Sageing With Janet

17/01/2026

In 1969, Eve Plumb was cast as Jan Brady on The Brady Bunch.
She was eleven years old.
For the next five years, she grew up on camera—awkward phases, changing voice, adolescent insecurities—all broadcast into millions of American living rooms every week.
Jan Brady became famous for being the middle child. The overlooked one. The girl who lived in her sister's shadow. The one who cried "Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!" in frustration.
The character was a punchline.
And slowly, so was Eve.
Here's what people don't understand about child fame: it doesn't pause when the cameras stop rolling. The identity you performed at eleven follows you everywhere. Casting directors stop seeing range. They see the character. And for Eve Plumb, that character was a whiny, jealous, second-place sister.
When The Brady Bunch ended in 1974, Eve faced the impossible choice that awaits every child star, especially girls:
Grow up too fast, and get punished.
Grow up too slowly, and get forgotten.
Try to stay the same, and get trapped.
Hollywood wanted her frozen. Audiences wanted nostalgia. The industry had rules, and breaking them meant risking everything.
Eve broke them anyway.
In 1976, two years after The Brady Bunch ended, she auditioned for a role that shocked everyone who knew her as Jan.
She was cast as Dawn, a 15-year-old runaway who becomes a teenage pr******te in the NBC television movie Dawn: Portrait of a Teenage Runaway.
Eve celebrated her 18th birthday on set.
She later said: "It was such a departure from Jan, and that was a big shocker. That was really, really quite the shocker for everyone. But it was great. As an actress, I'd been playing roles since I was six, so it was great to get a new challenge."
The film was a massive ratings success. But more importantly, it did something strategic:
It announced that Eve Plumb was not Jan Brady.
Not anymore.
"I think it was very fortunate that that came along for me," she explained, "because it was the instant transition from Jan to adult, which is very difficult for a lot of child actors to make, because once you're not cute anymore, nobody wants you."
The same year, ABC launched The Brady Bunch Variety Hour and asked the original cast to reunite. Everyone said yes.
Everyone except Eve.
She was the only cast member who declined. She didn't want to sign a five-year contract. She didn't want to become Jan again indefinitely. She had already glimpsed freedom, and she wasn't giving it back.
A "fake Jan" appeared in the variety show instead.
Eve moved forward.
But here's the part of her story that rarely gets told:
In 1969—the very year The Brady Bunch premiered—Eve's parents made a decision that would change her life more than any television role ever could.
They used her earnings to buy her a Malibu beach house.
She was eleven years old.
The house cost $55,300.
Eve held onto that property for 47 years. While other child stars blew through their money or had it stolen by managers, Eve's investment sat on Escondido Beach, appreciating quietly.
In 2016, she sold it for $3.9 million.
That single decision—made when she was a child—gave her something Hollywood could never threaten:
Security.
Financial independence.
The freedom to say no.
Eve has been blunt about the economics of child stardom: "The biggest misconception is that we're all rich from it, but we are not. We have not been paid for reruns of the show for many, many years. We are not making money off of it at all."
The Brady Bunch has been in continuous syndication since 1974. It has never been off the air. The cast receives nothing.
Eve's wealth came from real estate, not residuals.
And over the decades, she built something else—a second creative life that had nothing to do with television.
She became a painter.
For more than 25 years, Eve has painted steadily—oil on canvas, still lifes of everyday moments, film noir scenes, domestic Americana. She's exhibited in galleries across the country: New York, Laguna Beach, Scottsdale, Chattanooga, Richmond.
She describes her work as "spontaneous still life":
"Whenever I see a likely subject, everything stops and I take photographs. This holds the moment in time until I can paint it. What I'm trying to do is represent that moment of time and it can be elusive but when you get it right, the sensation it produces can really turn heads and create so much emotion."
When asked why she paints, her answer is simple:
"Painting is a creative outlet for me when I'm not acting. It gives me a feeling of control over my creative life. An actor often has to wait for projects to come along, but I can paint any time of the day."
Control.
That word echoes through everything Eve Plumb has done since 1974.
She did return to Jan Brady—eventually. The Brady Brides. A Very Brady Christmas. Reunion specials and tributes. But she returned on her terms, when she chose, as a wink rather than a surrender.
The past became something she could visit, not somewhere she was trapped.
Her advice to young performers today is practical, not sentimental:
"Don't quit your day job. Save the money and buy a house. Don't squander what you've got because it won't always last."
Eve Plumb is 66 years old now.
She acts when she wants to. She paints every day. She owns her time, her identity, her story.
She didn't escape The Brady Bunch by pretending it never happened.
She survived it by refusing to let a role she played at eleven define the woman she became.
That's the part pop culture always skips.
The tragedy isn't growing up on screen.
The tragedy is never being allowed to grow past it.
Eve Plumb grew past it.
And she made damn sure she owned the house she grew into.


