Gracie's Charm School
A childhood dream of Hollywood stardom gets a start during a teenager's summer vacation in a famous mansion that may be haunted ... or not.
On the hillside overlooking Salt Lake City is the McCune Mansion, a "Richardsonian bungalow" built in 1901 by railroad tycoon Alfred W. McCune. It served many purposes after the McCune family donated it to the LDS Church. The present owners have restored it to its original glory for a wedding venue.
When I told Mom I wanted to become a movie star, she enrolled me in the BYU Youth Program run by Grace Nixon Stewart. We performed Bible scripture recitals after studying elocution, dramatics, and storytelling as well as manners and etiquette. Perhaps a bit incongruous with my Hollywood dream, it provided a stepping-stone toward the end. What better way to silence my whining and keep me safe within the confines of the Church?
A petite woman, Mrs. Stewart moved stiffly around the second floor, dressed in tailored suits and high-heeled shoes. Her perfectly coiffed hair sparkled with red and blonde highlights. Rumors claimed she wore a corset, which explained her unbending posture, a virtue she corrected by grasping our slumped shoulders every time she met us in the hallway. One day, I brushed my hand against her ribcage and felt the hard shell of that restrictive undergarment. It was her spiritual mainstay as well as her physical support.
Her perfection modeled what was expected of good Mormon youth. She cautioned us to never call attention to ourselves, an odd rule for of people learning to become stage performers. Another rule demanded we always sit with our knees together - even the boys.
Mrs. Stewart would call us into her office to perform our latest assignment for critique. Around the periphery of the tiny room sat other victims students waiting their turn. Her eagle eye would know if our knees parted even a centimeter. One poor lad sat so stiff and inert, I wondered if he ever relaxed or recovered in later years. She struck more fear of our salvation than the thought of fire and brimstone.
Patti, my friend from school, and a flamboyantly effeminate boy named Rich, rebelled by renaming the program "Gracie's Charm School" and assembled magazine cut-outs for a newspaper titled The Beulah Bugle. Whoever Beulah was is lost in memory.
Patti showed me this marvel of journalism one day. A dozen glue-wrinkled pages included a full-page Clairol ad showing of all the colors offered. The caption announced a Beulah Bugle contest to "guess what color Loa's hair will be this week."
Loa taught interpretive reading. Each day, she swept into the classroom like Loretta Young in full-skirted dresses belted around her trim waistline. A tall, willowy woman of great poise and friendly personality, her friendly smile infused us with confidence. What's more, her stylish bob only ranged from silvery platinum to a tinge of pink; hardly the extensive color palette of the Clairol ad.
She became my role model, one that was extremely out-of-reach. I was much too gangly to even suppose I could emulate her. Then the surprise of my life came when I discovered she attended my school, only a year older than me! I was certain she had to be at least twenty. Not teenager! Her parents operated a beauty salon and had groomed her, literally, to become the model of perfection. Mrs. Steward merely put the finishing school touches upon her.
Meanwhile, the rest of us clumsy sacks of potatoes struggled through classes, trying to knock off the rough edges. We practiced our monologs and drilled poems that honed our cringe-worthy Utah accents. As time passed, I failed to see how this would land me on the silver screen. All Lana Turner had to do was sit at a soda fountain counter. Then again, Miss Turner looked a lot more like Loa than dark-haired, four-eyed li'l ole me.
There was a bit of a buzz that summer that the mansion's rooms were connected by a honeycomb of secret passages. Ooooooh how Gothic and ghostly! An odd shadow in a window or an extra door in a bedroom indicated the possibilities. Of course, we speculated if they were still usable and maybe even haunted. Mercy, how the chills ran up and down my spine. I loved it.
One day, I was so wound-up about ghoulies and haints, I turned the corner of the main staircase and came face-to-face with a woman sitting on the bench. I screamed loud enough to be heard on the third floor. She reared back in shock. I gasped, embarrassed how my foolishness startled this poor lady. I apologized and retreated back up the stairs.
For two years, I worked at my theatrical skills. Patti and I got involved with a melodrama troop who performed several shows in a small film theater that also had a stage. What intrigued me was the apartment over the front of the building. A window in one of the bedrooms allowed tenants to watch the movies. It made me itch for a similar magical place.
In time, my movie star goals clashed with the reality of my talent. I couldn't even get a part in a crowd scene in the high school play. And I was in the drama class at the time. If Hollywood was as brutal as that, I was doomed. I moved on to explore folk singing, go-go dancing, and a writer. You know where I finally ended up and I do hope, dear reader, it was a good choice. The mentorship and opportunities eventually lined up to lead to here. Thank you for reading. Did any of your youthful dreams lead you to where you are today? Tell me about it in the Comments.
This House is a five-minute video telling the story of the McCune's and their beautiful mansion. I'm pleased to know that it has been restored to its original interiors and furnishings and is now used as an event venue.
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"...my movie star goals clashed with the reality of my talent. I couldn't even get a part in a crowd scene in the high school play. And I was in the drama class at the time...." That is such a tragic and hilarious line, Sue. I feel your pain. Great descriptions of your two women mentors here. I can just see them. Both remind me of my high-school drama teacher, Ms. Pepper, a fiery, independent redhead. I wanted to be her.