It was September 1923 in Madison, Wis., and I was 7 years old and just starting fourth grade.
I loved my teacher, Miss Chapman; she wore such pretty dresses, not like the other teachers at Washington School, who mostly wore dark sweaters and skirts. Besides, every day, if we were good, she spent the last half-hour of the day reading from books such as “Tom Sawyer” and “Alice in Wonderland.”
A few weeks into the term, a new pupil came. His name was Orson. He was sort of plump, and he had fierce black eyes and a mop of unruly black hair. Somehow, he wasn’t like us. I remember him at recess standing against the stone building watching the kids playing tag, looking at them as though they were strange beings from another planet. We didn’t pay much attention to him.
But one day, I remember some of us stood around his desk as his swift rhythmic fingers showed us Indian signs for “Running Deer,” for “Tracking Bear,” for “Flying Eagle.” We were fascinated.
Later, there was an article about him in our paper, The Capital Times. We learned his last name now: Welles. There was stuff we didn’t understand — stuff about psychologists at the university and his IQ, which had about run off the top of the charts. It was so strange to see his picture in the paper.
In November, we began to get excited. We were going to do a play — a real play: Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.”
My friend Edith and I were put on the stage crew. One day, Orson had us come over to his house on State Street, near the university. We were to work on a fireplace for our play. It was made of a framework of 1-by-3-inch wooden slats covered with cloth. Orson drew in the stones for the fireplace, and we painted them gray.
The big day came. Orson, of course, was Scrooge. He sat in a chair with a screen around it so we couldn’t see him, but our audience could. He wore a heavy robe. Gone was the black hair. It was gray! And he changed his chubby face with lines so he looked old! We couldn’t believe how different he looked.
Yes, we had an audience — a few parents, mostly mothers, who sat in chairs or on top of desks. And there was our fireplace, in front of the room, with some shiny red paper crumpled up to look like fire.
I was one of the Crachit children. As I recall my only line was, “Oh Martha, the goose!” which I delivered with great aplomb.
The play was a huge success. The audience applauded properly — we all bowed — and the great day was over.
I do not remember if Orson stayed in our fourth-grade schoolroom after January.
Some years later, Edith and I had fun following Orson’s career. And we reminisced about the fireplace we painted.
Many years later, when I was teaching theater in college, I wondered about Orson. At the age of 10, how did he know how to make that fireplace in the proper theatrical manner? How did he know about makeup?
I can shut my eyes and still see him sitting there in his robe saying “Bah, humbug,” in a surprisingly deep sonorous voice.
We were planning a fine arts festival one spring at the University of Wisconsin at River Falls where I was teaching.
I said, “Why don’t we see if we can get Orson Welles to come as our artist in residence?”
“Great idea. You ask him,” said the committee.
So I wrote to him. After great difficulty finding out where to write, I got a nice letter back.
Yes, he remembered the day we staged “A Christmas Carol.” He said it was a “bright, gray day.”
He said he regretted he would be unable to come for our fine arts festival; he had previous commitments. He also wished me happiness and good luck in my retirement, which I would be taking the following year.
I enjoyed following his career and was sorry to hear of his death. I often wondered if that long-ago day was the theatrical debut for both of us.
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