This episode exemplifies Martin’s podcast at its core and the reason why he chose to tell the stories of his life. The listener is invited to journey with Martin to the past where he recalls his father’s first time seeing him on the Broadway stage, the lack of communication between them and how they would eventually have an amicable reckoning.
A complete list of the writers and poets from Episode 6 A Father and Son
The story “Pop, Roses & the First Lady” by Ramon Gerard Estevez AKA Martin Sheen, is included here by granted copyright permission
Consider This Gertrude Stein “A rose is a rose is a…”
“Dream of Myself at 12” by Robert Bly was included here in this podcast by granted copyright permission of his daughter, Mary Bly, who we thank for this opportunity to share his poetry.
“Where the Mind is Without Fear” Rabindranath Tagore
Martin Sheen:
Hello and welcome to the Martin Sheen Podcast with yours truly, Martin Sheen, of course, and I’m delighted to be your host for this podcast pilgrimage where the destination is the journey itself. Along the way I plan to share stories and personal memories of some of the many people, places and events that have helped to shape my life. Happy and continuing struggle as an artist and a man to unite the will of the spirit with the work of the flesh. I also hope to explore poetry as a powerful form of expression and communication by proxy, as it were, and how poetry is such a vital and necessary component of our spirituality and our public discourse. And from time to time, I’ll invite friends, fellow actors, poets, scholars and family members to join our pilgrimage and discuss what inspires their artistic journey.
And so friends, let us begin.
Pop, Roses, and The First Lady.
On May 24, 1964, I opened on Broadway with a starring role in a three character play that would alter my life. The play was “The Subject Was Roses,” which would win a Pulitzer Prize for its author, Frank D. Gilroy, as well as the Tony Award for best play of the year and the Drama Circle Critics Award. The cast included Jack Albertson, Irene Daly and myself. And it would run for nearly a year and a half on Broadway. Then Martha Scott joined Jack and I for a nine month national tour from the fall of 1965 through the spring of 66 and subsequently Patricia Neal would join Jack and I once again for the film version of the play at MGM in 1968. Ulu Grosbard directed both the play and the film. The entire action of the play took place over a single weekend in a middle class Bronx New York apartment in the spring of 1946, where a mother and father celebrate the return of their only son from combat with the army in Europe during World War II. At its core, it is the story of a young man who tries desperately to save his parents’ marriage until he finally realizes he does not have the skills or the power to do so. In the final scene, he decides to move out on his own. But before he leaves, he’s determined to tell his father a very important story. But his father refuses to hear it and shouts, “Go! And good riddance!” “No!” The son shouts back. “I’m not leaving until you listen to me.” Then in a climactic moment, he reveals a reoccurring dream in which his father has died and never said he loved him. He goes on to say, “It’s true you never said you loved me. But it’s also true I’ve never said those words to you. I say them now. I love you, Pop. I love you.”
During rehearsals, I had great difficulty with that particular scene. I knew the lines verbatim, but I just couldn’t find an emotional connection. And then one day, as we worked on the scene, Ulu pulled me aside and said, “What’s the problem?” “I don’t get this scene,” I replied. “There’s simply no reality in it.” “What do you mean, no reality?” Ulu asked. “Well, frankly, I said, boys don’t tell their fathers they love them. They. It’s just not done.” Ulu stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment, and then he asked, “Have you ever told your father that you loved him?” I hesitated, then admitted, “No, I haven’t.” “Neither have I,” Ulu said. “And neither did Frank Gilroy. That’s why he wrote the play.” Ulu’s words struck a chord and were all I needed to hear. I returned to rehearse the scene with Jack, and I never had any problems with it again. In fact, it became my favorite scene in the play, and I looked forward to it with every performance.
The play had been running to full houses for nearly three months when one day my father, who had recently retired from the NCR factory in Dayton, Ohio, called to tell me he was planning a trip to New York City by train and asked if he could stay with us for a few days before he sailed on to Spain, intending to live out his retirement there. I was overjoyed to hear this news and assured him he could stay with us as long as he wished. Not only would it be a special blessing to see him again and spend time together, it would be a royal opportunity as well for him to see me on stage for the very first time, and on Broadway, no less. And not just in any play, but the best play of the year. Pop arrived in New York two weeks later on a Monday evening.