~Anomalous club

05/01/2026

01/01/2026

It was 1971, on the set of Peter Bogdanovich's The Last Picture Show.
Cloris Leachman was filming the final scene as Ruth Popper, a lonely coach's wife trapped in a dying Texas town. Her character had been abandoned, humiliated, heartbroken. Everything Ruth had suppressed through the entire film was about to spill out.
Bogdanovich made a bold choice. No rehearsal. They would shoot the scene cold.
Leachman delivered the entire emotional breakdown in a single take. Raw. Unpolished. Devastating. When she finished, she turned to the director and said she wanted to try again. She could do it better.
Bogdanovich refused. "No, you can't," he told her. "You just won the Oscar."
He was right. That performance earned Leachman the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress. But here's the thing that defined her entire career: even after winning, she never stopped believing she could have given more.
Hollywood never quite knew what to do with her. She was too unpredictable for leading lady roles, too fearless for safe supporting parts. So she turned every role she touched into something unforgettable.
In Young Frankenstein, she made Frau Blücher's name alone worth a scream. On The Mary Tyler Moore Show and Phyllis, she twisted sitcom conventions with sly, dangerous wit. She won eight Emmy Awards from twenty-two nominations, more than any performer at the time.
But she never stopped pushing.
At 82 years old, when most actors had long since retired, Leachman joined Dancing with the Stars, becoming the oldest contestant in the show's history. The producers had rejected her twice, saying she was too old. She outlasted competitors half her age.
She worked in every decade from the 1940s to the 2010s. Just before turning 90, she took on a new role in American Gods. She never slowed down because slowing down was never the point.
Leachman once said, "I never wanted to conform. I've never put a label on myself."
That refusal to be defined, to be limited, to accept "good enough" when something greater was possible, became her legacy. She didn't chase glamour or typecasting. She chased truth, whether it was tragic, bizarre, or hilariously uncomfortable.
Cloris Leachman passed away in January 2021 at 94 years old, still working, still creating, still proving that the most dangerous thing an actor can be is absolutely unforgettable.
Some performers light up the screen. She set it on fire.

~Anomalous club

25/12/2025

Twas the Night before Yuletide

'Twas the night before Yuletide and all through the glen,
Not a creature was stirring, not a fox, not a hen.

A mantle of snow shone brightly that night
As it lay on the ground, reflecting moonlight.

The faeries were nestled all snug in their trees,
Unmindful of flurries and a chilly north breeze.

The elves and the gnomes were down in their burrows,
Sleeping like babes in their soft earthen furrows.

When low! The earth moved with a thunderous quake,
Causing chairs to fall over and dishes to break.

The Little Folk scrambled to get on their feet
Then raced to the river where they usually meet.

“What happened?” they wondered, they questioned, they probed,
As they shivered in night clothes, some bare-armed, some robed.

“What caused the earth's shudder?
What caused her to shiver?”
They all spoke at once as they stood by the river.

Then what to their wondering eyes should appear
But a shining gold light in the shape of a sphere.

It blinked and it twinkled, it winked like an eye,
Then it flew straight up and was lost in the sky.

Before they could murmur, before they could bustle,
There emerged from the crowd, with a swish and a rustle,

A stately old crone with her hand on a cane,
Resplendent in green with a flowing white mane.

As she passed by them the old crone's perfume,
Smelling of meadows and flowers abloom,

Made each of the fey folk think of the spring
When the earth wakes from slumber and the birds start to sing.

“My name is Gaia,” the old crone proclaimed
in a voice that at once was both wild and tamed,

“I've come to remind you, for you seem to forget,
that Yule is the time of re-birth, and yet…”

“I see no hearth fires, hear no music, no bells,
The air isn't filled with rich fragrant smells

Of baking and roasting, and simmering stews,
Of cider that's mulled or other hot brews.”

“There aren't any children at play in the snow,
Or houses lit up by candles’ glow.

Have you forgotten, my children, the fun
Of celebrating the rebirth of the sun?”

She looked at the fey folk, her eyes going round,
As they shuffled their feet and stared at the ground.

Then she smiled the smile that brings light to the day,
“Come, my children,” she said, “Let's play.”

They gathered the mistletoe, gathered the holly,
Threw off the drab and drew on the jolly.

They lit a big bonfire, and they danced and they sang.
They brought out the bells and clapped when they rang.

They strung lights on the trees, and bows, oh so merry,
In colours of cranberry, bayberry, cherry.

They built giant snowmen and adorned them with hats,
Then surrounded them with snow birds, and snow cats and bats.

Then just before dawn, at the end of their fest,
Before they went homeward to seek out their rest,

The fey folk they gathered ‘round their favourite oak tree
And welcomed the sun ‘neath the tree's finery.

They were just reaching home when it suddenly came,
The gold light returned like an arrow-shot flame.

