Current Projects

Beekeeper, a play about haunted pasts, was chosen by Playwrights Center of San Francisco for their Fall Staged Reading Series December 1st, 2009.

Oleta, an apiarist’s daughter, grew up believing she was special, but special is a double-edged sword. Haunted by a tragic childhood accident, and the mysterious death of her father, Oleta struggles to unlock the secrets of her own Colony Collapse Disorder, while a series of events reveal that the accident may not have been an accident after all.

Beekeeper had a previous reading with Butterfield 8's New Works Series in July, 2009.
 

Walking Transfer, a book of essays about Transfer, PA.

Excerpt:

In the late afternoon I walk barefoot through the village— beginning at Barker’s residence, then left toward the volunteer fire department where my grandfather was a lifelong honorary member and where my grandmother sat at the helm of countless turkey-pie fundraisers for the women’s fireman’s auxiliary. I’m wandering ghost-like in an itchy iridescent coral taffeta dress, home for my brother’s wedding. The June breeze is mostly cool, carrying with it hints of sweet corn and grass. But there is something else in the air, a warm undertone signaling the nearness of summer. Soon stifling humidity will descend; horseflies will swell into thick, black bodies buzzing over sliced watermelons and barbecued chicken thighs.

My grandmother Alice used to fill a galvanized steel tub with cool water from the hose on hot days. As children, my brother, sister, and I would squat together in swimsuits, three bodies splash-rinsing sweat from our limbs. These baths usually took place on holidays like Fourth of July or Labor Day, days intended for cookouts when aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered in the shade of apple trees for hotdog roasting, chicken grilling, and the occasional water balloon fights. Grandpa Beil would haul the swing set out from the barn and piece it together in a spot just under the kitchen window. It was heavy and rusted and squealed on the backswing. Later, I’d follow him around the yard as he picked beetles from the leaves of the peonies and honeysuckle and plunged them into a Maxwell House Coffee can filled with gasoline. Occasionally he’d spit a mouthful of chewing tobacco on top.

The yard is different now. The barn’s lean more pronounced, the peonies long gone. Empty space where the apple tree once shaded the kitchen. The house, painted white with a tiny deck off the back porch, no longer exudes the spirit of my grandparents. It is my brother’s house now.

 

Book of Taos, a memoir.

Preface:

I sit in the cramped I Preferiti di Boriana storefront inside the San Francisco Ferry Building on a red, plastic stool, aside Panforte Nero, a dense fruit cake with honey, almonds and cacao, and eat an olive plate, a small wedge of cheese with wild plum preserves, and a tasting of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo. A young man asks, “How’s your book coming?” The book he refers to is a memoir centered around a brief time I spent in Taos, NM shortly after experiencing a dramatic life shift.

Because I am writing about something I lived and because memory is both flexible and finite, sometimes this thought rolls across my brain: Taos gave me freedom in its vast desert air, to put aside things like expectations. Until I wandered into that town, my life had been a patchwork of expectations attached to the labels of my life: daughter, sister, wife, mother, writer. My writing explores these expectations and documents the attempts to navigate within them, around them, and outside of them in order to arrive someplace new.

Chapter Excerpt:

I'm curled up on the sofa in the living room with a book. In the kitchen, two rooms away, the cooks are prepping for tomorrow evening’s welcoming dinner. I inhale, searching for traces of cinnamon.  Mabel liked to boil cinnamon sticks for incense and, 46 years after her death, the occasional visitor claims to have smelled it in the lodge. "If you're lucky enough to detect the aroma of Mabel," the desk manager said when I checked in, "then you're lucky enough to have Mabel's acceptance."

 Unable to concentrate on my book, I look out the open door where the trees are bending over a darkening rock pathway. There’s a growl of thunder and fluttering of light. Nothing—no screens on windows or doors— is placed between me and the desert; Taos requires active participation. I begin to wonder if the blue flash of lightning is more of an invitation than a threat.

 I think about how, when I was a child growing up in rural Pennsylvania, a rainstorm would cause me to seek shelter under blankets. If I could just fall asleep, I thought, covers pulled snugly over my head, I could make it go away. The cracking, booming lightning, the fierce wind. During one extreme storm, I huddled inside my blanket on the floor in front of our davenport. My older sister was sitting near me playing cards when a bang shook our house. Thin lines of blue-white electricity jabbed out like claws from the outlet. It is an image I still carry with me; it is the image my brain reaches for whenever I see a dark cloud.

 Now, I pick up a brochure from the table next to me and read: “[M]any who came to the Luhan house were at a critical point in their lives, physically, psychologically, or vocationally. For them, the house functioned as a kind of life crisis center: breaking down and healing…”

 Not everyone heals from breaking down, I thought.

 I turn and watch the rain.

 

The Beekeeper, a play.

Excerpt:

Dark stage. Silent. Faint sound of bees. A spotlight follows CHILD OLETA, determined, as she walks across the stage. She is wearing a beekeeper's hat and carrying a book bag. As she approaches stage right, a tree and beehive come into view. Bee sounds. CHILD OLETA checks on the bees, wishing them a good afternoon, then sits cross-legged under the tree, unpacks a big book and begins to read to the bees. There is calm. A moment passes. DANIEL runs on stage and begins taunting CHILD OLETA. Flashes of unnatural light change the tree into sharp angles and the beehive into warped, yet steady focus. Stage left, an aged tree with autumn leaves, and an abandoned beehive box. A ladder leans precariously against tree. FRANCIS enters. The bees grow louder, again. FRANCIS climbs up the ladder. DANIEL advances toward CHILD OLETA. Bees grow more frantic. FRANCIS roots around in tree looking for something. CHILD OLETA closes her book and stands.

