My two girls were both in school plays this year, and both shone like the bright stars they are in this father’s humble opinion. One was Willy Wonka in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and the other was The Cat in the Hat in Seussical the Musical. The pose and talent and joy that my kids seemed to have from doing these performances filled my heart with pride. I found myself wondering where these kids got the “acting bug,” and then I remembered that working in show business does in fact run in their blood line.
My mother had sought out the local community theatre group in our small town shortly after she unpacked her bags from Brooklyn. The fact that this mill town had a theatre group at all is nothing short of miraculous – in a place that had more pick-up trucks than books in the local library, the presence of a group of actors and actresses who performed classic songs and skits from Broadway shows was an unexplainable oddity. But it was there, and my mother joined the ranks of these anomalous and eager performers.
Because the rehearsals took place a few nights a week, and because my father was often working his second job at those times, it wasn’t long until my sister and I wound up sitting in the ancient worn seats of the high school auditorium watching the tryouts and preparations for upcoming shows. Other parents in the group caught on to this frugal practice, and soon there was a collection of us kids whose parents found this solution much cheaper than hiring a baby sitter. We formed an unlikely bond – similar to that of the crew in the movie The Breakfast Club, whose only reason for being together was because of forces outside of their own control.
It wasn’t long, however, before we were plucked one by one from the creaky old seats and put to work as the “stage crew.” My sister, who was one of the oldest of us, was the first to go – we would see her, poking her head out from the side of the stage wearing a giant headset and checking on the stage lighting system. Another older member of our group was then taken to work on the sound system. A few more left us to pull curtains, then others were recruited to help with arranging and assisting with costumes in the dressing rooms, until finally it was only me and “twitchy” Lee left in the audience together. It was clear to me why “twitchy” Lee had not been chosen – he simply could not sit still. By today’s classifications, he was “ADHD Lee,” but back then we just called him twitchy – or hyper – or annoying. But much to my surprise they did find a job for Lee. He became the “runner,” the person who would go and fetch water for the performers, or for the band, or the rest of the crew. He was also allowed to walk to the nearby grocery store to purchase food, make up, panty hose, or cigarettes for the cast. I was appalled that he was given this wonderful job and that I was left – alone and looking like a helpless buffoon in the chair.
The only person who viewed my isolation as a mistake or an oversight was me. For all the other grown ups, there was a good reason to keep me contained in the chair, preferably in the center of the auditorium. I was the “clumsy” child. The kid who broke things, or tripped over things, or inadvertently ruined the most expensive piece of equipment in some way. And unlike “twitchy” Lee, society has never created a kinder classification for my condition, nor have the pharmaceutical companies concocted a pill to remedy it. The best intervention for the clumsy child hasn’t changed much – it is to contain the danger by having the individual sit – away from anything breakable and under close supervision – until bedtime arrives.
So I sat. But eventually it got boring, and I made the mistake of mentioning my plight to my mother, who definitely did not want to leave me home at this point, without my older sister and with many breakable items in the house. So she spoke to the directors and soon I got placed at the only remaining job – one that they thought would keep me safely out of harm’s way and under the watchful eye of a retired lieutenant colonel for the army. I was sent to be his “assistant” on the spotlight.
The colonel ran a tight outfit up in the spotlight booth. He did, in fact, teach me how to run a smooth stream of light onto the stage, without sudden jerks or stops or unforeseen blackouts which would leave performers in total darkness. “The best spotlight work,” he would often say, “is the work that no one notices at all – it is just part of the performance.” Although the colonel grumbled at my forced apprenticeship, he eventually took a liking to me, and in time he would just sit back while I ran the light. He amused himself by smoking cigarettes and taking sips from the glass peanut butter jar that he had washed out and transformed into a rather large flask for some type of clear but dangerous smelling liquid that seemed to increase his capacity for my presence.