My brother Mike, who was living in Connecticut, picked him up at Penn Station and brought him up to our apartment on West 86th Street. I was performing that evening, but I managed to buy two tickets for he and Mike for the next show on Tuesday. The following evening, as fate would have it, I learned that the first lady, Mrs. Johnson, and her daughters, Linda and Lucy, would be in attendance, and for that very same performance. I could hardly believe my good fortune or contain my excitement as I rushed home after the show to share the news.
Unfortunately, however, my father did not share my enthusiasm and politely but firmly declined to attend without an explanation. “Pop,” I pleaded, “it’s Lady Bird Johnson, the first lady of the United States. She’s going to attend your son’s play with her daughters, Linda and Lucy. It’s a rare and once in a lifetime opportunity and a privilege to be in the audience with them.” “I know, I know,” he says, “and I’m sorry, but I can’t go.” And with that, he leaves the room, ending any further discussion. I always understood and accepted his lifelong desperate shyness, never wanting to draw attention to himself in public.
So despite my disappointment, I switched Tuesday’s tickets for Wednesday’s show and left it at that. Mrs. Johnson did indeed attend the performance the next night with Linda and Lucy, and they could not have been more gracious or kind when they joined us on stage afterwards. Clearly they were moved by the play and showered us with praise. It was a memorable evening, and I called home from the payphone backstage to tell Janet how exciting it was to play for the First Family. But, oh, how I looked forward to the following night when I would play for my father. Pop was in the audience with my brother the following evening, and despite my nerves, the show could not have gone better. When we got to the final scene, I played it to him, and though I was looking at Jack, I summoned up an emotion from that well of love, admiration, and gratitude that I felt for that man. I called Pop all my life, and by the time I got to I love you, Pop. I love you, I was weeping uncontrollably. Jack was weeping, and I could even hear members of the audience weeping as well. It was the best performance of my life, period. And we were greeted at the curtain call with a standing ovation, thunderous applause, and repeated shouts of “Bravo!” That lasted a full three minutes.
I was riding an emotional and joyful high as I headed up to my dressing room on the second floor to await my brother and my father. I waited for a few minutes. Then I decided to remove my makeup and get changed. Then I waited some more. Finally, I looked out into the hall. It was empty and quiet. Jack and Irene had already left. It had been nearly a half hour since the play ended before I realized that Pop and Mike were probably waiting downstairs. So I rushed down, but no one was there except the doorman who asked me, “why are you still here?”
I told him, “I’m waiting for my father.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’m going outside for a smoke.”
It’s really odd that Pop hadn’t shown up yet. What’s taking him so long? I wondered. I know he was in the audience with Mike. Surely he’s coming backstage to see me. Then it occurred to me, knowing how shy he was, that he might be waiting with Mike right outside the stage door. So I went outside, but the doorman was the only one there smoking a cigarette. I went back inside and called home from the payphone, and to my surprise, Mike answered the phone. Hey, where are you? He says. I’m still here at the theater. Why didn’t you bring Pop backstage? I asked. Are you kidding? He says. You know Pop. I do indeed know Pop, and while I didn’t expect him to rush backstage to offer congratulations and he praise, he’d never been that kind of father. But if he had come back after the show, he need not have said a word. His presence alone would have said it all. By the time I arrived home, the boys were asleep. Janet and Mike were in the kitchen preparing a late night snack, and Pop was in the bathroom. It was very hot and muggy that August night, and since we didn’t have air conditioning, we kept the windows facing 86th street wide open, hoping we’d catch a breeze. I sat on the couch in the living room, exhausted, with my head in my hands when I heard the bathroom door open and then pops, footsteps heading towards me, but I didn’t move. I thought I’d wait for him to start a conversation, if there was going to be one.
