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Most of the offers for the ’72-’73 Guthrie season had already been made, but I’d not received mine yet, I was confident, however, that I’d receive one and that it was taking longer because the artistic director was taking his time figuring out the right large roles for me. One day, I got the call. I dressed well, bought some flowers to take to his office, and was gracious to his secretary as I knocked on his door.

“Come in,” the artistic director’s cultured British voice.
Entering his office made me feel like I was already a star. It smelled of rich leather, looked expensive and felt calm. The walls were filled with photos of the famous actors, he’d worked with in his illustrious career. I knew I’d one day be on that wall too.
But not, as it turns out, any time soon.

“Evalyn, dahling, “ (I adored it when he called me “dahling”. I didn’t care that he called everyone that.)
“Yes?”
“You know, dear , how much I esteem your talent, and how much I appreciate the work you did for us this pahst season. “ Oh those Brits, with their broad “A’s” and vocabulary. “Esteemed?” I loved this man.
Of course I knew how much he “appre-sea-ated” me. He was being so nice. So gentle, so warm with me. I was so soothed by his gentility and British-ness, that plummy accent, I didn’t notice the faint whiff of an upcoming “But…”
“BUT, dahling…”
What was that?
“I’m afraid we cahn’t use you in the upcoming season. Now, you have a great future ahead of you, I’ve no doubt…….” And the rest was just so much noise.
I crawled home , the summer sun beating down on my defeated shoulders. How could the sun still shine? I sat down to process what was I sitting in,etc…what had just happened, then, hardly thinking, I picked up the phone, made a reservation to go visit Momma in Chicago the next day. The terrifying future would have to wait. I needed to cry about everything first. Then I noticed the bouquet of flowers in my hand.
I was in his office such a short and brutal time, they never left my grip. I never did give them to the man I now hated The man who had just fired me.

I lay on Momma’s sofa for a week, sobbing, writing agonized pages in my journal. Neither she nor I ever had to deal with a professional show biz disappointment before, so we were flying blind. Paul called a lot, but mainly he spoke with Momma, since I was too blue to talk. Too ashamed. I felt I’d failed, so how could Paul continue to care for me? Licking my wounds was all I could do, and they tasted of peanut butter on toasted sesame bagels, a favorite treat Momma plied me with. Comfort was all she cared about giving,and I took all I could get.
“I’m not an actress anymore,” I moaned into the sofa pillows. “I’m obviously no good. I’ll have to get a real job.” The mental image of myself in an her local deli? ugly waitress uniform made me sob even more. All the confidence I’d spent the past two years building felt erased by the mere 15 minutes I spent in that artistic director’s office. I felt like a useless mess. But, I agreed to speak to Paul.
“Evalyn, come on back to Minneapolis. We’ll figure something out”
My spirits rose at the sound of that “we’ll”,
I flew back.

That year, 1972, was one of the hottest summers on record, and the oppressive Minneapolis heat didn’t care that the Guthrie had rejected me. Lovely Lake of the Isles nearby, with its wooded islets in the middle and stately houses all around, did little to alleviate the heat or my depression, even though Paul and I took regular evening walks around it. We talked about the future. In general.
“Well, “ I ‘d say, with regret , “I guess I’d better send out some pictures and resumés and see if I can maybe get a job? I never did think I’d live forever in Minneapolis anyway. I’m jut leaving it sooner than I I thought I would, that’s all.”
“Right, ‘ Paul agreed.
What was I to do now? I had absolutely no idea.