We Were in the Room Where It Happened

Boy#4, MQB, Boy #3. And some unnamed statue.

In the 48 hours since I posted this photo on my Facebook page, I've been asked perhaps two dozen times what I thought of Hamilton, and I've replied with perhaps two dozen different answers.

Unbelievable.

Rave, rave, rave, rave, rave.

Best money I've ever spent.

And while that last review was a bit of an exaggeration (there's a lot of competition for that title) I can say without hesitation that I do not regret a penny of the not-insignificant expense or a minute of the five hours we drove to the venue.

For years I had listened first to the buzz, then to the soundtrack, then to the friends who had seen a live performance of Hamilton. So when the traveling production came to Boy#4's city and he and Boy#3 invited Husband and me to join them for a Sunday matinee, I didn't hesitate. Yes, I wanted to go. Husband, who prefers a good TCM festival to rapped history, decided on a trip to Lowe's instead.

From the moment the first note was sung I felt my face split into a grin that was almost painfully large. During the next three hours I was amazed, thrilled, irritated (high school girls who love soundtracks should be segregated in a soundproof booth rather than seated behind crabby old me who doesn't want to hear them sing along), and was reminded that live theatre is a special kind of magic.

What kind of mind can conceive of and complete this opera, where every word of dialogue is rapped? What kind of artist devises the choreography that supports the music so seamlessly that it feels like part of your own imagination? How can this be so intricate but seem so effortless?

The night before I had been at the keyboard when the our community theatre presented its final performance of Shrek. Community theatre is filled with people I know and love, and the production has been so much fun. When it comes to artistic or technical brilliance, though, it is not on the same level as what is perhaps the greatest musical ever written.

But at the end of Shrek the cast, made up of my friends and the neighbors' kids and the lady who makes the doughnuts, spilled out into the audience and sang the final song. As they filled the little theatre with the joy of "I'm a Believer" I looked past the keyboard to see a couple of teenagers dancing with an abandon my muscles immediately remembered from half a century ago.

It's the same way I know I'll never forget my sudden tears when Lafayette and Hamilton sang "Immigrants! They get the job done!" and the Hamilton audience broke into applause.

Live theatre does that. The history, the love stories, the conflict and resolution--it's the emotional muscle memory of our lives, and we're in the room when it happens.

Did You Pronounce This Pot-Purry?

The taste of summer

Believe it or not, we are in a brief moment of my life when I have not much to overshare on the internet. (Hello, July!) I am happy, age-appropriately healthy, and my children are not doing much to inspire me to violate their privacy in a way that would attract the attention of Cambridge Analytica*. My time is being occupied by (badly) accompanying the local community theatre's latest production, and by (badly) sewing up some curtains for the spare bedroom's facelift. Neither of these is going well enough for me to blog, which is amazing since I blogged my heart attack so apparently that was going well.

But when I have a dearth of recent observations, I tend to turn for inspiration to whatever is on my phone's photo file. They could be filed in the category I pronounced as Pot-Purry before I started watching Jeopardy and became educated.

Here, in no particular order, are the things that have caused me to pull out my trusty iCamera:

1. Caprese salad, which is seen above. Oh, my, heavens. I do not even calculate the WW (the lifesaving organization formerly known as Weight Watcher) points for this magical melding of mozzarella, farmer's market tomatoes, and local basil. It is the taste of summer, and even Weight Watchers WW cannot deny me summer.

Adorable August

2. Every year my Much Older Sister's Christmas gift to her siblings is a calendar that features vintage and current pictures of our extended family. I love this gift more than you can imagine but as I turned the page to August this week I was struck by three features of this picture taken in front of the family home when we were 13, 12, 8, 4, and 2 years old respectively. First, I was quite sure in that moment in my life that I was destined to be the Fat Lady In The Circus. My self-image was that I was grossly obese, even though looking at this picture I realize I was a perfectly average size. Hmmm. Booo, Teen magazine. Second, just how stylin' were my younger brothers? Hubba-hubba bubbas, for sure. That spiffy plaid jacket was especially fetchin'. Finally, the cute centerpiece of this is now the the world's most beautiful grandmother. How did we ever get to be old enough for me to make that statement?

3. Finally, since I'm now retired I'm kinda-sorta looking for ways to earn yarn money, which is the money I would spend on yarn if it did not seem such a frivolous use of retirement funds. This job search isn't serious, but I did take an online aptitude test to see if maybe I'm overlooking potential opportunities. And because the internet does not lie, I now know that the way I will be earning my yarn money is as a (drumroll, please) SINGER. Yes. The internet does not lie, but it apparently is tone deaf, because no. And if I move to my second choice of new careers, that would be as an athletic agent. Hahahahaha! Internet, you stupid.

Okay, off to practice musical accompaniment and sew some curtains. I may do those badly, but not nearly as badly as I would do the next eight things the internet thinks I should do.




*Side note: If you have not yet watched The Great Hack on Netflix, close this browser and open your Netflix account in order to be transfixed and frightened.