In my peripheral vision I saw his shoes cross the hardwood floor to the window, then turn and head back towards the kitchen. Pop had always been a pacer. I have memories from childhood of his endless pacing around the house on Brown Street. It was always a slow, rhythmic cadence, hands in his pockets, head down, eyes on the floor. He would pace to and fro without a word, pondering, lost in some private thought, or perhaps it was a form of meditation or prayer. Now, true to form, he was pacing through our apartment, from the kitchen to the living room and back, again and again and again without a word or pause. Then suddenly he stopped. And when I looked up, he was staring straight at me, as if he was trying with great effort and determination to figure out who I was.
Neither of us said a word in what seemed like an eternity until Janet called from the kitchen to join her and Mike. He never spoke a word about the play that night, nor any of the few remaining days he stayed with us before he boarded his ship for Spain, and I was simply left to wonder. The rural village of Pararrubia, Salta Revolta in Galicia that my father returned to in 1964 had changed very little since he left Spain in 1916. His two living brothers, Lorenzo and Matias, and his wife Joaquina lived in the family home, built 150 years ago with tall granite stone slabs from a nearby quarry. There was no electricity or indoor plumbing, and Joaquin cooked on an open indoor fire. Kerosene and candles were still in common use, and there was no phone or public transportation in the village. It had long been Pop’s cherished dream to return to his beloved Spanish homeland and reunite with his remaining family. And while he lovingly embraced every moment with them, his retirement there was just not what he had imagined.
So six months later, he returned to Dayton, bought a small house in Kettering, and persuaded three of my brothers to move in and keep him company. Nearly five years later, in the spring of 1969, I took my sons Emilio and Ramon, ages 7 and 5, to Rome, where I completed filming my role in the movie Catch 22. Then the three of us flew to Spain to visit my father’s family. From Madrid, we took the nine hour train ride to Galicia and the city of Tui, the nearest rail stop to Pararubi’s Salta, Rivolta and the Estevez family home. From Tui we hired a taxi, but if not for a full moon and a cloudless night sky, the driver was quite certain he could never have found the place. Greatly relieved, he deposited the three of us with our luggage at a large wooden gate attached to a wall of granite stone slabs and waited until someone arrived before he returned to Tui. He didn’t have to wait long.
After several loud knocks, a muffled voice from the other side called out, “¿que es?”
“Hola” I shouted back, “Esta es Ramon aqui y dos ninos Emilio y Ramon. mi padre Francisco Estevez.”
Then the heavy gate swung open, revealing my uncle Matias, my father’s youngest brother, who bore a striking resemblance to my father. Small, thin and round, faced with an olive complexion. Clearly he was not fully awake at the moment, and he was not expecting this nephew and his two sons from America appearing at his door in the middle of the night. Nonetheless, his welcome was genuine and enthusiastic as he shouted across the courtyard for the others in the house to come out and greet us.
In 1969, Spain was still in the grip of the authoritarian dictator Francisco Franco. After 33 years, I would soon learn that Matthias, this frail man standing before me in his night shirt, had joined the resistance during the Spanish Civil War in 1936 to fight against Franco and the fascist in Galicia, the most conservative province in the country. Captured in 1937, he paid dearly for his heroism with a year imprisoned in a concentration camp on an island off the coast of Vigo. Then three more years in Franco’s mountain top prison outside Pamplona.
Now he leads us across a dirt courtyard and into the old stone house where his wife, Joaquina greeted us with equal enthusiasm. She was small and round, with ruddy cheeks and long gray braids. She fussed over the boys and insisted on making us a meal. While we sat in the kitchen, my Uncle Lorenzo appeared, and astonishingly, he bore an even closer resemblance to my father than Matthias. It was like seeing two Pops in the same room at the same time.
Meanwhile, Joaquina chased down a chicken in the courtyard, brought it into the kitchen, broke its neck in front of us, plucked it clean and put it in a pot of boiling water, all the while chatting with us over her shoulder as if you were cooking on a modern range. In fact, her stove was a large stone the length and width of a single bed with an open fire under a tripod with the pot on top. The boys were mesmerized and couldn’t take their eyes off her.
