A first-rate consultant

Good news -- you now have the opportunity to benefit from an expert consultant. Harry Kavros is putting into practice what he learned from his foundation experience, along with his corporate and academic management experience to become a nonprofit management consultant. His specialty is strategic planning and organizational development, grant proposal writing and management coaching. Recent projects include:
a feasibility study for expansion
a strategic plan for marketing
board development
measurements, and other areas of a newly formed educational nonprofit
management coaching for the executive director of a branch of a national nonprofit
helping a small family foundation structure its grant giving for maximum social impact.

You may contact him at (917) 575 4851.

I can strongly vouch for his integrity.

Two Great Stories - BOTH TRUE - and worth reading

Merwin Goldsmith sent these lovely stories to me. They made me cry. Take the time to read them and you’ll see why.


STORY NUMBER ONE

Many years ago, Al Capone virtually owned Chicago. Capone wasn't famous for anything heroic. He was notorious for enmeshing the windy city in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder.

Capone had a lawyer nicknamed 'Easy Eddie.' He was his lawyer for a good reason. Eddie was very good! In fact, Eddie's skill at legal maneuvering kept Big Al out of jail for a long time.

To show his appreciation, Capone paid him very well. Not only was the money big, but also, Eddie got special dividends. For instance, he and his family occupied a fenced-in mansion with live-in help and all of the conveniences of the day. The estate was so large that it filled an entire Chicago city block.

Eddie lived the high life of the Chicago mob and gave little consideration to the atrocity that went on around him. Eddie did have one soft spot, however. He had a son he loved dearly.

Eddie saw to it that his young son had clothes, cars, and a good education. Nothing was withheld. Price was no object. And, despite his involvement with organized crime,
Eddie even tried to teach him right from wrong.

Eddie wanted his son to be a better man than he was. Yet, with all his wealth and influence, there were two things he couldn't give his son; he couldn't pass on a good name or a good example.

One day, Easy Eddie reached a difficult decision. Easy Eddie wanted rectify wrongs he had done. He decided he would go to the authorities and tell the truth about Al 'Scarface' Capone, clean up his tarnished name, and offer his son some semblance of integrity. To do this, he would have to testify against The Mob, and he knew that the cost would be great!

So, he testified. Within the year, Easy Eddie's life ended in a blaze of gunfire on a lonely Chicago Street. But in his eyes, he had given his son the greatest gift he had to offer, at the greatest price he could ever pay. Police removed from his pockets a rosary, a crucifix, a religious medallion, and a poem clipped from a magazine. The poem read:

The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop
At late or early hour.
Now is the only time you own.
Live, love, toil with a will.
Place no faith in time.
For the clock may soon be still.


STORY NUMBER TWO

World War II produced many heroes. One such man was Lieutenant Commander Butch O'Hare. He was a fighter pilot assigned to the aircraft carrier Lexington in the South Pacific. One day his entire squadron was sent on a mission. After he was airborne, he looked at his fuel gage and realized that someone had forgotten to top off his fuel tank. He would not have enough fuel to complete his mission and get back to his ship. His flight leader told him to return to the carrier. Reluctantly, he dropped out of formation and headed back to the fleet.

As he was returning to the mother ship he saw something that turned his blood cold: a squadron of Japanese aircraft were speeding their way toward the American fleet. The American fighters were gone on a sortie, and the fleet was all but defenseless. He couldn't reach his squadron and bring them back in time to save the fleet. Nor could he warn the fleet of the approaching danger.

There was only one thing to do. He must somehow divert them from the fleet. Laying aside all thoughts of personal safety, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes. Wing-mounted 50 caliber's blazed as he charged in, attacking one surprised enemy plane and then another.

Butch wove in and out of the now broken formation and fired at as many planes as possible until all his ammunition was finally spent. Undaunted, he continued the assault. He dove at the planes, trying to clip a wing or tail in hopes of damaging as many enemy planes as possible and rendering them unfit to fly.

Finally, the exasperated Japanese squadron took off in another direction. Deeply relieved, Butch O'Hare and his tattered fighter limped back to the carrier. Upon arrival, he reported in and related the event surrounding his return. The film from the gun-camera mounted on his plane told the tale. It showed the extent of Butch's daring attempt to protect his fleet. He had, in fact, destroyed five enemy aircraft.