It lit on the tree top where they could see from afar
The golden-like sphere turned into a star.

The old crone just smiled at the beautiful sight,
"Happy Yuletide, my children," she whispered. "Good night."

•
Author: C.C. Williford
Happy Yuletide
With love
Fiona
www.earthmonk.guru

20/12/2025

During the filming of “Chuckles Bites the Dust” one of the most famous episodes of The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1970–1977) something remarkable happened: Mary Tyler Moore broke down in a way no one expected.

The episode tells the absurd story of Chuckles the Clown, who dies in a bizarre circus accident. Throughout it, Mary’s coworkers joke about his death while she insists that “death isn’t funny.” But at the funeral, as the minister encourages everyone to “Laugh, clown, laugh!”, Mary loses control.

At first, her laughter was playful scripted. But then, it changed. It deepened, trembled, and suddenly turned into tears. The emotion hit her so hard that the entire room went still. When the director called “cut,” no one moved. Mary sat quietly, tears streaming, caught between grief and laughter.

Director Joan Darling gently asked if she wanted to rest. Mary shook her head and whispered,

“No. Let’s keep it. That’s what she — what I — would do.”

That single take made television history. Betty White later said,

“It wasn’t just funny. It was truth — the kind of truth that sneaks up and breaks your heart.”

The episode went on to win an Emmy and is still considered one of the greatest in TV history. But for those who witnessed it, the real beauty wasn’t in the humor — it was in Mary’s raw honesty, her ability to show how laughter and sorrow live side by side.

That day, she didn’t just act. She revealed something deeply human:
that sometimes the only way to survive heartbreak… is to laugh through it. 💐🎬

11/12/2025

Ethan Hawke has finally revealed the truth he carried for decades a truth he saw at just 18 years old while filming Dead Poets Society, long before the world understood the storm inside Robin Williams.

On screen, Robin was electrifying: the teacher who lifted young men out of darkness, the voice that sparked rebellion, the smile that made audiences believe in magic. But off-camera, Ethan Hawke says he sensed something else something few dared acknowledge.

“I was aware,” Hawke confessed. “Even at 18, I could feel the complexity of his emotional life.”

That admission strikes like a chord held too long. Hawke didn’t speak from rumor or hindsight. He spoke as someone who had watched Robin Williams up close a young actor quietly observing a man whose charisma lit up every room, yet whose soul carried shadows no one could joke away.

Hawke grew up around depression. He recognized its subtle language: the way someone smiles too quickly, too brightly; the way a joke is used as armor. And in Robin, he saw the beautiful, painful truth.

“All that power, all that charisma… it came at a cost,” Hawke said.
“He was deeply sensitive. He felt the energy of a room like weather.”

While the cast saw a genius performing miracles daily improvising, lifting spirits, turning exhaustion into laughter Hawke saw the toll it took. The emotional weight behind every joke. The quiet moments between takes when the room fell away and Robin’s eyes told a different story.

It was the classic tragedy of the clown:
the man who made the world happy while fighting a storm inside himself.

But Ethan Hawke refused to let that storm define Robin Williams.

“The end of his life does not define him,” he said firmly.
“When I watch the film, I remember the spirit of the man I knew… how powerful he was, and how much he weathered that storm for us and for everyone.”

It is a reminder that behind one of the brightest lights in Hollywood lived one of its most fragile souls a man who gave joy to millions, even when joy was hardest for him to carry.

And perhaps that is Robin Williams’ greatest legacy:
he fought his darkness so others could feel light.

09/12/2025

Sunseeker Resort, Charlotte Harbor.

