The Real Story: As Told by Ranka
From all the evidence I have been able to gather, I was a sweet baby. Some even go so far as to say I was a very sweet baby. I can’t remember ever throwing a fit, wetting my diapers, or even crying.
As a matter of fact, my first memory is of asking to be excused from the table.
As a child, however, I was always too tall, too shy, too sensitive, too awkward, too unattractive, too skinny, too artistic, too, too, too. . . . Sometimes I felt that the only thing I had in common with other kids was that I was born.
I admired and envied my friends who were all pretty, sociable, graceful, short, and plump.
When my friends insisted that we play house instead of drawing and painting, I often got bored. Still, I played house now and then, but I always chose to be the dad. That way I could escape to an office, far from crying babies and dirty dishes—to return home just in time for a hot dinner.
I had seen neighbor dads do that. The neighbor dads also carried briefcases, so I made a briefcase out of cardboard. And one of my uncles smoked cigars, which smelled heavenly. So on my way to the office, I put a piece of twig in my mouth for a cigar. I felt quite content with my briefcase and cigar, strolling away from my friends, who were playing overextended moms and disgruntled babies.
My own dad didn’t disappear to an office, however, because he was an artist who worked in his studio at home. His paintings had big, colorful shapes; and his studio smelled so comforting with all the oil paint, turpentine, and smoke from a wood-burning stove.
When I was tired of playing, I often ran to my father’s studio to draw and paint. (And sometimes he would draw me.) And there, by the crackling fire, I would lose myself in crayons, watercolors, oil paints, and long daydreams till the cows came home. (Actually, our neighbors had cows, but they were always home.)
My favorite uncle was a pianist. He closed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling while Mozart’s piano sonatas came rolling out of his piano. I would become so enthralled that my face would turn warm and damp.
But when I sat down at the piano, I was dumbfounded to find that no matter which keys I pressed, it never sounded like my uncle’s playing—even when I looked at the keys!
My uncle told me to practice, practice, practice. But I didn’t want to practice. I just wanted to play Mozart’s piano sonatas.
By the time I was 7, I was intrigued to discover that if I cut out the people in my drawings, I could move their arms, legs, and heads—even their whole bodies—by bending the paper with my fingers. When I did that, the paper people seemed to come alive. And when I moved them to music—they became even MORE ALIVE!!! This made me almost sleepless with excitement.
Some years later, I saw a picture of somebody called Elvis. And when I heard him sing "Tutti Frutti" on a friend’s record player, I stopped breathing for the duration of the song (1 min. 58 sec.). By the time I resumed breathing, I had entered the world of rock ’n’ roll.
I immediately made a paper Elvis. But he turned out to be too flimsy to sing "Tutti Frutti," and I concluded that something more serious than paper was required. My mother gave me a book about marionettes, so I gathered pieces of wood and tried to follow the instructions.
My first Elvis puppet looked like this. Although I thought his movements were too jerky at times, I was pretty pleased with the result.
After seeing the Rolling Stones on TV, I set out to make an entire rock ’n’ roll band. But I got frustrated when I was not able to make the rock guitarist’s wooden arm play the guitar. The arm was so awfully stiff, and it looked so awkward.
By coincidence, my brother’s old ice-hockey kneepads had been thrown on the workshop floor, and the foam-rubber stuffing was peeking out of one. I cut out a little piece of foam rubber with a pair of scissors and used it for the guitarist’s arm. And I tell you, that arm could play some real hot guitar licks! I was very impressed.
While my friends went out dancing on Saturday nights, wearing make-up, padded bras, and high heels—and having unspeakable adventures with their boyfriends—I spent my evenings in my workshop, where I built two and a half million puppets while listening to my brother’s enormous record collection.
One summer evening, I made a huge discovery. I could play Mozart’s piano sonatas without even practicing! With a pair of scissors and a block of foam rubber, I had given birth to Wolfgang Munchenheimer, the pianist! And when Wolfgang played Mozart’s piano sonatas, I felt as if I were playing the piano. The puppet was part of me!
I have always wanted to play the piano, the saxophone, the violin, the flute . . . and to sing dramatic opera arias with both arms stretched towards the sky. But I was never able to pull it off. Although I do have a deep love of music, I don’t have an ounce of musical talent in my body.
So the puppets help bring my dreams to life. They let me sing opera arias and play piano sonatas, electric-guitar licks, saxophone riffs, harmonica tunes, violin concertos, and much, much more.
I am now a 60-year-old, grown-up girl—still too tall and too shy, still making puppets and performing. And every year I have more and more fun doing it.