This took place on Feb. 20, 1942, and for that action Butch became the Navy's first Ace of W.W.II, and the first Naval Aviator to win the Congressional Medal of Honor. A year later Butch was killed in aerial combat at the age of 29.

His home town would not allow the memory of this WW II hero to fade, and today, O'Hare Airport in Chicago is named in tribute to the courage of this great man.

So, the next time you find yourself at O'Hare International, give some thought to visiting Butch's memorial displaying his statue and his Medal of Honor. It's located between Terminals 1 and 2.

SO WHAT DO THESE TWO STORIES HAVE TO DO WITH EACH OTHER?

Butch O'Hare was 'Easy Eddie's' son.

Mother of the Year

Dudley Stone sent me this lovely account. Bless their hearts!
 
In a zoo in California , a mother tiger gave birth to a rare set of triplet tiger cubs. Unfortunately, due to complications in the pregnancy, the cubs were born prematurely and due to their tiny size, they died shortly after birth. The mother tiger, after recovering from the delivery, suddenly started to decline in health, although physically she was fine. The veterinarians felt that the loss of her litter had caused the tigress to fall into a depression.

They decided that if the tigress could surrogate another mother's cubs, perhaps she would improve. After checking with many other zoos across the country, the depressing news was that there were no tiger cubs of the right age to introduce to the mourning mother. The veterinarians decided to try something that had never been tried in a zoo environment. Sometimes a mother of one species will take on the care of a different species. The only orphans that could be found quickly, were a litter of weanling pigs. The zoo keepers and vets wrapped the piglets in tiger skin and placed the babies around the mother tiger. Would they become cubs or pork chops?

Take a look...you won't believe your eyes!!

Jeff Daniels

Actor Jeff Daniels shares what he loves about the place he calls home — and why he chose to help his town make some big changes in his essay that appeared in Guideposts Magazine.

Let me tell you about the small town where I come from: Chelsea, Michigan, population nearly 4,700, just west of Ann Arbor. It has one hospital, three elementary schools, a high school, a train depot, golf courses, several churches and a tree-lined Main Street. And right out of central casting there's the lumber company (where my folks still work), Zouzou's coffee shop, a hockey rink and a first-rate theater (more about that later). With its small-town atmosphere and solid Midwestern values, it's the sort of place where an actor with both promise and ambition grows up and then leaves, never to return…unless he's the grand marshal in the annual Fourth of July parade and his agent or studio needs to buff up his image.

Well, I left Chelsea when I was 21 to try my luck in the theater, which was pretty good. I appeared on the Broadway stage and in a couple of Hollywood films, and after bouncing around between the East and West Coasts, my wife, Kathleen, and I asked ourselves where we wanted to raise our children — our one son was almost two years old. The answer was easy: "Michigan." We knew Michigan. And if it was going to be Michigan, it would have to be Chelsea, where we'd met. Even if the winters were as cold as the summers were hot and sticky and everyone knew everyone else's business, it was home. It was the one place I knew I could give my kids the good things I had growing up, things I believed in.

First, there were teachers like Miss DiAnn L'Roy. She taught chorus in sixth grade. One day she had us do improvisations. "Okay, Jeff," she said, "I want you to get up there and act like you're a politician giving a speech and his pants are falling down." I'd never done anything like that — standing in front of a class, tugging at my belt and making a pompous speech, but evidently I was pretty funny because everybody cracked up. "You were great," they said. Miss L'Roy saw something in me I'd never seen in myself.

She didn't forget, because sophomore year in high school when I had no intention of ever trying out to be in a school play, she caught me as I was coming out of basketball practice and stopped me by the auditorium doors. "Jeff," she said, "get in here." She was holding auditions for South Pacific and needed sailors. The next thing I knew she had me onstage doing this silly dance. My hair was still matted and wet from practice and I was singing a funny song, but it was good enough for Miss L'Roy. I was in the show. 

The next year she raised the stakes by casting me as Fagin in Oliver (I listened to Ron Moody on the record for hours to learn the accent and songs). From there it was Harold Hill in our ragtag community theater's production of The Music Man and Tevye in The Fiddler on the Roof. 

Miss L'Roy gave me stage time, but I had to learn on my feet. She asked me to try things I didn't think I could do, like the villain Jud Fry in Oklahoma! "I want you to look into the psychology of this character, the material that's not written in the script," she told me. She wanted me to study the character and figure out his motives…but first I had to look up the word "psychology."

