I’ve spent a lot of time lately talking about One Summer. The research. The witnesses. The newspaper archives. The dates. The interviews. The newsletter. The proposal. The endless stack of pages sitting on my desk. But I don’t think I’ve ever really answered the most obvious question. Why this summer? Why, nearly fifty years later, am I still thinking about a few months in Redding, California?
I suppose part of the answer is age. Friends are beginning to disappear. Places that once seemed permanent are gone or changed beyond recognition. Memories I thought would always remain sharp now need help from newspaper clippings, photographs, old programs, and the people who were there.
The past no longer feels safely behind me. It feels closer, more fragile, and more easily lost.And somewhere along the way, the destination that once seemed impossibly far off has started to feel inevitable. Not imminent. Just inevitable.
That changes the way you look backward. When time begins to feel finite, memory takes on a different weight. You start asking not only what happened, but what endured. Which people shaped you. Which moments still have the power to explain the person you became. Which parts of your life would vanish completely if you didn’t make the effort to remember them now.
For me, one of those moments was the summer of 1977.
I was twenty-three years old. I left home for what I thought was a summer theater job. That’s all. A few months of rehearsals, performances, new people, new places, and whatever adventures happened to come along. I had no idea I was walking into one of the defining experiences of my life.
There were opening nights and bad decisions. Friendships. Love affairs. Heat. Drugs. Laughter. Heartbreak. Long rehearsals. Short nights. And the strange confidence that comes with being young enough to believe that absolutely anything is still possible. At the time, none of it felt historic. It was just life.
But now, with so much of life behind me, I can see what I couldn’t see then: that ordinary days can become the landmarks by which an entire life is measured. The summer mattered not because we understood its importance, but because it contained so much of what would later become precious—people who would shape me, choices that would follow me, and a version of myself I would spend decades trying to understand.
That may be the strangest part of getting older. You don’t always recognize the important moments when you’re living them.
Sometimes it takes decades. Sometimes it takes loss. Sometimes it takes the realization that the people and places you assumed would always be there are no longer available to you except through memory.
Don’t get me wrong. I still love writing about fantastic adventures and unlikely heroes. Always will. But somewhere along the way, I began to realize that I may have been one too.
Not the kind who saves the world. Just someone who left home, took chances, made mistakes, fell in love, got hurt, kept going, and somehow accumulated an adventure of his own.
Maybe that is why I’m writing One Summer now.
Not because I want to go back. I know I can’t. The people have changed. I’ve changed. Some are gone. Some would rather leave that summer exactly where it belongs.
And that’s okay. This book isn’t about trying to recreate 1977.
It’s about understanding why those few months stayed with me when so much else faded—and why, as more of the world I knew disappears, that summer has become one of the places where I can still find the people and the person I once was.
It’s about the people who crossed my path. The person I was then. And the person who somehow made it from there to here.
Maybe every life contains one summer like that. One place. One group of people. One brief intersection of time and circumstance that disappears almost as soon as it happens, but somehow remains with you forever.
Mine was 1977.
And after almost fifty years, I think I’m finally beginning to understand why.

