"Twenty-seven years ago, we were doing this, H.!" I nudge my friend in the ribs.
"More like forty years ago, Minns..." she laughs as the line moves forward.
"Hey, Ms. Minns, so good to see you!"
"Hi Ms. Minns!"
"Ms. Minns, you made it!"
I wink, touch a shoulder and move through the crowd of high schoolers and their parents, all in the ticket line.
"You already have your tickets, right?" H. asks me, suddenly worried. "If they don't have your tickets, I'll buy my own--" H. sets her jaw. (She is gainfully employed as a real-life teacher in Worcester...she's arrived. I'm still "arriving". She knows she may have to pay her own way--as well as mine...)
"No, they'll have them," I insist, praying. "They got me to be a sponsor--kinda last minute, though. I guess the tickets are upfront."
I feel my face flaming beet-red, as the nearest parents begin to listen.
"Name please?" the ticket lady asks, thumbing through the shoebox of envelopes.
"Uh, Minns--" (I feel like a rube at my first Broadway show. How embarrassing if they forgot my tickets! No way--I bought they from Capt. Von Trapp, himself...)
For a second, the ticket lady looks as concerned--then sighs with relief ."Oh, yes, Karen, right? Here they are!" The woman beams, handing me the envelope with my name printed across. "Enjoy!"
H. and I exhale.
H. hands me a copy of the program.
I try not to be obvious as I scan the list of "sponsors".
(I don't see my name...)
"Ms. Minns--you actually made it, tonight!" a student usher takes my tickets, grinning. Her "Madonna microphone" is caught in a long curl. "There are sponsor seats in the center."
(I am a sponsor; I laid out my donation; but I'm not on the list...will we be further embarrassed and asked to re-seat ourselves if we sit in the wrong aisle? God, High School never changes!)
"Wow, when WE did the show, there was NO sound-system..." H. (an original cast-member back then--one of the children--and again, in the community college's production, ten years later) comments. (I know this is bringing up all sorts of nostalgia for her, too.)
"Times do change, Minnsie," she sighs.
Off to her left, she begins a conversation with a couple I don't know. (The man looks to be about seventy--the woman fifteen years younger.) I busy myself with the program.
"Do you know who that is?" H. grabs my elbow and squeezes.
"Nope." (Still scanning the program, I find that I am, indeed, on the sponsor list. However, they've mispelled my name.)
"That's OUR original Capt. Von Trapp! Remember what a hunk he used to be?" H. whispers.
(I do remember: football captain; six feet plus of pure muscle; great voice; had everyone swooning.)
"Of course, we all look different with a complete head of hair," H. waxes philosophic.
(I cough, brushing my hand over my own one-inch spikes.)
Suddenly, the orchestra walks in.
(In our day, there was a full orchestra--complete with strings. A handful of the high school's best musicians were asked to play alongside professionals, who had been paid for their three night run. It was a huge deal for the students.)
Tonight, there are five guys in black shirts and pants.
Two are students I've had in my classes. (They make up the percussion section.)
Two adults play keyboards.
The fifth member is the Conductor--the band director for the high school.
"Hey, at least they have a sound system!" H. nudges me in the darkening hall.
Forty years ago: the rising swell of the overture poured out from the pit.The feeling of being on Broadway--or at least in Boston--took us over.
Forty years ago: rented sets (that we had paid a small ransom for), and rented costumes and professionally painted backdrops, filled the stage. I noticed each shining detail back then, as it was my first time being a member of the stage- crew--pulling the mighty curtain and helping to set lights for weeks. I was taught that everything depended on my getting the timing right--or fitting a gel correctly. (I believed it, too.) The entire production on my fourteen year old shoulders...
I remember the dramas that plagued the cast--how we revolved around their inflated lives for those months of rehearsal--how the primary cast members became romantic community icons for an entire year--whomever they were dating, or breaking up with, or upset at, becoming fodder for all of our conversations, both in school and outside. The only "social networking" were whispered rumors and hallway gossip--always tantalizing--always thrilling--fillling our lives with angst and emotion!
(I also remember having to go into the mighty Massachusetts winter; being bullied into selling tickets every weekend, to pay for the extravaganza.) Our director was a task-master; a bit of a meglomaniac--he would not allow an unsold performance on his watch. So, we assailed the neighboring communities, risking dog-bites and slammed doors, assuring people they'd miss a masterpiece of theatre if they didn't buy at least one seat.)
As kids from a football-only- town, we were sucked into the romance. It was a matter of pride and social cache, to be associated with the musical. Those were the days when Gardner was known, without irony, as "The Chair City of the World".
Looking back, I wonder: whose aim did we serve? How many of us truly prospered under that stress?
It wasn't until college, where I began to be cast as a primary player, on-stage. In California, too, I had my taste of being a minor star--but never in high school.
I was not a member of the beautiful set, nor the musically gifted-- I felt that lack, for years. (Still, I found a niche-- my starry-eyed, starring-role friends never held it against me.)
