At home, after time to consider the young man's aching alternative, the dad offers a compromise. His son can drive from their Southern home to Hollywood, utilize a moderate amount of money to survive a few months and thus pursue his dream. Law school can be deferred. Handily, there's a contact out west who may be able to provide some connections.
In the three plus decades since those dramatic days, Glen Ballard's musical talent has permeated popular music as one of its most accomplished producers/songwriters and arrangers. With more than 150 million records sold world-wide, he's collaborated with such artists as Alanis Morissette, Michael Jackson, Aerosmith, Christina Aguilera, Barbra Streisand, and Josh Grogan. The winner of six Grammy Awards, Glen wrote the Oscar-nominated song "Believe" for Polar Express.
Glen's grandfather and my daddy were first cousins. We share a strong Irish background with ancestors who moved to Mississippi in 1874. I know of no others in our family tree with such significant musical acumen.
For several years, each time I saw cousin Sallie, she updated me on Glen's newest project. With Dave Stewart as a partner, he was immersed in writing music and lyrics for Ghost The Musical. Premiering in London last summer, the play attracts audiences with lingering fond memories of the popular movie from 1990.
During our visit to London in late April, Henry and I decided not to see Ghost in that location but rather to get tickets for the newly opened Broadway production. Our few days in New York became more crowded than usual and it seemed wise to delay the play until another time.
So it was that on May 16th, coincidentally Henry's birthday, we walked to the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre to take a few photos of the billboard to share with multiple cousins.
While I'm standing amidst the gathering matinee crowd, a charming lady apologizes for getting too close and perhaps being captured in one of the photos. I assure her that she is just fine and further explain, being my usual talkative self, that we are intent on photographing my cousin Glen's name.
"Do we have tickets for the show?" she inquires. Saying more than is at all necessary, I respond that we do not and are, in fact, planning to see Porgy and Bess that evening as a special birthday treat for Henry.
"Would we like tickets for the matinee, no charge?" my new acquaintance asks. I pause, say nothing. I'm thinking this is some kind of a scam. One with which I am not familiar, but it just doesn't sound right. I call Henry over and share the lady's question. He, too, is puzzled. We realize that the performance will be starting in about 15 minutes. We're committed to meeting Carol and Steve at 5:30 for dinner prior to the play for which we do have tickets. Is there enough time for two shows and dinner squished in-between them?
Our benefactor watches us and opens a large business-sized envelope. She begins rifling through about thirty tickets. "Where do you like to sit?" she says. By now we are comfortable that the proffered tickets are truly free but equally convinced that they are located in the very back of the balcony.
We are wrong, really wrong. Smilingly, the nice lady offers us two seats at the end of Row N. Gosh. We graciously accept this amazingly generous gesture and proceed into the theater.
Wanting to share our theater experience with a cadre of cousins, we spend time prior to the musical overture collecting an abundant number of Playbills. They'll be mailed to relatives scattered across the country.
With the original London leads ably carrying the show, we're impressed by the quality of their voices, ample energy and evident connection with each other. Da'Vine Joy Randolph portrays Oda Mae Brown, the unforgettable character whose voice the departed ghostly Sam uses to communicate. Her performance has garnered a Tony nomination.
We definitely enjoy the music and think the critics are mistaken in their assessment of its worth. The technical aspects of the show are superb. Recently 'deceased' actors appear to levitate and leave the stage while their 'bodies' remain inert. Laudable lighting allows Manhattan scenes to permeate the stage and we recognize many of the sites.
Around us, the nearly full theater resonates as the audience claps with abandon. During intermission, I speak with several ladies seated nearby. They're clearly enjoying themselves and so are we. It is a very special afternoon with a sense of serendipity.
The luck of the Irish is certainly with us and maybe, just maybe, the spirits of my Junkin ancestors hover nearby. How proud they must be.
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