Make no mistake. Just because Miss L'Roy was teaching in a small town, there was nothing smalltime about her. Like a lot of teachers all over America she was opening my eyes to something new. She was giving me a chance to take bigger risks in a bigger world. She knew I'd learn something, even if I failed. When I had the opportunity to go to New York City I had to try because there was somebody back home who believed in me.

I didn't take to the city. It was crowded and noisy and you didn't know the people you passed in the streets. There were hundreds of actors from all over the country all going after the same jobs. I didn't see how I'd ever make it. After about six months I was desperate to come home. I called my mom and complained. She listened. At the end of my harangue, she said quietly, "Find a way to stay." My mom is a woman of few words and they're always well chosen — there was no room for argument. She'd seen what Miss L'Roy saw and knew what good people also know in small towns: There are times you have to leave home to grow.

I wanted to go home, but I stayed and had some lucky breaks. I got cast in some great plays and movies like "Ragtime," "Terms of Endearment" and "The Purple Rose of Cairo." But I never forgot home. I married my high school sweetheart and, after 10 years, like I said, Kathleen and I moved back to Chelsea. "What if you get cast in a movie or a play?" she asked.

"Detroit has an airport," I said. "I can fly from there to wherever I have to go." At least when I returned I'd be returning to a home that was really home, not some modern house tucked in the Hollywood hills.

Small towns might have a reputation for being set in their ways, not a good place to experiment or feel stimulated or inspired. Well, I have to disagree. Coming back to Chelsea I felt free to try things I hadn't done before — like writing. I wasn't sure how to make a play, but I figured if we had the space we could find the actors and experiment. Kathleen and I bought an old wooden warehouse. That was the beginning of what we called The Purple Rose Theatre — what I envisioned was a company for the 21-year-old kid I used to be, where he could explore and grow before he went to New York or L.A. Or maybe he wouldn't even want to go. Maybe he'd stay here and make great theater in Michigan. 

Michiganders love their theater. And that's what The Purple Rose has become… a place for actors, directors and playwrights from Michigan and the Midwest to get the training and breaks I did. We'll see the hunger in some young actors who have talent and we'll help them get as good as they can before they leave. We take pride in helping make talented people better. It's a matter of good stewardship, passing on the gifts God has given us. Small towns take pride in what they produce.

There're other things Kathleen and I have been a part of. There was an old school, a nice solid brick building that was going to be torn down and turned into condos. We bought it and saved it for a group called the Chelsea Center for the Development of the Arts. It was just a husband-and-wife operation in one room of a church, giving lessons in cello, voice and violin. Now, you go into the renovated building and there are people singing, rehearsing and playing instruments. Kids — the non-sports kids — have gone on to win university scholarships because of the training they've gotten.

Then there's the ballpark. We used to have baseball and softball fields at the high school that were in bad shape. My buddy, who's now the athletic director at Chelsea High, wanted something new. With a little money and a lot of imagination, he built a new stadium with box seats, a press box, dugouts and scoreboards. A lot of people got behind him. Pooling our resources and doing some fundraising we've built something great.

In Boy Scouts they say, "Leave a place better than you found it." Well, I think it's true of the towns and cities where we live. I can look at Chelsea and see the things my parents have done for it — like the adoption agency my dad started for hard-to-place kids in southeastern Michigan. I hope someday someone will be able to say it about me. In the meantime, I'm not leaving. Sure, I go to California to make a movie or fly to New York to appear in a Broadway show, but then I come back to Chelsea, where my roots are, where God planted me, you might say. It's where your roots are deepest that you grow the most.
 
Find more on Jeff Daniels at jeffdaniels.com and his theater at purplerosetheatre.org.
 

Liam Neeson

I’m so glad Liam Neeson will be back on a New York stage for the Lincoln Center Festival this summer. I met Liam several years ago when he was doing The Crucible on Broadway. We sat in his dressing room and he shared with me the importance faith and prayer play in his life for my book Working on the Inside: The Spiritual Life Through the Eyes of Actors.

This time he’ll be part of Gate/Beckett, presented by the Gate Theater of Dublin, comprising three short one-man Beckett works, playing July 16-27. Ralph Fiennes and Irish actor Barry McGovern will also be featured.

