The house is dark and most of the set has been struck.
Despite a sweep and pick-up crew, a few programs still hide under seats.
The Greenroom needs a good mopping, but it's pretty much unscathed.
A yo-yo and a pair of pigs' ears have escaped notice in the wings.
Soon the last vestiges of this show will disappear, but the sound of laughter, the butterflies that attack as we wait to go on, and the sea of upturned faces that illuminate a darkened house -- these will be with us always.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Dog Days of Summer
102° is too hot -- for humans and dogs.
So we all piled into the house today. I shifted the cats from their usual three rooms to two, closed them off, and invited Wilson and Lady inside for the afternoon.
They were grateful and very good, flopping down onto the floor in front of the fan I had turned on to assist the straining AC. They are outdoor dogs and generally happy to be so (at least, that's what they tell me). But when the temperatures get extreme, they get to come inside. The last time was this past winter when the mercury plunged to single digits for a couple of nights. I invited them in and they gave me no argument.
Of course, on these rare occasions, the cats become indignant, swishing their tales and hissing at each other for no reason. Suddenly, the only place they want to be is the very room in which they're not allowed. They smell the dogs through the crack under the door. Rather than becoming intimidated by the scent, their hackles are raised and their yowls are expressive.
"Let me at 'em.!" This from a furry feline who weighs less than a tenth of the weight of the lighter dog. Plus, she has no front claws!
Nevertheless, she is fearless and mad . . . and insistent. She can't wait to jump on the back of the larger dog, dig her back claws into the dog's hide and ride her out of town triumphantly and in a blaze of glory.
She's describing that scene quite vociferously between paces in front of the door. She has become obscene with the names she calls the intruders. I'm afraid for the door, which, after all, is merely wood and was never meant to be a barricade. I cross to it and turn the knob, planning to slip out to check on the defenseless dogs, who by now have their noses trained on the space under the door.
Cautiously, I open the door a crack, barely a crack. Already, the dogs are excited at the prospect of bounding into a new room with new toys and places to sniff.
I turn around to shush the cat, but she has vanished without a sound. There isn't even a grin to prove she was there. In place of her courage, there's a small clump of fur.
So we all piled into the house today. I shifted the cats from their usual three rooms to two, closed them off, and invited Wilson and Lady inside for the afternoon.
They were grateful and very good, flopping down onto the floor in front of the fan I had turned on to assist the straining AC. They are outdoor dogs and generally happy to be so (at least, that's what they tell me). But when the temperatures get extreme, they get to come inside. The last time was this past winter when the mercury plunged to single digits for a couple of nights. I invited them in and they gave me no argument.
Of course, on these rare occasions, the cats become indignant, swishing their tales and hissing at each other for no reason. Suddenly, the only place they want to be is the very room in which they're not allowed. They smell the dogs through the crack under the door. Rather than becoming intimidated by the scent, their hackles are raised and their yowls are expressive.
"Let me at 'em.!" This from a furry feline who weighs less than a tenth of the weight of the lighter dog. Plus, she has no front claws!
Nevertheless, she is fearless and mad . . . and insistent. She can't wait to jump on the back of the larger dog, dig her back claws into the dog's hide and ride her out of town triumphantly and in a blaze of glory.
She's describing that scene quite vociferously between paces in front of the door. She has become obscene with the names she calls the intruders. I'm afraid for the door, which, after all, is merely wood and was never meant to be a barricade. I cross to it and turn the knob, planning to slip out to check on the defenseless dogs, who by now have their noses trained on the space under the door.
Cautiously, I open the door a crack, barely a crack. Already, the dogs are excited at the prospect of bounding into a new room with new toys and places to sniff.
I turn around to shush the cat, but she has vanished without a sound. There isn't even a grin to prove she was there. In place of her courage, there's a small clump of fur.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Music in the air
We know it's summer here when the Symphony comes to town.
We anticipate its arrival for months. Weeks ahead, the posters go up. As the day nears, the letters on the old movie house marquee announce the event, and the time and temperature display at the savings bank flashes a reminder.
We are one of the few towns in the state lucky enough to host the Symphony. With the exception of last year, townspeople have enjoyed the music for 20 straight summers. We're a charming, historic town, but we're small, hardly the sort of place you'd think would bring this renowned orchestra summer after summer.
But we do.
We invite them -- and they come. We have a secret draw, in addition to the home-cooked supper the local symphony chapter fixes for the musicians. We have the Town Common. A greensward in the middle of a forty-five block historic district, our Common is the 2nd oldest in the country -- right there behind Boston. Commons and Pops -- two things we share with Bean-town. But I digress.
The perfect venue. The town raises a large tent for the musicians. The local chapter starts making pimento cheese, and families volunteer to get there early and spread a blanket for the picnic they will share with neighbors they haven't seen since Christmas.
