Mommy

or What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Meg
Meg
Aug 27, 2017 · 3 min read

Maybe I’m the right age, or female, or tall, or loud, or am known for making a fool of myself. Or, maybe they were just getting desperate. Whatever the reason, a friend asked me to play Mommy to her Grandma in Edward Albee’s The Sandbox.

No thespian, with some trepidation, I said yes. New challenge! Keep the brain nimble! Help out a friend! Those were my justifications. The simple truth is, deep down, I’m a ham.

Plus, I knew the venue. I’d been there before.

Would-be showgoers leave the main road, travel down a coastal peninsula, amble along dirt drive past a train of rusty boxcar dwellings, and arrive at a discarded airplane hangar, the crown jewel of a private enclave with a 60s-meets-post-apocalyptic-civilization vibe.

The repurposed Quonset hut is The Pure Drop Stage, home to The Bard Theater. Both are the creation and passion of drama teacher Joel Dempsey. (Click the link for a video of the whole scene.)

Each summer, Joel produces and directs a set one-act plays for a one-night, invitation-only event. This year was the 26th. Our program: W.B.Yeats’ At The Hawks Well, Albee’s The Sandbox, and Conger Beasley, Jr.’s The Last Insect Sounds of Summer with a soundtrack by David Luttenberger.

Poetic, abstract, minimalist, absurd works mounted in a setting which would have made Fellini proud. How could I not be part of that?

The Sandbox is satire. Extraordinary spare, Albee exhibits a poet’s skill for conveying volumes with brevity.

My character, Mommy, is bossy, belittling, flirtatious and self-centered. She dumps her aged mother, Grandma, in a sandbox and waits for her to die. Ignored by her daughter, Grandma tells us her life story.

It got me wondering. If Mommy told us her backstory, what would she say? I had to get into character.

Mommy’s Soliloquy

After Edward Albee

I was just a girl when Papa died. Mama never tired of reminding me what a BURDEN it was raising me “all on her lonesome.” I suppose I should be grateful she didn’t drop me at the orphanage. … Not that I had anything to complain about. … I’m not complaining.

Anyway, … I plotted my escape … and waited. … I’m patient that way.

At seventeen, I bought a Greyhound ticket. … There were tears in her eyes. … It might have been the dust … or the thought of hiring a farmhand.

I found my way to the city … and into a marriage. A man who wouldn’t leave me destitute if HE kicked the bucket. … He’s a bit of a bore. … No personal initiative. … That’s alright. I’m not complaining.

Then the letters started. … “Farm life is hard. I’m lonely. I never see the grandchildren.” … She made her point. … We moved her in with us.

So, … now we … wait. It’s ... what we do. (Sighs)

The big night arrived. I was nervous. Then, just paces in, a gust of laughter filled my sails. What a sound. What a wind. I felt myself playing to the laughter. And they laughed harder.

So this is what it’s all about. This is why people are willing to be on stage.

I might have do it again.

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Meg

Written by

Meg

Writing, because talk is cheap

the composite

made up of various elements

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