First, a question. Do you have any idea how many books have already been published with the title One Summer? Well, in 2011 alone, there were five. And that includes the bestseller by David Baldacci. I’m not sure how well the others did, but I’m guessing David did just fine.
Now, of course, the first instinct is to retreat and run for the hills. But you have to admit, One Summer is a great title. So great, in fact, that I think HE should be the one to find another one. After firing off a cease and desist written by my AI lawyer, I began to have second thoughts.If David was going to ignore a perfectly worded, awkwardly phrased legal document, then perhaps I should simply change my own title.
And then I had an epiphany.
So, without further ado, the new title of my memoir, formerly known as One Summer...
Drumroll, please.
One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and the Summer of 1977.
Nice, eh? I think it says it all rather nicely. So take that, David. I must have spent minutes worrying over that.
Now for the really big news.
You are now looking at the publisher, editor, and chief bottle washer of THE CALLBOARD, a monthly newsletter devoted to all things One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and the Summer of 1977. Notice how I worked the new title in again? Repetition is crucial in marketing.
Now, before you ask, “Hey, J.P., what makes this different from your website, which also seems to be increasingly devoted to all things One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and the Summer of 1977?”
Well, I’m glad you asked. There are several differences. First, THE CALLBOARD comes only once a month.
Second, subscribers will get material that won’t necessarily appear on the website: behind-the-scenes updates, research discoveries, photographs, stories about life in the theatre, and perhaps more information than anyone ever asked for about what it was really like to wait tables.
And by signing up, you would be helping me enormously. Publishers like to see that a book already has readers waiting for it. By subscribing to THE CALLBOARD, you’re helping demonstrate that One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and the Summer of 1977 already has something every book needs.
If you’re a fan of One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and the Summer of 1977, my books, my screenplays, my comedy, or even this slightly disreputable website, please sign up for THE CALLBOARD.
An audience. And that, my friends, is a very big deal in marketing
And then do me one more favor. Pass it along. Not just to your theatre friends. Send it to anyone who loves a good story, anyone who remembers the summer of 1977, anyone who has ever fallen in love, and anyone who believes one summer can stay with you for the rest of your life.
My goal is 1,000 subscribers by the new year.
That’s ambitious. But I think we can do it. So sign up. Tell a friend. Tell two. Let’s see just how big this little callboard can get.
And now for the last bit of news.
I’ll be gone for the next couple of weeks. If you must know, it’s a well-deserved vacation. Stops in Palm Springs, Phoenix, and Sante Fe. No, it’s not work related. Although I am bringing my enormous notebook with me. Not to work, mind you. Mostly so the other tourists know I do something besides eat.
So, followers of jplinde.com, while I’m away... Get busy. Sign up for THE CALLBOARD.
Tell your friends. Tell their friends. And by the time I get back, I expect that little subscriber counter to have moved. After all, repetition is everything is marketing. 

Afraid so.
Hello John,
I have reached out to everyone I can think of, including Marketing, and we just don’t have anything that far back. Perhaps the local newspaper might.
I’m sorry I couldn’t assist you.
Cheers,
Stacey Bartlett
Dean of Arts, Communication, Social Sciences, and World Languages
Shasta College​

Back to the old drawing board.
It seems fifty years is a long time, even for the hallowed halls of Shasta College. So, what do we do next? The good news is that we now have a nearly complete calendar of the entire repertory season.
Nearly. There is still one night open. And it’s a Friday. So, dollars to doughnuts, something was going on in the theatre that night.
But the important thing is that it is the last open date on the schedule.
As for other dates, times, and events, we’re trying a number of different ways to get the verification we need. We talked about the first one last week: microfiche.
We’ve also sent queries to members of the Shasta College Board requesting information about any surviving financial records that might tell us exactly who was paid and when. Hopefully, those records could also provide additional names of company members, where they came from, and perhaps a few other details we haven’t yet uncovered.
We’ve also reached out to another Craig Thompson at Shasta College. If you read the prologue, and if not, why? Craig Thompson was Dean of Students at Shasta in 1977 and served as Executive Producer of the festival. Knowing full well that the Craig Thompson we contacted is not THE Craig Thompson, we asked whether he might possibly be related to him and, if so, whether he could point us toward any information that might still exist.
Hey, at this point you follow every lead.
Last but not least, we’ve reached out to the Shasta Historical Society to see if they might be able to help.
It’s a long shot. But we’re not giving up that easily. After all, we have a book to write. And let’s face it, it has been fifty years. Half a century.
I really had no idea that finding documentation to back all of this up would be this difficult. But I can also honestly say it has been incredibly rewarding.
And now for some genuinely good news about our witnesses. We have all three Shasta Festival veterans lined up. One, you already know and have read about.
The other two? Let’s just say that both are featured prominently in my written account of the festival. You already know about Michael and his roommate Tahoe, but I’m keeping the identities of the other two under my hat until the interviews are firmly scheduled.
Hopefully, adding two more voices to the mix will confirm some of my memories, challenge others, and perhaps uncover a few things I’ve forgotten entirely. Along with the trip to Redding, I hope to schedule those interviews for early October.
And, because apparently this project still has a few surprises left in it, there was one more development this week—one I’m particularly excited about. I’m not quite ready to talk about it yet. Let’s just say someone who has known me—and my work—for a very long time may have a small but important role to play when One Summer finally reaches the finish line. More on that when the time is right.
And finally, there’s the book itself.
I now have a working draft of roughly two-thirds of One Summer, covering my memories of that summer. It has been printed out and is sitting here waiting for the next stage. Once the interviews are completed, the research is gathered, and whatever surprises Redding has waiting for me are uncovered, I’ll sit down and begin assembling the final draft.
As for publishing, we are continuing to reach out to literary agents who specialize in memoir, as well as publishers who may be a good fit for the book.
So that’s where we are. The memories are written. The witnesses are assembling. The records are hiding.
Release the hounds!

