My Sacred Places: Poe Sites in Baltimore

This is how it all began. When I was in secondary school, one of my favorite authors was Edgar A. Poe. Like so many young people, I was drawn to his larger-than-life plots. In graduate school, I studied Poe’s works. In the last year of my PhD work at IU, a friend in theater asked me if, for her graduate course in makeup, she could use prosthetics and grease paint to transform me into Walt Whitman, the subject of my dissertation. I consented. I had only to stand center stage in the auditorium while a judging panel evaluated the makeup under lights. The committee said that I looked so much like Whitman that I should consider performing a play about the poet. After completing my PhD in early American literature and taking a position at Northern Kentucky University, I began to research and write a script for a one-person play depicting Whitman and his works. I performed the two-act drama many times, but requests for the show were relatively sporadic. It was a chore to keep two hours of material memorized in between shows that were spaced a month or more apart. As I thoroughly enjoyed performing the part of an author, I decided that, to perform more often, I would choose a writer more popular than Whitman. I then composed a script for a play depicting the master of horror, Edgar A. Poe.

One of My Publicity Photos

Depicting Me in the Rôle of Edgar A. Poe

My play had no intermission. The enactment demanded prodigious energy. My purpose was to put before theatergoers an authentic Poe, not the Poe of popular culture. My Poe was neither a drug addict nor a drunk. My Poe was a writer’s writer. My Poe loved satire, had a towering sense of humor, screamed boo, winked, and smirked. My Poe changed costumes onstage to become the quirky narrators in “To Helen,” “Berenice,” and “The Raven.” My Poe quoted from his letters, essays, and reviews so as to give a nuanced depiction of the author. To change me into Poe meant a makeup process requiring between four and six hours. The style of makeup varied depending on whether the audience was close to me or far away, but the time it took to prepare Poe’s face remained the same.

My Sketch of Poe’s Raven

 

In the past forty years, eighteen actors have played the rôle of Poe on stage, according to writer Michael McGlasson. I offered a fully memorized and fully staged performance with an elaborate set. I gave over two hundred performances of my play A Dream Within a Dream during a dozen years. Thousands witnessed my drama. I last performed my play on Poe in 1994. Mine was not a costumed reading from a lectern—the form to which many Poe enactors resorted; rather, my performance was a ninety-minute, fully scripted show with a set and with a light and-sound technician.

“The Hour Glass of the Kings”

Illustration by Robert W. Satterfield

Page 1 of The Kentucky Post for Friday, December 10, 1915

For a Poe enactor, Baltimore is arguably the most important city in which to stand before the footlights. After all, Baltimore has Poe: his corpse, that is. Poe died in Baltimore on October 7^th in 1849 at the age of 40. Jeff Jerome of the Baltimore Poe Society named my play the authorized stage version of Poe’s life, and he brought my drama to Baltimore for performances on Poe’s birthday in 1988 and 1990. Both shows took place before standing-room only crowds in the deconsecrated church beside Poe’s grave. I was the performer in 1990 when Life Magazine secured an infrared photograph of the man who left cognac and roses on Poe’s grave. The photographer that Life hired took many pictures of my play, but none of them wound up in the magazine. After the performances, I led theater-goers in a toast to Poe beside his grave marker. What a thrilling experience that was! Anyone wishing to know more about Poe should visit the website of the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore, and anyone wanting to read a complete account of my play can see “In Poe’s Skin” at Rhode’s Books from the HeartLand.

When I Met Gene Roddenberry ...

When I learned that I would have the opportunity to sketch Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek, I was overjoyed. I was a university student and a freelance artist tasked with the pleasant responsibility of drawing portraits of celebrities visiting the campus. My illustrations appeared in various newspapers and other publications. Roddenberry would be introducing a movie featuring bloopers from the wildly popular television series.