09/12/2025

When professor Stephen Schock challenged his College for Creative Studies design students to create something that filled a real need, Veronika Scott knew exactly what problem she wanted to solve. In Detroit, one of every 42 residents was homeless, and she saw them every day.
For five months, the twenty-one-year-old spent three evenings a week at a warming center, talking with people who had nowhere else to go. She watched them huddle in inadequate clothing against temperatures that plunged below freezing. She listened to their stories. She learned what they truly needed.
Her solution was elegant in its practicality: a coat that transformed into a sleeping bag at night, then converted into an over-the-shoulder bag during the day. Made from waterproof, windproof materials with storage built into the arm pockets, it was designed not just to keep people warm but to help them maintain dignity and independence.
The prototype was crude—it weighed twenty pounds and took eighty hours to make once she taught herself to sew. But Veronika refused to let her class project end with a grade. She understood what this coat could mean.
She kept refining the design, spending all her money on materials and improvements. She sought feedback from the people who would actually use it, making adjustments based on their real-world experience through a brutal Detroit winter. The coat began winning recognition, but Veronika knew something was still missing.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
A homeless woman approached her at the shelter, and instead of gratitude, her words carried anger and truth: "We don't need coats. We need jobs."
Those eight words hit Veronika like lightning. She'd been so focused on solving the immediate problem of warmth that she'd missed the deeper crisis. People didn't just need charity—they needed opportunity, income, purpose, and a pathway out of homelessness.
Veronika's motivation ran deeper than most people knew. She'd grown up with parents who struggled with addiction, constantly fighting to keep the family housed. Without help from other relatives, she would have faced the same struggles as the people she was trying to help. She understood firsthand what it meant to be judged for being poor, to face assumptions about what you were capable of achieving.
When she decided to turn her class project into a nonprofit organization in 2011, nearly everyone told her it would fail. But their reasons stunned her.
"They didn't say my product was bad," Veronika recalls. "They said these homeless women will never make more than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—you cannot rely on them for anything."
She decided to prove them spectacularly wrong.
The Empowerment Plan launched with a revolutionary model. The organization would hire people from homeless shelters—predominantly women—to manufacture the coats. But it wouldn't just be about employment. Roughly sixty percent of their forty-hour work week would be dedicated to coat production. The remaining forty percent would focus on addressing whatever challenges each individual faced: obtaining a GED, driver's education, financial literacy, domestic violence support, or other services tailored to their specific needs.
The early days were challenging. Veronika had no business experience. She was working with people who'd been told their whole lives they weren't capable of reliable work. She was operating on donations and grants, including crucial support from Carhartt, which provided materials.
But something remarkable began to happen. The women she hired didn't just show up—they excelled. They took pride in creating something that would help others like themselves. They understood, better than anyone, what it felt like to sleep on cold streets, to be invisible to society. Every coat they sewed carried that understanding.
Within their first four to six weeks of employment, every worker moved into permanent housing for themselves and their families. After spending two years with The Empowerment Plan, learning new skills and building stability, they moved on to other jobs or even started their own companies. The results spoke louder than any critic ever could: one hundred percent of former employees maintained stable housing a year after leaving the organization.
"My team is badass," Veronika says with fierce pride. "They're very skilled, they're very driven and motivated, and they make a very good garment."
The coats themselves continued evolving. Early versions took five and a half hours to make. Through innovations suggested by the women on the factory floor, production time dropped to less than two hours per coat. The design improved, becoming lighter and more functional. Each coat cost one hundred fifty dollars to sponsor and was distributed free of charge through partnerships with outreach organizations nationwide.
As production ramped up, so did demand. The Empowerment Plan expanded from a converted closet to a space at Ponyride, a nonprofit that houses creative companies with social missions. Later, they moved to an even larger facility in Detroit's Milwaukee Junction neighborhood.
The coats began reaching people far beyond Detroit. Through partnerships and donations, they were distributed across all fifty states and twenty-two countries, going to disaster zones, refugee camps, and anywhere people faced extreme cold without shelter.
By 2024, the numbers told an extraordinary story. The organization had employed over one hundred people from homeless backgrounds, pulling more than two hundred families out of homelessness through employment. They had distributed ninety-five thousand coats to people in desperate need.
This winter, they will reach a milestone that seemed impossible when Veronika first sat in that college classroom: distributing their one hundred thousandth coat.
But even as they celebrate this achievement, the crisis deepens. In 2024, homelessness in America reached its highest level since data collection began, with 771,480 people experiencing homelessness on a single night—an eighteen percent increase from the previous year. Food prices and housing costs continue to climb. Nearly two thousand people currently wait on a list for coat sponsorships.
"It's been a really challenging year for our organization," observes Erika George, the chief development officer. "We've seen increased demand, and individuals we are hiring are coming in with way more barriers."
Yet The Empowerment Plan pushes forward, guided by Veronika's unwavering belief in local manufacturing and investing in people. Now recognized as one of the Chronicle of Philanthropy's "40 Under 40: Young Leaders Who Are Solving the Problems of Today," she continues challenging the notion that American manufacturing is outdated or that people experiencing homelessness can't be reliable employees.
"I think we're going to show a lot of people: you think it's outdated to do manufacturing in your neighborhood, but I think it's something that we have to do in the future," Veronika asserts. "Where it's sustainable, where you invest in people, where they're not interchangeable parts."
Every coat that leaves The Empowerment Plan factory carries multiple stories. It represents the woman who sewed it, rebuilding her life stitch by stitch. It will warm someone sleeping on cold concrete, offering not just physical protection but a reminder that someone cares. And it proves that a college student willing to listen—really listen—to the people she wanted to help could spark a movement that transforms lives on both sides of the sewing machine.
The ladies of The Empowerment Plan take joy in proving their doubters wrong every single day. They've shown that homelessness isn't a defining characteristic or a life sentence. They've demonstrated that given genuine opportunity, people can reclaim their independence and build futures they choose for themselves.
One coat at a time, one job at a time, one life at a time—they're stitching together proof that dignity, opportunity, and second chances can change everything.