Cape Cod: Play Analysis
When all is said and done, do you think you could fit your entire life into three cardboard boxes? I don’t mean your belongings, but your life; your hopes and dreams and ambitions? Because that is exactly what I found at a yard sale recently - a man’s entire life’s work in three cardboard boxes.
My sister, Diane, had a yard sale. Friends and family showcased their items along her driveway, and large front yard. Shortly after I arrived, my brother-in-law, Jimmy, called me over to show me something.
“You’re the only one I knew who might be interested in this,” he said. “Otherwise we’ll probably just toss it in the trash.”
He directed me toward three cardboard boxes filled with original hand-typed plays. After a quick inspection, I knew they …show more content…
did not belong in the trash. With the help of my nephew, we carried the boxes to my car.
The next night, with boxes on my living room floor, I began the journey to see whose life I suddenly found in my care.
The playwright’s name was Thomas Oliver Crehore who, after a cursory Google search, I found out died in July of 2015 at the age of eighty. One by one, I pulled out the plays, the oldest being from 1959 and the newest from the mid-to-late 1990s. Some had hand-written corrections in the margins. One binder was not a play, but a loving tribute to one of his productions. The play was produced in Cape Cod, the binder filled with reviews and black-and-white photographs of the cast and crew. Tom (By now, I felt I knew him well enough to call him Tom) resided in New York City and Cape Cod, so he must have been doing something right. But …show more content…
what?
Upon further investigation, I found something very interesting, but not about Tom; it was about his father, Austen Crehore.
During World War One, after being turned down by the U.S Air Service and U.S. Naval Aviation, Austen Crehore went to France and joined the French Air Corp. Tom should have written about his dad. Austen Crehore was part of a flying squadron known as ‘The Grim Reapers’. Austen Crehore is credited with saving another pilot’s life (his best friend, no less). He barrel rolled to shoot down the German plane that was shredding his friend’s tail-section with a machine gun. He then went on to win France’s highest award, the Legion d’Honneur.
Unless Tom Crehore walked on the moon while juggling chainsaws, he was never going to top that.
With that said, I needed to find someone who wanted these original manuscripts. Another search found that he was a member of the Dramatists Guild, so I sent them an email and explained what was no in my possession. Shortly thereafter, I received a reply from a Mr. Roland Tec, Director of Membership for that organization; he thanked me for the information and informed me he would forward my query on to Mr. Crehore’ s estate. I was assured they would reach out to me.
Excellent, I thought, I’ll just wait until they get in
touch.
(Insert cricket sound here)
Nothing. Turns out, there was a very good reason I did not hear back from the estate. My brother-in-law and his girlfriend bought the boxes from Tom Crehore’s estate. Turned out, Tom Crehore was estranged from his only living relative, his sister. Horrible to think that she was willing to sell his life’s work for a dollar-a-box; maybe Tom had good reason to be estranged from her.
At this point, I envisioned Tom’s life work would find a home in my basement, only to meet its inevitable fate, when I die and this unknown playwright’s life is finally tossed in the trash.
Fortunately, for me (and Tom), I have very smart friends.
After I told my friend Tina this story, she went online and read Tom’s obituary. At the end of the article was a note that all donations should go to the Westfield Historical Society; she suggested I get in touch with them.
“Sure,” the curator of the museum said when I spoke to him on the phone, “we’d love to have Tom’s work with us.”
That next Saturday, I placed Tom in my car, and we drove to Westfield to his final, final resting place. The curator thanked me, and took me for a quick tour of the building. On the second floor, he showed me the exhibit dedicated to Austen Crehore, which included uniforms and an assortment of medals. They would find a place for Tom’s plays there.
It was nice to know that Tom found his way back home to his father.
Mission complete.
My sister, Diane, had a yard sale. Friends and family showcased their items along her driveway, and large front yard. Shortly after I arrived, my brother-in-law, Jimmy, called me over to show me something.
“You’re the only one I knew who might be interested in this,” he said. “Otherwise we’ll probably just toss it in the trash.”
He directed me toward three cardboard boxes filled with original hand-typed plays. After a quick inspection, I knew they …show more content…
did not belong in the trash. With the help of my nephew, we carried the boxes to my car.
The next night, with boxes on my living room floor, I began the journey to see whose life I suddenly found in my care.
The playwright’s name was Thomas Oliver Crehore who, after a cursory Google search, I found out died in July of 2015 at the age of eighty. One by one, I pulled out the plays, the oldest being from 1959 and the newest from the mid-to-late 1990s. Some had hand-written corrections in the margins. One binder was not a play, but a loving tribute to one of his productions. The play was produced in Cape Cod, the binder filled with reviews and black-and-white photographs of the cast and crew. Tom (By now, I felt I knew him well enough to call him Tom) resided in New York City and Cape Cod, so he must have been doing something right. But …show more content…
what?
Upon further investigation, I found something very interesting, but not about Tom; it was about his father, Austen Crehore.
During World War One, after being turned down by the U.S Air Service and U.S. Naval Aviation, Austen Crehore went to France and joined the French Air Corp. Tom should have written about his dad. Austen Crehore was part of a flying squadron known as ‘The Grim Reapers’. Austen Crehore is credited with saving another pilot’s life (his best friend, no less). He barrel rolled to shoot down the German plane that was shredding his friend’s tail-section with a machine gun. He then went on to win France’s highest award, the Legion d’Honneur.
Unless Tom Crehore walked on the moon while juggling chainsaws, he was never going to top that.
With that said, I needed to find someone who wanted these original manuscripts. Another search found that he was a member of the Dramatists Guild, so I sent them an email and explained what was no in my possession. Shortly thereafter, I received a reply from a Mr. Roland Tec, Director of Membership for that organization; he thanked me for the information and informed me he would forward my query on to Mr. Crehore’ s estate. I was assured they would reach out to me.
Excellent, I thought, I’ll just wait until they get in
touch.
(Insert cricket sound here)
Nothing. Turns out, there was a very good reason I did not hear back from the estate. My brother-in-law and his girlfriend bought the boxes from Tom Crehore’s estate. Turned out, Tom Crehore was estranged from his only living relative, his sister. Horrible to think that she was willing to sell his life’s work for a dollar-a-box; maybe Tom had good reason to be estranged from her.
At this point, I envisioned Tom’s life work would find a home in my basement, only to meet its inevitable fate, when I die and this unknown playwright’s life is finally tossed in the trash.
Fortunately, for me (and Tom), I have very smart friends.
After I told my friend Tina this story, she went online and read Tom’s obituary. At the end of the article was a note that all donations should go to the Westfield Historical Society; she suggested I get in touch with them.
“Sure,” the curator of the museum said when I spoke to him on the phone, “we’d love to have Tom’s work with us.”
That next Saturday, I placed Tom in my car, and we drove to Westfield to his final, final resting place. The curator thanked me, and took me for a quick tour of the building. On the second floor, he showed me the exhibit dedicated to Austen Crehore, which included uniforms and an assortment of medals. They would find a place for Tom’s plays there.
It was nice to know that Tom found his way back home to his father.
Mission complete.