My First Sketch of Gene Roddenberry

Two of my fellow students and I met Roddenberry at the airport. On the automobile trip to the university, I got busy with my pad of paper and my pen. Roddenberry was difficult to draw. He was so animated that I had difficulty capturing the movements of his face. He smiled brilliantly and often. He tossed his head to laugh. He quickly turned to peer through a car window and rapidly spun back to speak to a student in the front seat. He would not hold still! I could see that I had my work cut out for me.

I tried not to pay attention to what he was saying, but his stories were so doggone funny that I could not resist being caught up in the aura of Roddenberry’s good nature. He shared anecdote after anecdote about the practical jokes that he played on his wife Majel, who was Nurse Chapel on the Enterprise, and the pranks she played on him as payback. Some were on the set; others, off.

In the seconds between stories, I kept thinking, “How do I put this guy on paper?” His face was too mobile, too protean. Well, I did a lousy job of it!

My first sketch, made during the hour-long journey to the campus, was so poor a representation of the countenance before me that I would not show it to Roddenberry until he had begged me repeatedly. When he finally viewed it, he laughed, “You got my double chin!”

Just prior to Roddenberry’s talk before a standing-room-only crowd, my brother, a true Trekkie, used fishing line to hang his model of the Enterprise from the podium where Roddenberry would stand. This was in the days before models were fancy, and my brother had rigged up custom LED lights that flashed around the starship. Nice!

Roddenberry had the audience in the palm of his hand, and the bloopers were uproarious.

After the show, Rodenberry invited his three student hosts to have dinner with him. We drove him to a plush restaurant. The server took his drink order then carded us students. I was the only one under the legal drinking age. She asked me to leave the restaurant. Roddenberry’s face fell.

“You mean he can’t have dinner with us?” Roddenberry asked.

“No, he has to leave,” the server replied.

“If he doesn’t have a drink, he can stay here. Right?” Roddenberry continued the line of questioning.

The server gave Roddenberry a stern look. “No, he has to leave,” she repeated.

“Do you know who I am?” Roddenberry inquired.

“No,” the server admitted.

“I’m Gene Roddenberry. Have you ever seen Star Trek?”

“Yes, I love it!” the server broke into a smile. “I recognize your name.”

“Then can he stay?” Roddenberry leaned forward.

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Roddenberry. I’m afraid he has to leave. It’s the law.”

In a gesture of exasperation, Roddenberry thrust his hands outward and exclaimed, “But he’s my son!”

“Well, if he’s your son, then he can stay,” the server said.

I was dazzled! I don’t even remember what I ate, but I recall the evening as one of the most exciting and most amusing events of my life. I tried to sketch Roddenberry, but the subdued lighting made the task too difficult. Besides, I was having too good a time to work at an illustration. I never finished the sketch, but I can see that it was far better than the portrait that I did complete. Roddenberry’s mischief flashes in the merry eyes of the unfinished work!

 

Unfinished Mirthful Portrait of Gene Roddenberry by Robert T. Rhode

We students dropped off Roddenberry at his hotel. On our way back to the campus, we conspired. At midnight, we met again and headed back to Roddenberry’s hotel. As quiet as the proverbial church mice, we taped newspapers across his door, so that, when he would attempt to emerge in the morning, he would confront a wall of newsprint. He loved practical jokes, didn’t he?

The next morning, we were anxious to learn what he thought of our escapade. When we reached his door, there was no trace of the newspaper or tape. Roddenberry greeted us with the same radiant smile and happy-go-lucky demeanor that we had come to love about him.

We chauffeured him to the airport, said our goodbyes, and returned to the university. We were sad to see him go. A week or so later, we attended a regular meeting of the board that sponsored guest speakers. The college official that ran the meetings began by saying that he had wonderful surprises for us students. He then distributed Enterprise flight deck officer certificates to the three of us. Roddenberry had signed them personally and had sent them to the campus.

Next, the official looked slowly around the table at each of us before he said, “Mr. Roddenberry also mailed this.” He displayed a large envelope from which he withdrew a thick sheaf of newspaper with tell-tale pieces of tape protruding here and there. “He included this note, which explains that he discovered these newspapers attached to his door. He thought they might belong to you, and he thought you might want them back, as he had no use for them.”

