ON STAGE

I go through long, dry spells when it comes to writing for my blog. This dearth of sitting down and formally putting together a polished blog has nothing to do with the ideas and thoughts running through my head. I have plenty of those. 

I record all of my daily gratitude, angsty vents, and general 'how is my life going?' insights in my daily journal. I don’t polish those or even bother to edit. Those are for me. My blog, Time and Space, is also for me, but I enjoy sharing it with anyone who wants to stop by for a quick read, whether that's one person or one hundred. But, even if no one ever reads it, whatever I have created always remains there for me.

When I write a blog, I step onto a stage of my own making, a place where I channel my energy and creativity. The blog is a stage on which I engage with the world, holding a mirror up to reflect what I am seeing or experiencing back upon itself.

I drove to Wellsburg on this warm mid-August evening to visit another stage, one snugly housed inside an old barn in a park nestled in the hills of Wellsburg, West Virginia.

This trip marked the third time I visited Brooke Hills Playhouse this summer. I should have bought season tickets. I came for the final show of the season, the first one directed by my friend Bill since he and his wife, Heather, moved back to Weirton from San Diego after he retired from teaching.

If you have never been to a Brooke Hills production, you may be somewhat shocked that the entire production is in a converted barn. Over thirty years ago, when I first heard about Brooke Hills Playhouse being in a barn, visions of cows standing beside the audience with hay stuffed in lofts above the stage confused my young mind. I have always had a strange imagination.

The Playhouse is old, yes. You cannot help but notice that driving up for the first time when you see the wooden steps that lead you to the theater itself. When you sit down, you can see the braces and inner architecture of a barn. The seats and stage appear to be magically dropped into the middle of this odd setting, creating a uniquely fascinating and memorable experience. 

If you have the chance to talk to anyone who acts in the plays, works the concessions, or takes the tickets, I am sure they will have their own personal memories of the 54-year-old tradition of Brooke Hills Playhouse. Bill has shared his tales of working there for twenty-five dollars a week throughout the summer in between semesters at West Liberty State College. 

“Shags,” Bill smiled as he greeted visitors at the bottom of the wooden steps leading up to the theater. “I didn’t think you were coming this weekend.”

I shrugged my shoulders and said it seemed like a good night. “I hope this is good. Did you work out any issues from opening night?” 

“I hope so,” he laughed and brushed off my usual sarcasm. “We can talk after the show.” 

I grabbed my ticket, then glanced over to the concession stand where a popcorn machine was situated. I knew the aroma of fresh and hot popcorn would waft throughout the barn by the end of the first act. Simple things, like freshly popped popcorn, make me happy. 

I made my way to my usual seat, up the stairs to the right, and second row from the back. My seat had a great view with a tad extra leg room, nearly underneath the ceiling fan. I rumbled through the program, reading the actor bios and the community advertisements. Soon, the lights dimmed, and the play began.

A woman came over the speakers in the barn, welcoming everyone to the Playhouse and to the last show of the 54th season. She reminded people of exits and the importance of not using photography. Of course, the final message is the best: please refrain from unwrapping candy during the show, as it causes a distraction. I am sure there is a good anecdote related to this in the Playhouse’s storied tradition.

Back in May, I sat in the same seat while watching Steel Magnolias. The air was so crisp and cool back then; many people wore jackets or hoodies. A month or so later, Brooke Hills Playhouse presented a hilarious musical, 9 to 5, during one of the summer's heat waves. The cast’s passionate performance only added more intensity to the barn. I was so glad I brought a cheap fan to hang around my neck. I reminded myself to sit still because I could stay cooler then. God blesses those actors up there performing their hearts out in full costume and make-up. 

This last play of the season, Always a Bridesmaid, had a perfect night with temperatures in the mid-60s. I followed the play, recognizing the stage blocking technique that Bill and I had learned from John Reilly when we were Hilltop Players at West Liberty. At least, I hope that I recognized what I saw. I asked Bill about the technique during intermission. He laughed and said, “Yeah, Shags. That’s it.” I think he was messing with me, though.

Seeing these three plays over the summer triggered some long-forgotten memories from my time on stage. Thirty years ago, I found the theater as a place to channel my creativity. The stage was a place where I could be part of a cast telling a story about life, one that would transport both actors and audience to another place beyond the present. Back then, I fed on that energy, developing the confidence to be in front of an audience and to make them feel a part of the playwright’s vision, just as I was while standing on the stage.

I dug a little deeper into the memories, relating so many ideas to the actors I had seen on stage all summer. I felt the joy in their performances, the commitment to memorize lines, to rehearse after long days at work, leaving family, pets, and a comfortable bed at home for over a month. I am well past stepping on a stage like this again. However, actors continue to do so year after year in community theaters all across the country, especially here in a barn deep in the hills of the Northern Panhandle of West Virginia. 

We all need them to continue being part of our world. We need stories about losing a loved one unexpectedly, the nurturing value of rich friendships, the challenges of standing up for ourselves for the first time, and the feeling of being okay with our own life choices. When the actors embrace their own creativity, they give us a window to view a world similar to one we have experienced, but this time, from the outside looking in. They give us a chance to escape the daily dose of discontent with the world in which we live now.

