The Play's the Thing

Sometimes I feel like a kid that just fell in love and feels that it is necessary to brag about every little thing they have in common with the special person they’ve just met.

The problem is that I’m 46 years old, have lived in Cheshire county for five years, and am a little slow on the uptake.

The coincidence I’d like to boast about is that I only recently noticed that I moved from “Balconville” to “Our Town.”

I spent 20 years living in Verdun which was the setting for David Fennario’s award winning play that portrayed the common experience of Quebec’s english and french working class.

Balconville enjoyed a larger than life celebrity for it’s “realistic” bilingual dialogue and depiction of neighbors struggling through the shared stresses of their minimum wage lives.

I met Fennario in 1983. A two beer and plate of french fries interview for a college English assignment led to being actively involved in his Black Rock Community Center.

For a few years David called me “the kid poet” and I called him “Bertolt” (Brecht).

My work at the center focused less on achieving his political goals and more on helping local artists get noticed through organizing art exhibits, poetry and prose readings, as well as running a day care program for single mothers.

Every now and then I would dabble with acting and stage managing, taking on roles in David’s grass roots theater productions.

Other experiences in my less than fledgling acting career include playing Don in David Mamet’s American Buffalo, and Harold Jamieson in Patrick Meyer’s K2 in college presentations.

I also had the pleasure of being Tom, the human prop who briefly roams around the stage representing the transition of time in Helene Hanff’s “84 Charing Cross Road” at Montreal’s illustrious Centaur Theater.

It was at the Centaur that I was invited by owner Maurice Podbury to study at Canada’s National Theater school. For the life of me I cannot explain why I turned down his generous offer, mumbling some lame excuse that I didn’t want to live a gypsy’s life. It was an absurd decision considering that I decided a few weeks later to move to a very small, remote town in northern Ontario to work in a sawmill for two years to earn enough money to pay off my school loans.

Aside from reading the odd book and lazily attempting to write two stage plays entitled “Pot Luck” and “Patio Lanterns,” and making the effort to see some off off off off off off Broadway shows whenever I visit New York City I haven’t really had anything to do with the theater for about 20 years.

About a year ago I was motivated to read Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town” after deciding to write one of my satirical letters to the editor.

I had caught wind that Peterborough’s Chamber of Commerce was entertaining the possibility of changing the town’s motto when replacing their gateway signs.

Of course I couldn’t refuse making suggestions like, "We Make Baskets and Bearings Here" or "Home of Puppet Parades and Rubber Duck Races,” as well as "Home to Old Hippies, Some Tree Huggers, And a Dog Called Spud."

I also made it clear that I supported the fact that the committee favored the “Our Town” tribute. It would be ridiculous to let go of such a great distinction.

Moving to Peterborough and realizing the connection between a community that is proud of being represented as a backdrop for a popular piece of literature lends a full circle sense of comfort to this artsy kind of guy who has chosen this town as the place he can permanently call his home.

I wish I could have been able to attend the Peterborough Player’s latest production of Our Town.

The current economic situation is threatening my trade and my company has laid off some employees. One must guard his finances in trying times.

It’s a shame. I would have loved to have seen Mr. Whitmore on stage in Wilder’s classic.

Instead I’ll settle for my imagination’s interpretation of his words.

It’s amusing that I have settled for and take great pride in my contribution to the local theater scene.

About once a week someone stops on the road and leans out of the window of their car and politely asks me for directions to the playhouse. Each time I smile, let them know where they made the wrong turn, instruct them to follow a series of landmarks to their destination and wish them a good evening at the show. Then I take a small bow, return to my garden, or the meal sizzling on my barbeque grill and grin at how much I enjoy these little moments that happen in my life.