To say that the rest of the cast and crew was eccentric would be a severe understatement. How each of them came to be living in our tiny town in the middle of the Adirondack Mountains remains a mystery of the ages to me. And even more mysterious at the time to me was why these people – these grown people – adults – would spend so much time and energy putting together a show which would run for two or three nights and draw only a sparse crowd of spectators. It defied all of the logic I had gathered up to that point in my life. And what seemed worse was the amount of drama, chaos, and violent outbursts suffered by the cast members at the hands of the two directors of these shows. I think every kid has a point in their lives when they begin to view the adults around them less as all knowing authorities on every subject and more as flawed people trying to do their best. For me this realization came through observing the colorful antics, sordid language, and overall histrionic behavior of so many of the theatre crew from my vantage point in the spotlight box. It was not at all uncommon, for example, to have one of the directors scream in the middle of a number “NO! NO! NO! YOU OLD BAT! I’VE TOLD YOU ONE HUNDRED TIMES TO PLAY THE WEDDING MARCH WHEN SHE COMES OUT – NOT ODE TO JOY OR RAGTIME – THE FRIGGING WEDDING MARCH! ARE YOU DEAF OR JUST IGNORING ME, YOU IGNORANT THING???!!!”
The victim of his rage was, in fact, deaf. She was also about 120 years old and the only piano player for the theatre company. She had a tendency to play whatever tune caught her fancy at that moment, but most of the actors had gotten used to this and learned to play along until it all got back on track. But it annoyed the director to no end, and his verbal altercations with her were akin to watching your sweet, forgetful grandmother get a tongue lashing from Tony Soprano. These regular but unpredictable outbursts could set the practices back 30 minutes to an hour depending on the severity of the attack and the amount of information that the piano player actually heard. Eventually the director would cool down enough to make peace with her, and they would stroll back into the auditorium together, arm in arm, announcing that we would “take it from the top”.
Despite the verbal and emotional abuse I regularly witnessed, and setting aside all of the quirky personality disorders that each member of the cast brought to the stage, I am very glad to have been a part of the melee that culminated in “Opening Night”. The life lessons I learned came from the commonalities in this mixed crew which stressed a dedication to living life in the moment and to its fullest; a willingness to be your true self, and most of all a refusal to conform to the closed minded, unwritten but pervasive restraints that threatened to define all the lives of all the people within that small town. When we entered the high school auditorium – our theatre – and took on the assigned roles as cast members – we each ascended to a higher place and a higher purpose – if only for a day or two and with a handful of audience members there to witness the phenomena.
If any of you can relate to the experience of community theatre, I encourage you to watch the film “Waiting for Guffman” . It is a wonderful spoof about the personalities and climate of small community theatres, and it makes me laugh out loud whenever I watch it.
We live in a bigger town now, with far fewer concerns about our children not being exposed to a variety of cultural, intellectual, and vocational options for their future. If anything the overall concern has shifted to children being overexposed to information and choices through technology and the media. But it makes me happy that my kids like to act and that they are so good at it. I get to see them shine now. And I hope that throughout their lives they continue to celebrate their bright selves and countless talents and to always recognize the wonderful people they are. I also wish and pray that they will always be able to get up on the various stages that life puts before them and transcend any limitations or restrictions that others try to place on them as they go through this life…
god bless Richard and Joe…..
brian-loved this one:) This also ties into another opportunity you have taken by the horns…Odyssey of the Mind.
What you brought to Saratoga through this program gives children an opportunity to be up on a stage without any limitations…except of course “7 miinutes.” 🙂
Hector – very true! I’ll never forget singing “London Bridges” with you under the stage lights…
Maria – Great point! Maggie is heading to Middle School next year, so we’re thinking of getting Odyssey in over there now. It never would have happened without you!
If you only knew the drama that went on in the dressing rooms!!!! This weekend took on another chapter in “Guffman life” drama. From a young mother’s point of view, it was total escape where we weren’t moms or wives but stars with fancy costumes and dancing shoes! What magic! Going down to Jack’s after rehersal where we rehashed what was said and unsaid was our highlight of the week.Your girls are a joy, and very self-confident. This comes from a great producer, and director. Some great parenting here. Applause, applause, applause.
guffmanis
Mom – I forgot about the Jack’s Place piece to it all! Thanks for being our greastest fan!