Liam will be in Eh Joe. Originally written for television, the work has been adapted for the stage by Atom Egoyan, who will also direct. "Joe sits alone in a room, prodded into uncomfortable thought by Penelope Wilton's disembodied voice. A projected close-up of his face is all the tortured expression the audience needs to understand the pain of a memory explored," according to press notes.

Also part of Gate/Beckett will be an afternoon of Beckett's poetry and prose on July 26. Liam, Fiennes and McGovern are scheduled to read selections from Beckett's work at 2 p.m. in the Gerald W. Lynch Theater, where Gate/Beckett takes place.

Tickets go on sale to the general public March 28. For tickets and further information visit www.lincolncenter.org.

Marcia Gay Harden

This essay by MARCIA GAY HARDEN appeared in Guideposts Magazine.

Look up “struggling young actress” in the dictionary and you might see a picture of me, circa 1982. Rushing to open casting calls in between waiting tables, always worried about how to make the rent. Just about the only acting cliché I wasn’t fulfilling at the time was living in New York City. I was based in Washington, D.C., where I was waiting to get my Screen Actors Guild Union card. When I did, then I’d make the big move to NYC.

It was an uncertain time in my life, but one thing I was certain of: Acting meant everything to me. From the first part I’d played in high school (in Up the Down Staircase, thanks for asking!), there was a quality about acting that made me feel in touch with something big and mysterious and meaningful…. It may sound funny, but the feeling I got when I was playing a role I connected with was that God was using me for something good. When I was blessed with a role I was really passionate about, I felt like I was doing something I was truly meant to do.

Of course, most days found me hustling through a pair of swinging restaurant doors with a stack of hot plates on my arm. And that was fine too. I was paying my dues, doing what all young actors did.

One day, as I was finishing up a long hard lunch shift, I found myself in a particularly upbeat mood. I had reason to be. First off, I’d just finished a production of And They Dance Real Slow in Jackson for a local theater. We packed a small house every night, and I was confident that I’d done a good job. Plus — and more important — Oliver Stone was coming to town to do a casting call for his upcoming movie "Born on the Fourth of July," the story of paralyzed Vietnam War veteran Ron Kovic. The call was just for crowd-scene extras, but I didn’t care. The way I figured, Oliver Stone would notice me, pull me out of the lineup and lo and behold, I’d have my big break. I guess you could say I was in one of my optimistic periods.

Two women came in, sat down at a table in my section and smiled like they knew me when I came up to take their order. Turns out they did. “We saw your performance in And They Dance Real Slow in Jackson last week. You were wonderful! We’d like to offer you a job.”

When is an actress not happy to hear those words? I asked what the part was. “Probably not what you think,” the other woman said. “Snow White.”

“Snow White? Where’s the production?” I asked.

“Georgetown University Hospital,” the first woman said. “We’re from the Make-A-Wish Foundation. A seven-year-old girl named Bonnie is dying of pediatric cancer. She doesn’t have much more than a month to live. Snow White is her favorite movie. Our foundation grants wishes to terminally ill children. And Bonnie’s wish is to meet Snow White.” I gave them an answer before I’d even handed them their menus. The part felt right and the cause was good. I promised them I’d be available the day they needed me.

I’m not a big fan of irony. So you can imagine how I felt two days later when one of the Make-A-Wish ladies called to give me the date for my appearance at the hospital. You guessed it. Same date as my casting call. “Couldn’t you make it another day?” I asked, panicked.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Bonnie’s running out of time.” I hung up and called the casting agency in charge of Oliver Stone’s visit. Was there any chance I could audition on another day? “Oliver’s only in town for that day,” the casting director told me. “Marcia, this is a great opportunity. Whatever conflicts you have on that date, I’d advise you to find a way to reschedule them.”

I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I had to make a decision. What was right for me? Success had to be Priority Number One. It was as simple as that. They could get another Snow White. I might not get another chance like this. I’d call first thing in the morning and cancel the hospital job.

Yet it just didn’t feel right. I’d promised to make a sick little girl’s wish come true. How could I put ambition above that? The next day I called the agency and told them I couldn’t make the casting call. “I have another engagement I can’t back out of,” I said.