DANIEl: I'm not scared of your bees, Oleta Broadbent.

DANIEL takes a step closer. Bee activity increases. DANIEL stops his advance.

DANIEL CONT'D: You're a freak! (beat) Stop it!

DANIEL swats around his head and body. Simultaneously FRANCIS stumbles, lights down stage left and Daniel runs offstage screaming. Sound of ladder breaking and a fall.

Bees.

 

The Pennsylvanian, a play.

Excerpt:

PIXIE: I have this memory of being on the verge of learning to walk. I crawl from my crib and make my way down the hallway. Its morning and my parents are asleep. When I reach the top of the stairs, I hear my older brother's voice calling from the bottom-

MACON: (turning to PIXIE) "Come on, come, on! I'll catch you! I promise!"

PIXIE rushes over to couch and stands on it. MACON kneels before it arms outstretched.

PIXIE: He squats and holds out his arms. Eagerly, I take a step. My knees buckle, my arms pivot wildly until-

PIXIE flings herself onto the couch, then rolls off, MACON catching her. She stays in his arms for a long moment.

PIXIE: In my memory, the fall is not terrifying, but thrilling. I'm not hurt or in pain, but giggling as I land in my brother's arms (pause) We'd sit on the bottom step, catch our breaths.-

MACON and PIXIE sit on couch side by side.  MACON gets up and resumes setting up the mattress.

MACON: The thief hasn't paid for what he's done. He hasn't taken responsibility-

MACON takes a breath as one does when reaching the point of what they're saying. PIXIE, at the same time, closes her eyes and takes a breath.

PIXIE: (opening eyes) Looking back, it may the last memory I have of feeling safe.

 

Family Plot, a play

Excerpt:

Small country church.

LAINE enters. AUNT ILENE appears on stage behind her.
LAINE makes her way to the piano, slides onto bench. She lifts the lid and with one finger she hits a note. It startles her. She begins to play Alley Cat or Chopsticks.

AUNT ILENE: The Martins came. Did you see?
LAINE: Pink.
AUNT ILENE: (moves toward LAINE) Carnation Pink. My favorite color.
LAINE: I've never seen a pink coffin before.
AUNT ILENE: (proudly) It's the Pearl Rose Classic. Quality 20 gauge carbon steel with a fine carnation pink and white shade finish.
LAINE: So you.
AUNT ILENE: I loved to shop. Even caskets.
LAINE: I didn't expect to see you.
AUNT ILENE: So soon?
LAINE: At all. You said you'd go away if I came to the funeral.

AUNT ILENE moves around; hands up, fingers twitching.

AUNT ILENE: Ooooooo, it’s a haunting! (beat) Yes, yes, I'll leave soon. (pause) It’s a great turnout.
LAINE: I’m losing my mind.
AUNT ILENE: Try another song.

LAINE opens hymnal.

AUNT ILENE: Yes, that one.
LAINE: It was your favorite.

LAINE plays a hymn.

AUNT ILENE: Can you believe Louise Jenkins wore that...that pantsuit to my funeral? Pants!
LAINE: I’m wearing pants.
AUNT ILENE: Tasteful pants, honey, not hideous purple floral polyester! I hate polyester. Makes you sweat and Louise Jenkins doesn’t need help in that department.
LAINE: (looking down at piano) Why are you here?

AUNT ILENE shrugs. LAINE switches to rock tune.

LAINE: So I conjured you? (pause) I wasn’t going to come.
AUNT ILENE: Conjure, to call or to bring into existence by or as if by magic. That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?
LAINE: That’s it. I’m schizo.
AUNT ILENE: No, not schizophrenic, honey. You’re not Napoleon and you certainly don’t think I’m Christ...or that you’re Christ...do you?
LAINE: Fine. Psychotic,then.
AUNT ILENE: A mental disorder marked by derangement of personality...

AUNT ILENE eyes LAINE. LAINE glares back at her.

AUNT ILENE: ...loss of contact with reality, and a deterioration of normal social functioning.
LAINE: Is this...(sweeping hand gesture)...you...supposed to mean something? I’m...I’m to have some what? Dickens-like epiphany?
AUNT ILENE: (curiously) A sudden, intuitive insight into the essential meaning of something?
LAINE: Cliche.
AUNT ILENE: Can’t you go back to one of those nice hymnals. I like those so much more.

LAINE switches to hymnal.

LAINE: This schtick has been done already...and better.
AUNT ILENE: (considering to herself) Schtick, schtick? (to LAINE) You're blaming me for your lack of imagination? (to herself) Schtick?
LAINE: So I am imagining you.

BECKY enters.

BECKY: Who are you talking to?

LAINE stops playing and looks quickly to BECKY, then to AUNT ILENE who’s disappeared.

 

Contact Me

jennifer.roberts@playwrightscentersf.org