We wanted to crawl under our chairs. We could hear Roddenberry’s distant laughter echoing. I still do.   

When I Met Red Skelton (Almost) ...

I never met Red Skelton, although I waited near the doorway of his room and overheard what he said. While I was studying at the university, I worked as a freelance illustrator. Often, I stood at the elbows of celebrities and sketched their portraits while such stars of stage, screen, and television were on campus. When I learned that Skelton was to visit, I decided to create a drawing in advance of his arrival.

I had grown up watching Skelton on TV. Each member of my family had a favorite character that Skelton brought to life: Clem Kadiddlehopper, Freddie the Freeloader, and San Fernando Red were only a few of the portrayals that charmed us during the Red Skelton Hour on CBS. Skelton’s boyhood in Vincennes, Indiana, and his ingenuity at finding work at a terribly young age were the stuff of legend in my home. My mother told me that Skelton had performed in vaudeville and on showboats. As my mother explained, Skelton patiently worked his way up the entertainment ladder until he starred in Hollywood movies, but, across America, he was perhaps best known through his radio program. He became a beloved guest in country living rooms as he joked from radios surrounded by farm families, and city dwellers likewise laughed in appreciation of his antics. Skelton was adept at touching the heartstrings of unpretentious people everywhere.

My Caricature of Red Skelton

I spent a long time on my India ink caricature of Skelton. I wanted it to be perfect. When it was finished, I gave it a title in fine print: America’s Clown, Red Skelton. I could hardly wait to present my art to him.

In the late afternoon of the day when Skelton’s show was to be performed before a packed theater, his university host and I approached his room. I was told to wait in the hallway. The host, who was a staff member in charge of hospitality for noted visitors to the university, quietly knocked, and Skelton answered the door. Skelton was asked if he would be willing to meet with someone for a few minutes. I thought the question was far too vague. I was not just “someone.” I was a student and an artist with a caricature of Skelton in my hand. I peeked through the door. A dim lamp lit the room. Skelton was much taller than I had imagined he would be. I recall his square jaw and his hair waving up and back from the middle of his head. He was not smiling. He said he felt tired and he would prefer not to be interviewed. I think he had leapt to the false conclusion that I was a newspaper reporter. He never saw me standing just beyond his door. The host excused himself, and the door closed. I gave the staff member my drawing to give to Skelton later, and I attached a note that I hurriedly penned on a second sheet of drawing paper. I forget what I wrote, but I am confident that I told him how much I had enjoyed his television show over the years.

The performance that night was a vintage Skelton extravaganza from beginning to end! If he were still tired, he gave no indication of weariness! His energy was that of a teenager, and his friendliness reached across the footlights to every patron in the house.

While I walked back to my dormitory room that night, I wistfully thought that Skelton might never receive my art, but I had stood within a few feet of one of the greatest entertainers of all time.

Letter to Robert T. Rhode from Red Skelton

Imagine my surprise when I received a letter from Skelton a few days later! It was addressed simply to the Department of English. Skelton wrote, “Thank you, for share-ing you tatent with me. . Your work is indeed outstanding. The sketch is wonderful. I thank you, for your letter . too—I am sorry we did not meet but then there is alway’s another day. I will hang the sketch and with pride show it off. Thank you again. Always Red Skelton.” Best of all, the letter was decorated with a clown drawn by Skelton himself!

I think, when Skelton received my caricature, he remembered the knock on the

door and only then realized that a student, not a reporter, had wanted to see him, and I believe he felt genuinely sorry that he had missed meeting me. His letter certainly made me think so.

Clown Drawn by Red Skelton for Robert T. Rhode

While another day has not yet come for me to meet Skelton, there is always a day made in heaven, where, I say with considerable confidence, Skelton is making the winged angels roar with laughter at his portrayals of those hilarious seagulls, Gertrude and Heathcliff.