While I struggled to pursue a career in New York, my mother has emerged as a hot commodity in the Ashtabula County community theatre scene.  Known for portraying a range of characters, including, but not limited to, Clairee in Steel Magnolias, Vi in Footloose, and (in sari and full body makeup) the Ayah in Secret Garden.  Twice.  My mother has fully reclaimed my old stomping grounds, and she relates the latest news more diligently than I maintain this blog.

I am frequently reminded of my humble beginnings.  And as I traverse the nation with a Disney mega-musical,  I am struck by both the similarities and the differences between the two stages.

1.  Call times.  In Ashtabula I arrived at the theatre roughly an hour before the show began.  I have no idea what I did with my time.  Oh, wait, yes, I do.  We would have enormous cast volleyball games that would end when the stage manager called half hour.  Then presumably I would chew the fat with my friends while “getting ready.”  I would have had one costume that most likely belonged either to me or one of my sisters.  My makeup would have been an exaggeration of my street makeup.  The show always started on the stroke of eight.

At Mary Poppins I roll in approximately three seconds before half hour, which is absolutely the latest I can get to the theatre without being fined by Actors’ Equity.  Even though I have a full makeup plot, 2 layers of costumes, a corset, a microphone and a wig to put on, I rarely start actually getting ready until 15 minutes before curtain.  Which brings me to my next point:

2.  Places.  In Ashtabula stage managers called places by physically announcing entering the dressing room and bellowing “Places!”  Maybe my memory fails me and they called it through a closed door… was there a speaker system?  Anyway, we got an inordinate amount of calls.  They would call half hour, then 15, then 10, then 5, then places.  Each time everyone in the dressing room would respond in unison:  “Thank you, ten” or “Thank you, five,” et cetera.  This was to assure the SM that we had heard the call.

At Poppins we get 15, then 5, then places.  The announcements are made over a loudspeaker, so nobody calls out “Thank you, five!”  If only we did.  Every night at least one person will go, “Did we get 15?”  At five minutes I throw on my robe, wander into wigs to get my hair on, then meander backstage, where my dresser zips, latches and prods me into costume.  Places is usually called as I’m throwing my second skirt over my head.  I pin on my hat, grab my flask (it’s a prop, people), and join the other actors onstage.  Without fail we are left to chat for several minutes until stage management is sure we’re all there.  Most Broadway shows start a healthy six minutes past the hour.

3.  The cast.  Once the show is underway, the basic experience is the same.  Doing a musical in the summer at 16 is more fun, of course, than doing a musical as a job.  But there’s a similar amount of onstage flubs and backstage tomfoolery.   It’s got to be one of the most fun jobs in the world, even if I literally have to don a monkey suit to do it.   But whether you’re doing it for a paycheck or doing it for fun, the people are the same.

When I was considering/trying to leave the business, a friend of mine said that I belong among literary people.  When she said it I agreed with her.  But as the days went on, her comment  stuck in my head.  It didn’t sit well with me.  I knew in my soul that I belonged with theatre people.  I belong to a tribe of loud, irreverent, emotional, playful, whimsical people.  They speak a language I have always understood, embodying a type of craziness that to me needs no explanation.  We’re a lovable, free-spirited, and slightly obnoxious breed.  Most of the time, we’re damn funny.   And just as Penny was Desmond’s “constant” on Lost, keeping him tethered no matter what the year or place, theeatre people are my constant, whether I’m on stage in Portland, Costa Mesa, or Ashtabula, Ohio.

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