Monday night, November 17 Things are back to normal. Somewhat.
I have become so accustomed to running around at an absurd pace that the dishes are done and the kitchen swept before 11 p.m. — about three hours ahead of schedule. Now, there’s the rest of the house: Well aware of the rule of The Lost Sock (i.e., any sock missing for more than three days has been taken to sock heaven and will never be found again,) I must abandon my search for every sock Joe and Marty have worn in the past two weeks. All of Danny’s last ten meals must be removed from the kitchen floor. And if I don’t take a serious look at Bea’s schoolwork she’ll never speak to me again.
And what is the cause of all this disorder piled upon the standard chaos of our normal routine? But, of course, the fact that the mother and father of the Stout household have both had the honor of being members of The Hearse, Purse and Body Snatchers Reportory Company in its production of The Last of the Ghastleys. Fortunately Ed had a part which required very little rehearsal. Originally a no-line walk-on, through the magical powers of Rita Sweets, Ed, and Donnie Isikoff, it was somehow padded into a five minute song-and-dance routine. You just can’t keep a good man down. Or quiet. And there I was playing a kid—again. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It is simply my fondest wish to someday escape the mad typecaster and play a grown-up, even a short one.
And what did we get out of all the running around, rehearsing, filling the babysitters’ coffers? Primarily a sense of accomplishment. A month ago we were saying, “We’ll never pull it off, and anyhow this must be the most ridiculous play ever written.” Which is probably what most every cast of every Broadway show says before it opens, and sometimes even after.
I guess it would have helped if everyone had attended every rehearsal, but that’s impossible in this neighborhood. By the time we got around to last Thursday’s rehearsal things did not look terrifically promising—lines, songs, blocking messed up, if not completely forgotten. But what could we do, rent a bus and skip town? The Show Must Go On, you know, so we painted our faces green, took another quick glance at the script, and jumped out there to brave the footlights.
And I say, by George, we did it. And just what magical powers enabled us to pull it off? First, our enthusiasm and desire to entertain our neighbors and friends. But most clearly, we had a first class director. Even the great performers require good direction, and we are hardly the Old Vic company. But we are blessed with Rita Sweets. She has all the skills which one can learn through school and practice, of course. But she has, more importantly, the simple virtues of faith and patience. What really made us pull it off was Rita saying, ‘You can do it.’ Even when all visible evidence was much to the contrary. And she had the patience to wait for us to do it ourselves instead of pushing us. And with all that, she thanked us —every dumb, exhausting night, she actually said, ‘Thank you.’
I guess that’s my cue. Thank you, Rita, for making it work. And thank you neighbors for making it worth it.
Original photograph caption
Original castle illustration accompanying A Performer’s Perspective. The Paper, December 1975, page 5. Illustrator not credited.
Originally published in The Paper, December 1975.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Archival transcription note: The source prints “Reportory Company”; retained as printed.
Original source: SD_Times1975_12.pdf, printed page(s) 5; PDF page(s) 5.