Thanks for coming back. I’m afraid we’re now at the grueling part of the memoir, wending our way toward the finish line. Once this draft is completed, I’ll turn seriously to the interviews with other participants.
Currently, I’m polishing Chapter 20, appropriately titled “Shenanigans,” which concerns what happens when a company of actors suddenly has too much free time. Lately, I wouldn’t know much about that. The closer I get to the end of this volume, the less time I seem to have to get into trouble.
I don’t know. Maybe that’s a good thing.
Oh, another vital part of the book that is still unfolding is the actual festival schedule. What played, when it played, and at what time.
Thanks to some due diligence yesterday, we’re now about halfway through reconstructing the dates and showtimes for all three plays. Now, this may not sound like a big deal, but keep in mind, nearly fifty years have passed. Pinpointing those dates and times helps establish the who, what, where, and why of the memoir.
What surprised me is how difficult it has been to reconstruct something as basic as the festival schedule. You would think dates and showtimes would be the easy part.
They aren’t. Programs disappear. Newspaper archives are incomplete. Memory starts playing tricks. One person remembers Hair on a Friday, another swears it was Saturday. So every date I can verify becomes another little stake in the ground.
I’m still actively recruiting interviews for the final section of the book and will let you know how that all turns out. I’m also hoping to head up to Redding in the very near future to see whether the Shasta College archive team has uncovered anything interesting.
One recently rediscovered bit of trivia is that comedian David Steinberg performed during the summer festival as a special guest artist. Back in the sixties and seventies, Steinberg was a frequent guest on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour and later had a television show of his own. His comic persona often involved mock lectures delivered with a dry, slightly Groucho Marx kind of flair.
I have no idea how much money his appearance raised, but it was nice to discover that our little summer festival had at least one genuine celebrity attached to it.
That’s where things stand for now.
Still writing. Still digging. And, apparently, still finding surprises.

What I did not expect was meeting a new friend, protector, and bedmate.
For the life of me, I did not think the two of us would grow so close in such a brief time. Michael, I expected to bond at once. His dog Tahoe turned out to be a very unexpected benefit.
To say Tahoe is a happy dog is putting it mildly. He is handsome, playful, athletic, and very affectionate. I may just have to come back down soon to interview him.
Upon arriving, Michael and I chatted until the wee hours of the night, just laying the groundwork for our interview that would take place on Wednesday. As the two humans bonded, Tahoe was always there, sitting beside me, resting his head in my lap, and reminding me that he was there as well. And that he was available for an interview anytime.
It was after Michael and I said goodnight that Tahoe really got serious about bonding.
The room was dark. I was settling into a very comfortable bed when—umph!—a large presence made itself known by leaping onto the bed. This uninvited friend wasted no time beginning his canine seduction. The licking of my bare feet quickly settled into spooning as Michael’s dog curled up against his new best friend.
The evening was not entirely peaceful. There was a canine dream during which Tahoe apparently decided to use my back as a treadmill in pursuit of whatever the squirrel that had been tormenting him. I am sure he left a couple of marks, which I will have to explain to my wife later.
Despite the spooning, he was the perfect gentleman, and after the third night, when he decided to sleep on the floor next to the bed, left me a little disappointed. Oh, well.
Sensing that I was feeling a bit abandoned, during the last hour of the last day of my stay he jumped into bed and reminded me, ever so cruelly, of what I would be missing after I was gone.
As I sit in the airport writing this, I am already missing my new friend and protector. Goodbye, Tahoe. Until we meet again.

     The following is the finished prologue to my new memoir, One Summer. If you've been wondering what the book is about, this should give you an idea.
     The 60-page book proposal has now been completed, and my agent has begun sending it to  publishers to gauge interest. Next week I'll be flying to Los Angeles to sit down with one of my fellow cast members, Michael Kamenir, for an interview. I hope to conduct several more conversations with members of the 1977 company as the book moves toward completion.
     On the surface, One Summer is about the extraordinary journey I took in 1977. But more than that, it's about something we all share—the one season, the one place, the one chapter of our lives that never really leaves us.
     I hope you enjoy this small sample.
 