The first to arrive about an hour before the concert starts are families with children old enough to behave and . . . young enough to behave. They set up camp for the evening, laying out a kitchen, a bedroom for sleepy toddlers, and a living room for watching the show -- all on a pattern of adjoining blankets. Following the young families are the elderly couples with comfortable camp chairs and a folding table for two, complete with bud vase and wine glasses --
not plastic. Finally, those of us who forgo the picnic and some of the gnats, wander onto the Common thirty minutes ahead of the curtain and wiggle our way between family and friends. Single or in pairs, we don't take up too much room, and nobody seems to mind.
At precisely 7:30, the maestro steps forth, welcomes the townspeople to their Common and thanks them, in return, for their gracious welcome. And then. . . even the children are quiet, breathless but unsuspecting.
The conductor raises his baton . . . and the air is transformed. Not only can you hear it, you taste, smell and touch it. Your skin bristles. The grass is pungent. There's a salty zest on your tongue. Not to be outdone, the cicadas' song swells and recedes, a metronome of sorts.
It is summer. . .and there's music in the air.
We anticipate its arrival for months. Weeks ahead, the posters go up. As the day nears, the letters on the old movie house marquee announce the event, and the time and temperature display at the savings bank flashes a reminder.
We are one of the few towns in the state lucky enough to host the Symphony. With the exception of last year, townspeople have enjoyed the music for 20 straight summers. We're a charming, historic town, but we're small, hardly the sort of place you'd think would bring this renowned orchestra summer after summer.
But we do.
We invite them -- and they come. We have a secret draw, in addition to the home-cooked supper the local symphony chapter fixes for the musicians. We have the Town Common. A greensward in the middle of a forty-five block historic district, our Common is the 2nd oldest in the country -- right there behind Boston. Commons and Pops -- two things we share with Bean-town. But I digress.
The perfect venue. The town raises a large tent for the musicians. The local chapter starts making pimento cheese, and families volunteer to get there early and spread a blanket for the picnic they will share with neighbors they haven't seen since Christmas.
The first to arrive about an hour before the concert starts are families with children old enough to behave and . . . young enough to behave. They set up camp for the evening, laying out a kitchen, a bedroom for sleepy toddlers, and a living room for watching the show -- all on a pattern of adjoining blankets. Following the young families are the elderly couples with comfortable camp chairs and a folding table for two, complete with bud vase and wine glasses --
not plastic. Finally, those of us who forgo the picnic and some of the gnats, wander onto the Common thirty minutes ahead of the curtain and wiggle our way between family and friends. Single or in pairs, we don't take up too much room, and nobody seems to mind.
At precisely 7:30, the maestro steps forth, welcomes the townspeople to their Common and thanks them, in return, for their gracious welcome. And then. . . even the children are quiet, breathless but unsuspecting.
The conductor raises his baton . . . and the air is transformed. Not only can you hear it, you taste, smell and touch it. Your skin bristles. The grass is pungent. There's a salty zest on your tongue. Not to be outdone, the cicadas' song swells and recedes, a metronome of sorts.
It is summer. . .and there's music in the air.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
A Life in the (Community) Theater
June 17, 2010
It's always at this point in the production cycle that I leave the theater at 11:00 at night, shaking my head and howling to the moon that I am too old for this.
Open dress rehearsal with 5 baby spiders, 4 goslings, 5 barnyard animals (including 1 rat) and a pig. Not to mention assorted human adults and kids -- and one adult spider.
All for the love of theatre? Well, I think so. And the love of children -- young and old -- discovering it for the first or fortieth time.
Community theatre is non-professional -- meaning we aren't paid for it. "Amateur." But that should not mean of lesser quality. In fact, the word "amateur" comes from the Latin words for "to love" and "to do." Literally, it means "love what you do." In some sense, amateurs are even more dedicated to the theatre, because we aren't paid for it.
That thought, at least, is one of things that keeps me going.
That and opening night when everyone--actors, crew and audience alike--are smitten and starlit. For the love of magic.
Open dress rehearsal with 5 baby spiders, 4 goslings, 5 barnyard animals (including 1 rat) and a pig. Not to mention assorted human adults and kids -- and one adult spider.
All for the love of theatre? Well, I think so. And the love of children -- young and old -- discovering it for the first or fortieth time.
Community theatre is non-professional -- meaning we aren't paid for it. "Amateur." But that should not mean of lesser quality. In fact, the word "amateur" comes from the Latin words for "to love" and "to do." Literally, it means "love what you do." In some sense, amateurs are even more dedicated to the theatre, because we aren't paid for it.
That thought, at least, is one of things that keeps me going.
That and opening night when everyone--actors, crew and audience alike--are smitten and starlit. For the love of magic.
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