop at the Festi- val, working with a writer -actor -direc- tor who had been brought in to be the kind of outside eye who can pick out the problems and mistakes you're making. We'd got along wonderfully in the week we'd worked together and become good friends. But the next week, I was back in my other world, slugging to make deadlines and hopefully at least break even financially. One night I went to the Rubber Boot for supper with some co-workers. There at another table was Robert, just finished a workshop of a script of his own and getting ready to fly out to his home in western Canada the next morning. I slipped away from my co-workers and went over to his table so I could thank him again for his help and say goodbye. We talked for a few minutes then stood up to say goodbye and it hap- pened. Instead of reaching out his hand, I realized he was moving toward me to give me a big hug. Over his shoulder I could see the farmers and construction workers I'd have to live with tomorrow, guys who are sus- picious of the sexual orientation of anybody involved in theatre, even if they do have four kids. Behind me are my co-workers, people used to seeing me as a serious, let's -get -on -with -it kind of leader. I'm sure Robert must have thought for a minute he'd hugged a tree. After a few seconds, to let my mind slip from its farmer -businessman mode into its theatre mode, I finally said "what the hell" and gave him a big hug. It didn't hurt a bit. Still, I'm won- dering what kind of rumours are cir- culating up and down the concession roads these days.