 
     I had taken this exit countless times over the years. Exit 299. Head east a few miles, turn left onto Old Oregon Highway, and follow the familiar road to Shasta College.
     Long after the summer of 1977 had become a memory, I still found myself making this detour whenever I was driving between Portland and Los Angeles. Most of the time I came alone, wandering the quiet campus and remembering the people who had once filled it with life. Once, I even convinced my wife and reluctant teenage daughter to come along for an impromptu tour.
To them, it was simply another college campus. To me, it was so much more. 
     But this visit was different. This time I wasn't content to simply walk the grounds. I wanted to go inside.
     I parked, stretched my legs, and walked toward the familiar glass building that now served as the entrance to the theater complex. I rattled the glass doors. Locked. I cupped my hands against the glass and peered into the darkened lobby. Nothing.
     Undeterred, I wandered around the side of the building until I noticed activity inside one of the offices. A man stepped through the doorway, and I introduced myself, explaining that I had performed here decades earlier and wondered if it might be possible to take a quick look around.
     He smiled knowingly. “Of course.”
     A few moments later, I found myself walking through the familiar red lobby toward the double doors leading into the theater.
     It hadn't changed in thirty years. The honey-colored wood walls still framed the auditorium, the rows of red cushioned seats, now slightly broken in by three decades of audiences, climbing the gentle incline to the back of house. The blue curtain stood open, and a lone ghost light cast its quiet circle across the mostly bare stage, illuminating the stage where one summer had become a lifetime of stories.
     The sight stopped me cold. It wasn't the actors. It wasn't the skeletal framing of a half-completed set. It wasn't even the theater. It was the sudden realization that part of me had never really left this place. I quietly slipped into the back row and sat down.
     Onstage, actors rehearsed a play I didn't recognize. They never noticed me. They were too immersed in their work. I heard the rhythmic hammering of flats being fastened into place, smelled the unmistakable scent of fresh paint, and listened to the familiar scurrying overhead as technicians adjusted the lights. Somewhere backstage someone laughed. A stage manager called out a note.
     It was the third week of June. Shasta College was preparing for yet another summer theater season.
     Suddenly, I wasn't watching someone else's rehearsal. I was watching my own life.
     Nearly thirty years earlier, I had been one of those young actors, standing beneath the work lights, running lines, learning choreography, wondering whether I belonged there, convinced that the rest of my life was just beginning.
     The years between then and now quietly disappeared. For a few moments, it wasn't thirty years ago. It was yesterday. I closed my eyes. Memories that had lived quietly in the darkness for decades began stepping back into the light. Faces appeared first. Then voices. Then laughter.
Soon I could smell the familiar scent of pancake makeup, hear the orchestra warming up, feel the nervous excitement before the curtain rose, and remember the impossible certainty that comes only with youth—that somehow the future would unfold exactly as I imagined it.
     When I opened my eyes, I realized these memories deserved more than quiet visits to an empty theater. They deserved to be remembered.
     It would take another twenty years before I found the courage to write them down.
     Every performer has one summer they never forget. Mine was 1977.
     Most people have never heard of the Shasta College Summer Festival. It really existed for only two summers, tucked between its larger cousin, the Summer Repertory Theater in Santa Rosa, California, and the Tony Award Winning Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, Oregon. Yet for one remarkable moment in time, it became home to an extraordinary collection of actors, directors, musicians, designers, dreamers... and a few unforgettable characters.
     That summer I was hired as part of a twenty-person professional company. The smaller roles and chorus were filled by Shasta College students and members of the local community. The season included Hair, Man of La Mancha, The Hot l Baltimore, and a children's production.
Under the direction of Artistic Director Cecil O. Johnson and Festival Producer Craig Thompson, we lived three theatrical lives at once. We rehearsed one show during the day, performed another that evening, then started all over again the next morning. Somewhere between costume changes, opening nights, work detail, cast parties, and too little sleep, friendships were formed.
     Like most theatrical companies, it accumulated its share of stories. Some were true. Others grew a little taller each time they were told. The truth, as it turned out, was even stranger.
     Before the summer was over there would be forest fires, impossible romances, backstage disasters, unforgettable performances, friendships we thought would last a lifetime... and one heartbreaking goodbye that would echo through the next fifty years of my life.
     Some of us would go on to careers in show business. Others would leave it behind entirely. A few are no longer with us.
     Summer stock is a little like a traveling circus. People arrive from different corners of the country, share an intense few months together, then scatter again, often never expecting to meet a second time.
     Nearly fifty years later, I still think about that summer—and the remarkable people who shared it with me. It was chaotic. It was exhilarating. It was occasionally hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking, and almost always unforgettable.
     This is how I remember it.