That’s where creativity is multifaceted. As I said earlier, I write for myself when I write for my blog, just as I enjoyed being on the stage back in college. Just like the actors take their stage for themselves because it is cathartic, fun, and a means of creative expression. The musician and the painter do the same thing. Sharing what we have created is about offering our voice to an audience. The play, the blog, the song, and the painting are what we feel, what we think, what we want you to understand as part of the great expanse of the human heart. 

You can still catch the last show next weekend.

Picture Credits

Barn on Cover - The Intelligencer/The News Register

Brooke Hills Playhouse Facebook

My Phone

A SPECIAL BREAKFAST

Saturday morning breakfasts were always a big thing for Mom. There is nothing wrong with a simple plate of scrambled eggs and ham on a Sunday morning after church, but she always liked having that bigger, special midday meal on Sundays. Saturday mornings are when the good stuff happened, a celebration to kick off the weekend. Start big on Saturday and end with a bang on Sunday, with plenty of snacking in between.

I grew restless a couple of Saturdays ago. Since last summer, I hadn't made a big breakfast, the kind that Mom enjoyed. Sure, I would make a quick breakfast burrito or a bagel with cream cheese, but not one of Mom's favorites. Sometimes, I am stuck in a rut and ask myself why I should bother. Grab a quick bowl of cereal or some fruit in my stomach, and I am off to take a mid-morning nap before I settle into whatever chores I have on my weekend to-do list.

This particular Saturday, I had no Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in the refrigerator, the smell that constantly stirred everyone in the house with their fresh-baked aroma. I rummaged through the cupboard of cake mixes and canned goods to find something mom would have liked. I found two boxes of Betty Crocker blueberry muffin mix nearing expiration dates, but I didn't have any fresh blueberries to put into the batter the way Mom would. I finally found a box of Kodiak waffle mix and a can of blueberry pie filling; I was ready to make the Saturday morning breakfast treat Mom loved. 

This treat takes me back to North Carolina. A fellow teacher and I were bored one Saturday morning and headed to Raleigh for breakfast at an IHOP.  She ordered a waffle with blueberry compote on top, asking the waiter to substitute the whipped cream topping for a side of sour cream. I was aghast. Sour cream with blueberries? Isn’t sour cream for a baked potato? Surprisingly, I tried this combination of sour cream and blueberries on my waffles and have become an avid fan. 

On one of my trips home, I went to Denny’s in St. Clairsville with Mom and my aunt and uncle. I confidently ordered a waffle with blueberry topping and a side of sour cream - hold the whipped cream.  They all raised their eyebrows, as shocked as I was at IHOP, wondering what in the world I was doing putting sour cream on the blueberry topping of my waffle. Of course, I generously offered them a small taste, converting Mom forever. 

I pulled out the small waffle maker from underneath the oven, lodged behind the toaster and mixing bowls, which I used far more regularly.  I wiped the remnants of unuse from the cover and plugged the waffle maker into the outlet to ensure it still heated. I mixed the waffle batter, adding an egg and milk to make it even more flavorful. 

I cracked open the can of blueberry pie filling, which was not quite blueberry compote but still damned good with sour cream. As my waffle baked, I set a place for one at the kitchen table. Mom may not be here this Saturday morning, but I would be civilized and eat at the table rather than under a blanket while watching TV in the living room. I had my coffee mug and place setting organized. Fork on the left, knife and spoon on the right, a bowl of blueberry topping at 10:00, and a fresh container of sour cream at 2:00.

The waffle maker clicked as the red light blinked out, and I slowly lifted the lid to find a beautiful waffle. I struggled to maintain my effort at etiquette as I jammed a fork into the waffle to carry it from the counter to my plate on the table- so much for the decorum.

Mom would always carefully spread butter across her waffle before adding small dollops of blueberry topping and sour cream to each corner. I am my mother's son, but I had a whole can of blueberry pie filling and a fresh container of sour cream. I did not need to share either one with anyone. So I covered my waffle with several heaping spoonfuls of blueberry and a huge swath of sour cream. 

For some reason, I act like a hungry dog who ate his last meal days ago, as if someone is lurking behind me, ready to snatch my plate as I lift the fork to my mouth. Mom would always shake her head, pausing between her smaller bites to lovingly advise me,  “Slow down and chew your food.” I would put down my fork, cross my arms, and then reach out for a sip of coffee. Once I returned to eating again, I would join the rhythm of her eating, savoring the taste of the food and so much more.

On this morning, I sat at Mom's seat in front of the big window overlooking the backyard. I slowly used my knife and fork to cut my waffle into smaller, bite-sized pieces. I ate slowly, taking an occasional drink of coffee. My special breakfast seemed endless as I read the paper while I ate, thinking about the day ahead and looking out the window to see birds flying by the window to land on the bird feeder. My waffle with blueberry topping and sour cream tasted so good.