It is fashionable these days to talk about children being "underachievers" and "overachievers". In my childhood, the message I got was "achieve, but don't call attention to yourself in doing so."

In terms of school work, it was terribly unfashionable among my peers to be publicly identified as an "A" student, but my parents and their friends considered it equally important to get those grades. So the game was to excel, but not to draw attention to it which was a little bit like the secret agent who bears the stigma of being seen as a traitor in order to serve his country. The only people I could expect praise from as a student were my parents, and they were brought up to be very cautious about praising their children for fear of spoiling them. So being a good student was expected of me, but it was not rewarded with public praise, nor much private praise as I remember.

The one area in which I could "show off" without being rebuked was in entertainment. Boy Scout skits and other forms of simple entertainment were my first inspirations and opportunities.

When I got to Berkeley High School, I found unusually good opportunities for various kinds of drama.

In the English department, one class spent an entire semester studying and producing a full length Shakespeare play. The students also presented an annual show called The Vodville, in which students performed everything from magic acts to musical ensembles. Tryouts for this show weeded out the worst efforts, so the result was usually almost professional, and several graduates went on to professional careers.

There was also the Senior Play, a full length drama, plus other theatrical ventures of various kinds and qualities.

My first role in the Shakespeare class was Peter, the nurse's clumsy servant in "Romeo and Juliet". In one scene, the nurse slaps Peter to wake him up, and I had to learn how to react with a foolish look. In rehearsal, I didn't have to take the full force of the slap, but in the performances it was somewhat of an ordeal. My compensation was the roar of laughter from the audience, at this and other antics, and I really enjoyed the heady experience.

The following year, when we did "Hamlet", I had the part of the Player King, which wasn't much of an improvement.

However, I did get to play one of the leads in the senior play. My Shakespeare experience also gave me the opportunity to become involved with the Berkeley Community Players.

This was a new group, whose existence depended mainly on the WPA funds which were provided as part of a massive federal spending program to help people survive the Depression.

None of the regular actors were paid, unless there were under the table arrangements I didn't know about, but the director was paid, and there were funds available to cover some of the operating expenses.

The shows were given in the amphitheater at John Hinkel Park in north Berkeley, and were open to the public without charge. Sets for the various plays were built by the cast and other volunteers. The stage was the picnic area below the park clubhouse. Thus for daytime performances, the audience in their benches on the slope of the hill could see the entrances up the hill toward the clubhouse, and the players had to enter and exit in full view of the audience without a curtain. Lights were provided for evening performances, but the cool Berkeley climate made the daylight performances more popular.

The first production I can remember being in was "Fra Diavolo" ("The Devil's Brother"), which was done as a Laurel and Hardy film under the English title. It was a sort of operetta, with the theme of a Robin Hood type of bandit hero vs. the decadent aristocracy, as I recall.

In most of the performances, I played the "Laurel" part, with an older fellow named Wally as the Hardy part. Wally claimed (truthfully, so far as I ever knew) to have been Buster Keaton's stand in, and he knew many of the comic tricks used by comedians of the day. One trick was kicking the wall of the set as he pretended to bump his nose on the wall, so it sounded like a terrible thump on his nose, then turning and holding his nose with an elaborate show of pain.

My part was to be the comic "straight man", but occasionally I took his part. I did it much less adequately, of course.

In the course of rehearsals, I also wound up doing the part of Lord Something or other, which was a more subtle kind of comic part.

The plot required Lord S. in one scene to pay the handsome soldier captain a reward for rescuing his wife's jewels from the bandits, so the captain could marry his sweetheart. During one performance as Lord S., I suddenly realized just before we came to the "payoff" that I had left my wallet in my pants in the clubhouse when I put on my costume.

When my "wife" held out her hand for the reward money, I told her: "My lady, I have it not with me."

She repeated her line, and I repeated my ad lib. Whereupon she had presence of mind to say that it did not matter her husband was a man of honor, and he would see that the reward was paid, so the hero could marry his girl and all would be well.

We finished the scene as gracefully as we could, then scurried off, leaving the box of jewels on the table in full view of the audience. One of the "waitresses" in the cast quietly came out and carried it off, as if this were all part of the show. But the director, Ferdinand Kebely, was really teed off by all this, as one might expect.

Fortunately, this didn't end my theatrical career. I played the part of Moonshine in the Pyramis and Thisbe scenes in "A Mid summer Night's Dream", with Wally as Bottom. We did one performance of this show in Sigmund Stern Grove near Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. I remember it was a typically cool day, and my thin costume was very inadequate for keeping me warm. But as one of my "props" I brought in a live Scottie dog on a leash, and that called more attention to the part than it would have gotten otherwise, especially when I did the line:

"This lantern is the moon; myself the man in the moon; this thornbush my thornbush; and (with a simpering glance at the Scottie) this dog my dog." The line usually got a big round of applause for the dog, of course.