As we approach the dog days of summer, I thought it was high time to once again empty the old mailbag, see who’s been visiting the site, and read some of the comments they’ve been leaving.During this past week alone, I must have received more than a dozen. No doubt fans are curious about One Summer, perhaps Yes, And…, or the ongoing developments concerning Hooked, Line and Love, Steve Chicorel, and Organic Media.
So, let’s roll up our sleeves and get to it.

IOP Programs i said:
IOP Programs in Georgia – Intensive Outpatient Programs designed to provide flexible, effective mental health treatment.

I have to admit, this one has me a bit stumped. But okay…
Dear IOP Programs What are you saying? Do you possibly know something I don’t? Like President Trump, I take a cognitive test every three days.
Here we go:
Uh… elephant, buffalow, clock, piano, eh, uh, gee…
Thank you for your concern, and don’t forget to pick up your copy of Fool’s Gold, available exclusively on Amazon.
Next caller.
Eric is a repeat poster. In fact, he felt so strongly about one subject that he posted three times. And they were all the same. It must be important.
What’s on your mind, Eric?
MELODY THOMAS SCOTT FROM THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS FAVOURITE SHOW CP24 154
Okay, thanks, Eric.
Or should I just call you Bot for short? Either way, I couldn’t agree with you more, especially the CP24 154 part. That moved me to tears, friend. Good luck.
Next post. Whoops. Eric again. Maybe he forgot something.
Go ahead, Eric. You’re on the blog:
RITCHIE MOONEY T L KENNEDY WILL YOU MARRY MAHALIA JAILAL
You asked that last time.
Next post, please.
Eric? Again?
Okay. Longtime reader, many-time poster.
RITCHIE MOONEY T L KENNEDY SECONDARY SCHOOL WILL YOU MARRY MAHALIA JAILAL
Folks, I am so sorry.I apologize for Eric. I don’t know what has gotten into him. Apparently, he has booked plenty of time on the prison computer.
Okay, we have time for just one more.
RITCHIE MOONEY TL KENNEDY SECONDARY SCHOOL DISTRICT PROGRAM MY MOM NAME IS MAHALIA JAILAL WILL YOU BE HER NEWGIRLFRIEND
Okay, that’s it. Eric you have abused your privilege, I’ve had enough and am closing the old mailbag.
Once again, sorry folks. The rest of you can keep those comments coming, And remember the words of the immortal Eric, when he said: Mahalia JAILAL will you be her newgirlfriend. 
Inspirational.

Oh, and here is one more that you didn't ask. But we shall tell you anyway.

​Work continues on One Summer as we enter the homestretch. With only a handful of chapters remaining and an interview with fellow cast member Michael still to complete, the finish line is finally coming into view.

A couple of One Summer updates!
From the Dean of Arts, Communications, and Social Sciences at Shasta College, Stacey Bartlett:
 
 “Well, that summer of ’77 sounds amazing! I’ve forwarded this message to our Marketing Department, and they are looking to see if they have anything from that time. I will keep you posted. Have a lovely day!”
 
The Redding Searchlight. Shasta County Newspaper of record has sent every several articles related to One Summer, and I have attached these here.
 
Very nice and as an added bonus, Mr. Michael Kamenir, Claude himself, one of the main characters from my memoir One Summer has reached out and has agreed to read, and fact check my 72-year-old brain. 
 
Chapters are being written and rewritten, the proposal is slowly getting into the hands of publishers and we are moving forward. In the meantime, I have  been thinking a lot of about the music of that period and decided that we all need a 1977 One Summer Playlist. Here are a few of my humble suggestions
 
Birdland – Weather Report
Lido Shuffle – Boz Scaggs
Telephone Line – Electric Light Orchestra
Don’t Stop – Fleetwood Mac
Nobody Does it Better – Carly Simon
Lonely Boy – Andrew Gold
Tonight’s the Night – Rod Stewart
Hotel California – The Eagles
You’re Love Has Lifted Me (Higher and Higher) - Rita Coolidge
It’s Over – Boz Scaggs
 
Purely Optional
Aquarius
Hair
Flesh Failures/Let the Sunshine In