By the day of my performance as Snow White, I was as ready as I’d ever been for any role I’d played in my life. I had no lines to learn, but I’d gotten a good costume, reread Snow White for the first time since I was a kid, re-watched the Disney movie and buried myself thoroughly in the character. I could rattle off the names of all Seven Dwarfs without a hitch.

The only problem was I kept bursting into tears. I was positive this would’ve been my big break — my one chance to make it. And I was letting it go.

The morning of the performance I got into costume at home. I must have been a curious sight as I made my way to Georgetown University Hospital. How many times do you see a weeping Snow White at the wheel of a yellow convertible VW Bug?

On top of everything else, traffic was horrible. I got to the hospital late and flew in — stopping only to make one last call to the casting director to beg once more for a chance to reschedule. “No, Marcia,” the agent said. “This is it.” It was a pay phone, and as I spoke, I could see my distorted reflection in its metal surface. A pale woman with black hair and blotchy red patches from incessant crying. Some Snow White. Some actress.

I hung up, asked for directions at the information desk and went running for the elevator. Down at the end of a long hallway, a woman and a girl were standing outside the hospital room: Bonnie’s mother and 12-year-old sister. Bonnie’s mom recognized me (it would have been hard not to in my getup) and greeted me with a big hug. Then she handed me a bag with a Barbie and some other toys in it. “If you don’t mind, I thought it would be nice if Snow White gave Bonnie some presents. She’s having a bad day, but she is looking forward to this so much.”

“Sure,” I said, taking the bag of toys. Then I took a deep breath and steeled myself — the way I do before every performance — and walked into the room. What I found stopped me cold. All my doubts about whether this was the right thing to do vanished. I’d been prepared to meet a sick girl. But the girl sitting on a pallet on the floor was so small and thin. I knew Bonnie was seven, but she barely looked five.

Bonnie raised her eyes and stared at me. Her face, pale as it was, lit up like a candy store. “Snow White!” she said.

I stood there dumbly. Come on, something inside me said. Pull it together. You know what you’re here for. Then something clicked. I wasn’t just a struggling actress playing Snow White. I was Snow White. “Hello, Bonnie!” I said in dulcet tones. “I’m so glad to see you! I’m so sorry that Grumpy and Sneezy and Doc (I named all seven) weren’t able to make it!”

We talked for a while. I told her all about the handsome prince and gave her her gifts. “Snow White?” Bonnie said, grabbing my hand.

“Yes, Bonnie?”

“When I die, will the prince kiss me and then I’ll wake up again?”

The room fell silent. How do you answer a child’s question like that? It had never struck me that Bonnie wanted to meet Snow White to answer a life-after-death question. What could I say to this brave, beautiful, honest girl? I closed my eyes for a second and tried to imagine what Bonnie must be feeling. How lonely it must be to be this young and this sick. “No, Bonnie,” I said, “it’s even better. When you go to heaven, God will kiss you and then you’ll wake up again.”

You remember what I was saying earlier about how the real mystery of acting came when I was playing a role I knew I was meant to play? Well, at that moment in that hospital room with Bonnie, I got that feeling. I got it like I had never gotten it before in my life. I knew that I was exactly where I was meant to be, playing exactly the role I was meant to play.

Bonnie died just a week later. Was I able to make her passing a little easier? Hopefully I was part of that plan. And Bonnie was definitely part of the plan for me. She taught me that acting is about connecting, not about union cards and red carpets and ambition. Eventually I got my SAG card and moved up to New York City. After a couple more years of acting classes and waitressing and temping and living in crummy apartments and all the rest of that stuff, I got it. My big break. Two upstart young brothers, directors Joel and Ethan Coen, cast me in their movie "Miller’s Crossing." I was on my way.

In 2001 I received an Academy Award for my work as the painter Jackson Pollock’s wife, Lee Krasner, in Ed Harris’s film "Pollock." Last year I played the mother of Chris McCandless in the film "Into the Wild." Wonderful roles in wonderful movies. Roles that, while I was playing them, made me know I was where I was meant to be. That all the struggle and uncertainty was for a reason. It’s a wonderful feeling. 

The hope of spring

O God,
As creation springs to life
during this season of hope,
we pray that your light
may penetrate the darkest
corners of our heart,
and the saddest places
in our world.
Be there to comfort
our brothers and sisters in need,
and inspire our courage
to go forth and proclaim
the Good News of Easter
in joyful word and deed. Amen.
--from the Sisters of Charity of New York