For the last two and a half years, Theater Schmeater has taken up more of my time than my wife should have allowed, perhaps more than I should have committed, perhaps more than any sane person in my financial state should even consider. (And never as much time as T Laz) Mainstream rationality has never been my strong point. As with anything worth doing, my time at The Schmee has been up and down, filled with minor and major skirmishes, misunderstandings, group hugs, pinched bottoms, tears of laughter and cries of sheer utter disbelief. All of these more than justify the effort.

But the best times, the times that have renewed my often frayed passion for the theatre, have been the two park shows that I worked on. The first year was as “house manager” and technical helper, and last year as “scene designer” and, vaguely, as an actor (I am loath to use that term for what I did, although to be fair what I did was done in front of an audience. I like to think that they were laughing with me. It allows me to sleep on some nights.) Both shows reminded me what it was about the theatre that so infected me more than three decades ago.

Perhaps it was the park setting, where the audience was unconstrained by seats or walls. Perhaps it was the element of a freely shared experience with the audience, untainted by an exchange of anything more than their attention to our efforts. Perhaps it was because deep in our roots, going back through Shakespeare and Plautus, through recitations of the Iliad and the story of Gilgamesh, story telling has been an outdoor experience, under the sky, at the whimsical mercy of weather and animals. It was basic, joyful, raw.

The Schmee opens The Sorcerer’s Apprentice this weekend. I am not very involved this year due to many things, but I do miss being in the show this year. I will miss the lazy Sunday afternoons, family’s strolling down the glade toward the stage, a crowd magically forming in the shade. I will miss the occasional sleeper basking in the sun, the occasional stoner trying to assimilate, the blankets spread out, baskets full of goodies. I will miss the wide eyed child, four or five years old, apprehensively approaching the stage, and knowing deep down, the bug has bitten her. All of her parents’ hopes and aspirations for her, as a lawyer or a doctor, or a first lady, dashed in a moment of awe. I will miss seeing the constant re-birth of my kind.

DS