Forty years later, I wonder, how many of these cast members will continue on? How many chorus members will dream of being leading ladies? How many stage-crew will swallow their dreams? ( Or, does any of this matter, anymore?) Am I nostalgic or bitter? I weigh it out...
The orchestra, though minimal, helps carry the voices. The students are bright eyed and earnest and some of them can really sing. Most impressive: the dutiful chorus of nuns--filling the live auditorium with Gregorian Chant. (Did our nuns do as well?) Certainly, there are fewer in this present-day production.
Another difference I can't fail to notice: in our day, no one was allowed backstage until the performance was through. No actors --not even a chorus member--could so much as peek at the audience. If anyone dared to join the audience while still in costume, well, that person was struck from the cast. We were to act as "professionals".
Was this maniacal? Necessary? Did it add to the community's enjoyment of the musical? Did it add to our understanding and appreciation of theatre? (At the time, we seemed under the spell of this man. He represented the dreams we shared of leaving central Massachusetts and conquering the world. I only began to question his authority as a Senior--when I was tired of being forever relegated to the stage-crew, and never given an opportunity to act. But that was more my ego than his, I fear.) I wonder, if forty years later, such high anxiety and power-struggles still exist behind those curtains? (If this is so, will kids be better or worse for it?)
No one famous came out of our marathons.
Most of us fled the town and moved on to other dramas in the world.
A few of us returned to witness the reprise--by chance. (Only, by chance.)
(I do not feel forty years older.)
Kids are beaming as they take their bows.
Parents hug and smile and pass out bouquets bought at Price Chopper and Stop and Shop (some with the sticky price tags still clinging to the plastic wrap)--but no less thrilling to the young actors.
Though forty years earlier we might have had a choreographer, no one giggled this time, when Capt. Von Trapp awkwardly kissed Maria. The audience held its breath--as it should.
(In the end, there was a standing ovation, even as there had been, in my day.) It was just as heart-felt.
The staff, and teachers in attendance, were just as proud--even if there seemed to be fewer of them.
I'm sure there were arguments about cast party attendance and missed dinners and forgotten homework. (Yes, they could have done without the spotty sound system. Better lighting design would also have helped.) However, the magic of theatre, for all of those involved, hasn't diminished.
(Even if the world of the Von Trapp Family Singers seems farther away.)
"Forty years, Minns--" H. squeezes my arm as we saunter back to my Subaru.
"Shit! We left the overhead light on!"
(I pray the engine will start and I can get her home.)
Some things never change.
"More like forty years ago, Minns..." she laughs as the line moves forward.
"Hey, Ms. Minns, so good to see you!"
"Hi Ms. Minns!"
"Ms. Minns, you made it!"
I wink, touch a shoulder and move through the crowd of high schoolers and their parents, all in the ticket line.
"You already have your tickets, right?" H. asks me, suddenly worried. "If they don't have your tickets, I'll buy my own--" H. sets her jaw. (She is gainfully employed as a real-life teacher in Worcester...she's arrived. I'm still "arriving". She knows she may have to pay her own way--as well as mine...)
"No, they'll have them," I insist, praying. "They got me to be a sponsor--kinda last minute, though. I guess the tickets are upfront."
I feel my face flaming beet-red, as the nearest parents begin to listen.
"Name please?" the ticket lady asks, thumbing through the shoebox of envelopes.
"Uh, Minns--" (I feel like a rube at my first Broadway show. How embarrassing if they forgot my tickets! No way--I bought they from Capt. Von Trapp, himself...)
For a second, the ticket lady looks as concerned--then sighs with relief ."Oh, yes, Karen, right? Here they are!" The woman beams, handing me the envelope with my name printed across. "Enjoy!"
H. and I exhale.
H. hands me a copy of the program.
I try not to be obvious as I scan the list of "sponsors".
(I don't see my name...)
"Ms. Minns--you actually made it, tonight!" a student usher takes my tickets, grinning. Her "Madonna microphone" is caught in a long curl. "There are sponsor seats in the center."
(I am a sponsor; I laid out my donation; but I'm not on the list...will we be further embarrassed and asked to re-seat ourselves if we sit in the wrong aisle? God, High School never changes!)
"Wow, when WE did the show, there was NO sound-system..." H. (an original cast-member back then--one of the children--and again, in the community college's production, ten years later) comments. (I know this is bringing up all sorts of nostalgia for her, too.)
"Times do change, Minnsie," she sighs.
Off to her left, she begins a conversation with a couple I don't know. (The man looks to be about seventy--the woman fifteen years younger.) I busy myself with the program.
"Do you know who that is?" H. grabs my elbow and squeezes.
"Nope." (Still scanning the program, I find that I am, indeed, on the sponsor list. However, they've mispelled my name.)
"That's OUR original Capt. Von Trapp! Remember what a hunk he used to be?" H. whispers.
(I do remember: football captain; six feet plus of pure muscle; great voice; had everyone swooning.)