In doing "A Midsummer Night's Dream", the director used recordings of Mendelssohn's score for the play, with the best sound equipment he could muster. For the big wedding scene near the end of the play, Mendelssohn wrote the wedding march which is usually played as a recessional in real weddings. Little did I dream, as we went through that scene over and over again with the music, that I would be hearing it so often when I conducted weddings as a minister!

The high point of my career with the Berkeley Community Players was when we produced "The Tempest". In various performances, I alternated between playing Stephano, the comic butler, and Prospero.

I was 17 at the time, and even some of the cast were surprised when I managed to come up with an "old man's voice" for Prospero. One Saturday, some old friends of my parents dropped in at lunch time, and my parents persuaded them to go to the play afterward. Several minutes into the first act, the friends leaned over and asked my parents when I was going to come in. They pointed to the figure of Prospero, who had been on stage for some time. I felt quite flattered that they hadn't recognized my voice.

Not long ago, I read in the paper that the Berkeley Shakespeare Company, a successor of sorts to the original group, was doing "The Tempest" again. I had the momentary fantasy of trying out for the part of Prospero, knowing I would sound a lot more convincing now as an old man than I did then. But, as I reflected immediately, I couldn't play the part of a 17 year old convincingly again life moves only in one direction! When I wrote to the management of the current company to say that I had played Prospero in that same place 50 years earlier, I was sent two complimentary tickets to the last performance of the season. It was a very special evening.

In one memorable performance as Stephano, I made my first entrance coming down the path from the clubhouse. I came in staggering as the drunken butler who had found the wine casks from the wrecked ship, and holding a "home made" little cask like a beer mug.

As I lurched down the path into the view of the audience with my opening lines, I knocked the "mug" against the pathway railing, and it rolled into the nearly dry creek next to it.

I crawled under the railing, retrieved the mug, and continued my lines and my entrance. It made a spectacular beginning to the show, but I didn't dare try to repeat it in later performances for fear it wouldn't come off so well.

The young man who played Caliban was half black, half white, and this was much more of a handicap for him then than I would hope it would be today. He was very talented, and I have wondered often what became of him. He was especially good as Caliban, because he could emphathize with the half human, half animal character.

My only negative impression of that show is that it took so much effort for me to learn all of the lines for Prospero and Stephano, along with my regular school work. One weak spot in my memorizing was that I was never quite sure about the lines in the scene where Stephano discovers Caliban and Trinculo under a blanket and thinks they are some new and terrible animal his witch mother has created. The fellow who played Trinculo had the same trouble with lines. But we got away with it because the essence of the scene is the comic confusion, and our confusion as actors was easier to conceal.

The only lines I can remember easily now from that play are Prospero's speech to the audience at the end. I can also remember snatches of lines from the various other Shakespeare plays I have seen or participated in. But it seems astonishing to me now that I could have memorized so many lines at one time or another. Ah, the flexibility and impressionability of youth!

When I entered Cal (U. C. Berkeley) in the Fall of 1935, I tried out for plays that were produced by the Thalian Society, a "subsidiary" of the Little Theater. At the time, the University had no facilities for presenting dramas except the lecture platform in Wheeler Hall, and the large open air stage at the Greek Theater.

Doing plays on the Wheeler Hall platform required rehearsing at night after the daily lecture schedule, and restoring the platform to its original condition for the next day's lectures. It may seem absurd in retrospect that this great university had no better facilities for drama, but it reflected the scale of priorities which prevailed at the time. There was an 80,000 seat football stadium, a large basketball gym (where I had performed in a city wide recreation department pageant as a child) with swimming pools, an Olympic type track stadium and other playing fields, but not one proper stage or auditorium for drama or musical events.

The situation called forth a greater sense of dedication and greater ingenuity than might have been forthcoming under better conditions, and those who went on to serious drama careers were more capable of dealing with experimental theatrical techniques.

But this handicap dictated that students involved in Little Theater had to spend long hours at night in rehearsals, to make the most of the effort and time spent in setting up and striking the set.

Early in the first semester of my freshman year, I had parts in two plays which were given in the same afternoon, before a small audience which involved mostly drama students and the small faculty led by Edwin Duerr, the director of Little Theater.

The parts were very different one a rather comic character and the other a serious one. This gave me a chance to show my versatility, and I probably caught the eye of Mr. Duerr earlier than I might have done otherwise.

At any rate, I wound up with the part of Burbage in the major Little Theater production of "Elizabeth the Queen" by Maxwell Anderson, which was given in the Greek Theater. "Mr. D" emphasized that it was quite unusual for a freshman to get into the cast of such a major production.

My experience with Shakespeare probably helped too, because the play was set in Shakespeare's time, and the scene in which Burbage appeared was one late in the play when Elizabeth summons Shakespeare's company to entertain her while she awaits the execution of her lover (?) Essex, whom she has condemned as a traitor.

The players are asked to do a comedy scene from King Henry IV, Part One, in which Burbage plays Falstaff. Thus the dramatic tension is set up between the grim tragic situation of Essex being sent off to be executed, and the low comedy of the scene from Shakespeare.

