The Matinee

It’s summer: the time of baseball games, waterskiing, overnight camping, barbeques, boating and swimming and biking and . . . outdoor musicals. Brigadoon was on this year’s docket at our local theatre-in-the-forest. I’ve always like this story of a perfect place lost in the mists but for one day every hundred years. The promise of a community theater production in an outdoor setting, uncomfortably perched on wooden benches with (new this year) wooden backs, plaids and plaids and kilts and under-produced vocals was, well, almost like . . . being . . . in love.

I invited several families to join us. The one that did was the family of the girl my son had a crush on during the school year. The day promised an element of romance for my son, even though scaled back to 10-year-old romantic yearnings, which neither he nor his friend comprehend fully.

There are lovely bits and bawdy bits in this show, and my son laughed deeply at the sexual associations soaring just above his head. He’s just beginning to get the idea that something unique happens when you pair a (lusty) woman with a (love-lorn) man, sprinkle in a bit of roguish drinking, and move the whole thing to the mystical land behind the mists (or behind your parent’s bedroom door). He preened and pranced for his friend in a before-show hike, demonstrating his adventuresome spirit and skill at rock scrambling and his ability to beat her in a race back to the car. He was proving himself to her, not yet aware that his feats of bravery and skill weren't quite on her radar screen, and certainly not yet aware of the cache that awaits when a young woman does note this worthy young suitor's bravery and skill, and bestows her favor in return.

It was a matinee performance, perfect for families with kids, friends and family of the cast, and older adults. We sat in the second row. Behind an entire octogenarian first row. Old woman next to old woman next to . . . . and on and on until the one old man, then the old woman/old woman pattern repeated. Walkers, canes, silver, white and grey hair, wisps of auburn or deep russet hair combed and poofed over white, white scalps, scarves and floppy hats and one fedora (on the one old man), loud, very loud whispers about how to get back to the van . . . A group from a local retirement home that took it’s own mini-bus to the performance. These folks must have been the brightest and the best of the residents. They were mobile, alert, and dressed in their Sunday casual finery.

In our row, we were the older parents kept jauntily young by the shenanigans, friendship and courtship of our kids. I was in my Sunday casual outdoor attire -sleeveless shirt and zip-off hiking pants – surrounded by youthful gear - a backpack, snacks, water bottles, sunscreen and, yes, bug spray (toxic and natural, as I wasn’t sure which type the other family would want).

Several times during the performance I looked down the row in front and thought, this is where I’ll be sitting, not too long from now. In just a few decades, when the activity director posts the sign-up sheet for the outdoor musical matinee, I’ll be first on the list. I’ll be in that front row, tapping my feet, wearing my jaunty cape, with my too-dark tresses barely covering my aged scalp. I’ll be singing along, swaying my arthritic back to the most exciting field trip my senior center can arrange. I’ll wear layers and a big brimmed floppy hat to ward off the sun; perhaps I’ll even wear an attractive brooch. I’ll put on my finest for the chance to hear lyric versions of romantic love. I’ll remember the moments when I was like Fiona, holding out for the right love, and when I found my Tommy – the one who gave up everything to join me. Camelot, Brigadoon, Eden – I’ve tasted these mythic places on Earth, and have even broken out in song and dance. And when I’m an old lady in the front row at the summer outdoor matinee, I will savor these joys again.

And when the whole group returns to the home, well before dark, still within the early-bird dinner hours, I hope I’ll have enough energy to extend the day to dine with friends, hum tunes from the show, and talk about the youthful actors (to our group, anyone in the play will be youthful). If I get on a roll, I’ll sing a few Brigadoon verses with the ladies. Maybe I’ll even sidle up to the one old man for a duet. I’ll repeat the story of my college-era performance in a Gilbert and Sullivan show, brag about the busty-frocked, bawdy chorus wench I got to be (just like I couldn’t help tell this family, albeit a PG version boast because of the kids), despite swearing that I never want to be an old person who recycles the same worn stories over and over. Maybe I’ll even tell the story of how I used to take my son to plays and musicals and outdoor summer adventures, even once took him and a schoolgirl crush to see this very show, and how I hope those memories are alive in him somewhere, but who can understand the music these young people are listening to these days, anyway?