The Girl Who Came to Dinner

I went to a very small grade school. A school so small that it only offered one sport for girls and one sport for boys each trimester because of the inability to field more than two teams. A school so small that they took away the spring option in order to cast the annual school play. And a school so small that everyone always made the team, and there was always room for everyone to participate in the play, even if they were relegated to Lights or Stage Crew. But despite the size, there were only so many starting spots, and even fewer speaking roles. My goal was to get them.

The sports thing came easy. I was an athlete in a somewhat non-athletic school. I was good at field hockey and I could dribble and pass a basketball (the whole shooting thing was another story) so I became a key contributor on the field and the court.

What came easier to me was drama! Performing, theatrically acting, hamming it up, making an entrance and making em laugh, taking my bows and devouring the applause came even more naturally to me. Call it middle child syndrome, but I embraced the spot light, laughed in the face of stage fright, clamored for attention, and tapped, sang, and recited my troubles away from the kindergarten on. I believed that the annual school play was made for me.

The swan song of the academic calendar was put on by the seventh and eighth graders and produced, cast, and directed by the one and only Charlie, Chaplain, DJ, Radio Host, Teacher of Bible and Theology, Performing Arts and Appreciation, and 20th Century Social Issues (in your school you might have called these classes "religion," "theater," and "social studies"), giver of A+s to the infinity power, director of screw ball comedic school plays, and father of five children.

When I hit the seventh grade, I counted down the minutes of my field hockey and basketball games, anticipating try-outs for the play. Long gone were the days of the amateur Earth Day and Grandparents and Special Friends Day plays, the school play was the big leagues. And this was my chance to shine - to show them that I was bound for big things. The play was Don't Drink the Water, and I got the role of Susan. I wanted to be Marion - I thought I deserved Marion, but as a seventh grader, I was demoted, and worse than that I had to do my first stage kiss. Ew. Fine. Eighth grade would be my year.

Charlie Appel, Director picked The Man Who Came to Dinner the following year, and I hadn't seen him that excited about a theatrical choice since Arsenic and Old Lace circa 1993. (My sister's epic fifteen minutes of fame.)

I got the script and immediately identified the character with the most lines. Maggie. She would be mine. Try-outs. These consisted of an after-school gathering in the auditorium for all interested seventh and eighth graders (which was all 40 of us.) Charlie would mix and match who read what, and quietly take notes. That girl can't speak above a raspy whisper. That boy still can't read. She doesn't look the part. That boy's mom is the head of the PTA. Seriously, Lauren, tone it down a notch.

After try-outs, I remember Dan and Paul B. and Paul L. telling me I was a shoe-in. That I would certainly be cast as Maggie while they tried to figure out which one of them would make the best Sheridan Whiteside. By the end of that week, the list was up, except my name wasn't next to Maggie. It was next to Lorraine Sheldon. I didn't even remember what her role was in the play. It couldn't be right. What the F?!

I went home that night and highlighted my lines. Not as many as Maggie, but still a lot - three big scenes. And the next day at practice, I figured something out. I had THE role. See Maggie lacked in dimensionality - any girl that could project her voice, stand up straight, and read well could have been her. But only I could have played Lorraine with panache. She was the scene stealer. And when I came out on stage for the first time on opening night, and people laughed and clapped at my first line, I thought, wow - this is amazing.

I haven't had a role that good since. Mavis, in Mavis Turner's Tappers couldn't even compare. It was the epitome of my short-lived acting career, and to this day, I don't think I will ever have the same sweet acting satisfaction that I felt when I was locked in the mummy case at the end of the play.

Every so once in a while, I still catch myself saying a couple of lines in my head. "Sherry, my sweet! Oh darling, look that poor sweet tortured face, let me kiss it." And reminiscing. Which is exactly what  I found myself doing last night, as I made final preparations for our very special dinner guest.

Last night, a man didn't come to dinner. (Well, my brother did, but he was cast more along the lines of Bert, the nice, dutiful newspaper man.) A little girl did. And man, did she steal the show. 

Peter and I played the role of the hospitable Stanleys, ever excited for her arrival. Luckily the girl didn't fall on the way into the house. But she did get a little sick once inside.

And all night long - she hammed it up.

And held court. And entertained us. And made us laugh.

She even did a little slapstick with the football.

Set hike!

Come on, get down field - here it comes!

At the end, I only wished that the girl who came to dinner could have made up an excuse a la Sheridan Whiteside to stay longer.

Way better than acting these days is playing the role of Aunt. And last night, scene four, was as sweet as ever. Miss Lyla, you are always welcome at our dinner table. And I can't wait to teach you how to take a bow. (It's much better than falling asleep at the end of your performance.)

Lo.