It was difficult for me to establish how the part should be played, and I don't think I distinguished myself in doing it. But it was a memorable experience to be involved in the production. The student who played Essex, Robert Neilson, became a professional actor under the name of Barry Nelson, and appeared in many major plays and films.

Another member of Little Theater who became more famous was Eldred Peck, who got started in the theatrical field when he was chosen as the "star" of a promotional film on the Cal crew. After graduation, he went to Hollywood where his first name was changed to Gregory, his father's first name. Peck represented a different breed of film actor than the glamour boys and girls who came either out of a theatrical tradition or were "created" by the Hollywood image makers. He obviously had the brains and the skills to be a successful actor, and he worked very hard to keep improving his skills. He also had the character to be a success ful husband and father, according to all public indications.

Other members of that generation of Little Theater people made a living in the theater, films or television, and it has been a special pleasure to see them turn up in various shows. But I was never deluded into thinking that I could have made a big splash in that field, and I know from many sources that it is a really tough business to crack and to stay afloat in.

Other plays I remember being in were "Johnny Johnson", an anti war play, and "Richard III". During the rehearsals of "Richard III", I was also rehearsing the Junior Farce.

This annual event was presented by the Junior class, with a script by a member or members of the class. Our class playwright was Travis Bogard, who later became chairman of the drama department.

Usually the Junior Farce was a rather low key part of the celebration of Big Game Week. But Bogard's play was called "She Strips to Conquer" (a parody, of course, on the classic "She Stoops to Conquer"). It concerned the adventures of a Phi Bete who decides to become a burlesque queen to earn money for her college expenses.

In those days, the University administration was dominated by a strong concern for the traditional proprieties, and the edict was issued that this title of the Junior Farce could not be used.

Naturally, the commercial press picked up this juicy item, and the Farce got a lot more publicity than it would have gotten otherwise. The playbill was printed with the announcement: The Class of 1939 presents " ", with the title blank between the quotation marks.

My part was that of Rocky, a Damon Runyon type character whose partner complained at one point that he was stupid to put Woodrow Wilson's picture on the counterfeit 20 dollar bills he had printed. At which Rocky replied: "But I'm a Democrat!". This indicates the intellectual level of the show. However, it was fun to do, and the audience was properly enthusiastic.

One of the other members of the cast was Terrence O'Flaherty, who went on to become the highly influential TV critic for the S. F. Chronicle. The female lead, Frances Terman, was indeed an outstanding student who was elected to Phi Beta Kappa, as I re call. At any rate, this added to the publicity for the show. But the moral tone of the script would have earned it at worst a PG rating by today's standards. The turmoil of the Free Speech Movement and the degeneracy of XXX rated movies were a long way off then!

Several years later, while we were in Hayward, I ventured into acting again. The pastor of Grace Methodist Church in Oak land, Don Mueller, was the creative force behind a group called MASC (Methodist Actors Serving the Church). I played several small parts in a musical play he wrote on the life of John Wesley, which was presented in several Bay area churches. Later I played Peter in "Eyes Upon the Cross", a Good Friday play.

Because the scenes in "Eyes Upon the Cross" weretied together only through a narrator, it was possible one Good Friday to present the play in the Kaiser Building auditorium in Oakland, starting at noon, and also in our church in Hayward an hour or so later. As each scene was completed, the cast took off down the freeway in costume, and were ready to go on in Hayward when their turn came. Thus the only duplication in cast was in having two narrators. We also did "Eyes Upon the Cross" at Central UMC in Stockton.

This may be a good place to mention briefly my experiences in radio and TV. While I was a student, I did a few radio dramas on a local station in Berkeley, as part of the WPA program. I got no pay for these, but it was good experience to take a fling at doing different kinds of parts and using different accents.

Then while I was pastor of Elmhurst Presbyterian Church in Oakland, I teamed up with a young Methodist pastor to do the Saturday morning religious news program on KLX in Oakland. The studios were in the Tribune tower. We culled news sent in from local churches, and stories from Religious News Service. We never knew how many people listened, but this too was a stimulating experience. Having two voices alternate in doing stories was a novelty in those days, as I recall, anticipating teams like Huntley and Brinkley and the usual current pattern on TV news.

From time to time, I was also involved in various kinds of devotional programs on radio. The only time I was involved in broadcasting our local church services was for a brief time in Hayward over an FM station, at a time when FM was less popular.

My one experience with TV broadcasting of a church service was in Hanford, when a local TV station set up a mobile transmitter on the church lawn and intended to broadcast our morning service. I thought I was particularly colorful in my presentation that morning, and was particularly dismayed to discover afterward that a downtown building had blocked the sig nal from the church to the station, and nothing had gotten on the air. Perhaps if the experience had been more successful, and I had been the right type for TV evangelism, I might have gone on to fame and/or infamy in the style of Jimmy Swaggert and others!

More satisfactory experiences with being on TV came when we were in Stockton, and I did a religious talk show on a Sacramento station, and some devotional opening and closing spots. Carol was more impressive in her appearance on the same talk show series, speaking about Christian art.