Within an hour, the six of us were feasting on the chicken and some vegetables from the garden, as well as some wine from their vineyard. I tried to explain about filming in Rome and that my wife Janet, and the other two children were back in California. But of course our conversation was limited to smiles, nods and gestures and the few Spanish words the boys and I had picked up in Mexico earlier that year on location for “Catch-22.”
It was well past midnight when Joaquina led us by candlelight down a narrow corridor to a small bedroom where the bed, if I understood her correctly, was the very one in which my father had been born. But I gave it very little thought at that moment, as it was so cold in the house that night that the boys and I slept huddled together in our clothes. Early the next morning, I woke up before the boys to an astonishing revelation. Framed and hanging on the wall directly across from the bed, what was not visible in the dark the night before was now beautifully lit by the morning sun. Peering in through the only window in the room. It was.
The three by two foot color poster of the subject was roses that I had given Pop the night before he left for Spain, and its significance was very clear to me. In his own shy way, my father displayed his love and pride for me, where he knew somehow I would discover it in the room where he came into the world. Enough said. Thank you, Pop.
I’m going to take a brief pause here, but please stick around. There’s more to come.
Welcome back and thanks for staying with me.
Consider this from Gertrude Stein.
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
Yes, she said it four times from her 1913 poem “Sacred Emily.”
Thank you, Gertrude.
Now
“Dream of Myself at Twelve” by Robert Bly.
At the start of the dream
It was understood you were working
In the grape fields. But
When I walked
Into the barn, I saw
A leg sticking
From the hay. It was you, hiding,
Not working. “How
Long have you
Been here?” Your head
Rose from the hay.
My mother, your calm wife,
Showed up, spoke
For you, said,
“Jacob, you haven’t been
Drinking, have you?”
How often as a child I heard
That and did nothing.
This time I broke
A horse-collar, threw
A gun into
The horse-stall, jabbed
A pitchfork into
Loose hay,
Hit the hired man.
My father said nothing.
My brother said it was clear
I could never be-
Come a man,
Would have to play with toys.
Then I looked
Down at the yellow straw
In the stable, my tongue
Still. As I
Woke, a small boy
Clung to me,
Could not feel safe,
Would not take
His arms
From around my neck.
Robert Bly, American poet, essayist and activist, was born on December 23, 1926 in Parley County, Minnesota. His best known prose book is Iron John, A Book about men, published in 1990, which spent 62 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list and is a key text of the mythopoetic men’s movement. Robert Bly died Nov. 21, 2021, in Minneapolis. Mr. Bly was 94 years.
I invite you to delve further into the works of the poets I shared with you, and I hope you seek out writers and poets whose work speaks to your hearts and minds with the power to inspire your life. If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve heard here, please subscribe to my podcast, the Martin Sheen Podcast with your host, yours truly, Martin Sheen. Of course, wherever you find your podcasts. Yeah, I have to say that you can find a complete list of the poets and titles of their poems that I’ve chosen at our website, themartensheenpodcast.com I want to thank the people who make this podcast possible, our producer and research assistant, Rene Estevez, who assures me that the Internet is a real thing and a safe place if not used off label, and our sound engineer and editor, Brian Bruce Greenspan, the man behind these rich and seamless recordings, and to his dog Gracie, our studio mascot who snores in perfect pantameter.
And so, friends, we part with the prayer from Tagore.
We are called to lift up this nation and all its people to that place with a heart is without fear and the head is held high where knowledge is free, where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls, where words come out from the depths of truth and tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection, where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sands of dead habit, where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever widening thought and action, into that heaven of freedom. Dear Father, let our country awake. Amen.
The Martin Sheen Podcast all rights reserved. No part of this podcast may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form without prior written consent or of the author. NTE Productions. The story Pop, Roses and the first lady by Ramon Gerard Estevez, AKA Martin Sheen is included here by granted copyright permission. Dream of myself at 12 by Robert Bly was included here in this podcast by granted copyright permission of his daughter Mary Bly, who we thank for this opportunity to share his poetry.