"Of course, we all look different with a complete head of hair," H. waxes philosophic.
(I cough, brushing my hand over my own one-inch spikes.)
Suddenly, the orchestra walks in.
(In our day, there was a full orchestra--complete with strings. A handful of the high school's best musicians were asked to play alongside professionals, who had been paid for their three night run. It was a huge deal for the students.)
Tonight, there are five guys in black shirts and pants.
Two are students I've had in my classes. (They make up the percussion section.)
Two adults play keyboards.
The fifth member is the Conductor--the band director for the high school.
"Hey, at least they have a sound system!" H. nudges me in the darkening hall.
Forty years ago: the rising swell of the overture poured out from the pit.The feeling of being on Broadway--or at least in Boston--took us over.
Forty years ago: rented sets (that we had paid a small ransom for), and rented costumes and professionally painted backdrops, filled the stage. I noticed each shining detail back then, as it was my first time being a member of the stage- crew--pulling the mighty curtain and helping to set lights for weeks. I was taught that everything depended on my getting the timing right--or fitting a gel correctly. (I believed it, too.) The entire production on my fourteen year old shoulders...
I remember the dramas that plagued the cast--how we revolved around their inflated lives for those months of rehearsal--how the primary cast members became romantic community icons for an entire year--whomever they were dating, or breaking up with, or upset at, becoming fodder for all of our conversations, both in school and outside. The only "social networking" were whispered rumors and hallway gossip--always tantalizing--always thrilling--fillling our lives with angst and emotion!
(I also remember having to go into the mighty Massachusetts winter; being bullied into selling tickets every weekend, to pay for the extravaganza.) Our director was a task-master; a bit of a meglomaniac--he would not allow an unsold performance on his watch. So, we assailed the neighboring communities, risking dog-bites and slammed doors, assuring people they'd miss a masterpiece of theatre if they didn't buy at least one seat.)
As kids from a football-only- town, we were sucked into the romance. It was a matter of pride and social cache, to be associated with the musical. Those were the days when Gardner was known, without irony, as "The Chair City of the World".
Looking back, I wonder: whose aim did we serve? How many of us truly prospered under that stress?
It wasn't until college, where I began to be cast as a primary player, on-stage. In California, too, I had my taste of being a minor star--but never in high school.
I was not a member of the beautiful set, nor the musically gifted-- I felt that lack, for years. (Still, I found a niche-- my starry-eyed, starring-role friends never held it against me.)
Forty years later, I wonder, how many of these cast members will continue on? How many chorus members will dream of being leading ladies? How many stage-crew will swallow their dreams? ( Or, does any of this matter, anymore?) Am I nostalgic or bitter? I weigh it out...
The orchestra, though minimal, helps carry the voices. The students are bright eyed and earnest and some of them can really sing. Most impressive: the dutiful chorus of nuns--filling the live auditorium with Gregorian Chant. (Did our nuns do as well?) Certainly, there are fewer in this present-day production.
Another difference I can't fail to notice: in our day, no one was allowed backstage until the performance was through. No actors --not even a chorus member--could so much as peek at the audience. If anyone dared to join the audience while still in costume, well, that person was struck from the cast. We were to act as "professionals".
Was this maniacal? Necessary? Did it add to the community's enjoyment of the musical? Did it add to our understanding and appreciation of theatre? (At the time, we seemed under the spell of this man. He represented the dreams we shared of leaving central Massachusetts and conquering the world. I only began to question his authority as a Senior--when I was tired of being forever relegated to the stage-crew, and never given an opportunity to act. But that was more my ego than his, I fear.) I wonder, if forty years later, such high anxiety and power-struggles still exist behind those curtains? (If this is so, will kids be better or worse for it?)
No one famous came out of our marathons.
Most of us fled the town and moved on to other dramas in the world.
A few of us returned to witness the reprise--by chance. (Only, by chance.)
(I do not feel forty years older.)
Kids are beaming as they take their bows.
Parents hug and smile and pass out bouquets bought at Price Chopper and Stop and Shop (some with the sticky price tags still clinging to the plastic wrap)--but no less thrilling to the young actors.
Though forty years earlier we might have had a choreographer, no one giggled this time, when Capt. Von Trapp awkwardly kissed Maria. The audience held its breath--as it should.
(In the end, there was a standing ovation, even as there had been, in my day.) It was just as heart-felt.
The staff, and teachers in attendance, were just as proud--even if there seemed to be fewer of them.
I'm sure there were arguments about cast party attendance and missed dinners and forgotten homework. (Yes, they could have done without the spotty sound system. Better lighting design would also have helped.) However, the magic of theatre, for all of those involved, hasn't diminished.
(Even if the world of the Von Trapp Family Singers seems farther away.)
"Forty years, Minns--" H. squeezes my arm as we saunter back to my Subaru.
"Shit! We left the overhead light on!"
(I pray the engine will start and I can get her home.)
Some things never change.
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