Little Theater, Grand Ideas

Spending the entire summer at the cottage in Maine could be busy with the arrival of relatives and friends but there was only so much swimming, boating and playing in the sand that I could tolerate. The weather could be hot and unforgiving or damp and cold leaving us to quiet indoor activities.

The cellar was our escape from our parents and one summer, the occasional hot weather kitchen, the sometimes swimsuit changing room and the creepy corner of rusty tools was transformed into our personal theater.

The first production that was held in the cellar was the brainchild of my older cousin, Steven. He fashioned a curtain out of sailboat rope and a faded threadbare sheet, wrote a rudimentary script and cast his younger brother Todd and me into leading roles. He designed the set around the old kitchen table which was impossible to move and then created stadium seating for the audience using old cinder blocks and a series of beach chairs. Tickets were distributed to our fan base and playbills were hand written with colored pencils. Steven paid attention to every detail in his role of Director, Producer, Stage Manager, Set Designer, Costume Designer, Makeup Artist and Playwright.

The second production was designed by me after Steven had left for his home in New York. I enlisted the help of my sister, Elizabeth and a couple of the neighborhood kids. It was Elizabeth’s first and only musical entitled “The Genie in the Clothesbasket”. Elizabeth was the genie in the clothesbasket. I thought “Clothesbasket” sounded classier than “hamper”. Even at 9 years of age, my sister was tall and the clothesbasket was the only thing she could fit in. When someone rubbed the clothesbasket the right way, Elizabeth would spring from the depths and sing a jaunty tune that I wrote with the help of my flute:

I am the Genie

I am the Genie

I am the Genie

Of the Clothesbasket!

I believe my sister discovered her love of theater and performing arts in the cellar of our summer retreat. I have attended many of her plays, which are strangely non-musical, in South Carolina, Georgia and Connecticut and have noticed that she never once mentioned her childhood performances in Maine.

For myself, I am content to collect my monthly royalties for my one hit wonder and fondly remember one summer, over thirty years ago, where the gathering of many creative minds produced the littlest of little theater in the small lakeside community.

Bauneg Beggars

Summertime and childhood are wonderful words and when I add Maine to the mix, it becomes magical. Immediately after the last day of school, Mom and Dad packed up the station wagon, lining the back with sleeping bags and pillows for me and my sister.  Briefly woken from our slumber at three in the morning, we climbed into the back and continued to sleep while Dad drove the five hours to the cottage in Maine.  At times I resented leaving my school friends behind.  They excitedly talked about their plans of swimming and riding bikes and going off to summer camp for a week and I was jealous for a few fleeting moments.  Miles before the car would turn down the gravel lane, our family dog, Gandalf would huff and puff and bark and wail, clearly recognizing the scenery or the distinct smell of pine in the air.  As the car slowed and made the sharp right turn on the former East 2 Road, the brilliant sparkle of dark blue water could be glimpsed between cottages, the bright morning sunlight dancing on the surface.  Suddenly I felt like I was home:  no rules, fresh air and memories to last a lifetime.

We were the Summer People and our numbers were strong.  No one stayed there year-round.  The winters were too harsh.  Friends that we played with once a year would soon arrive.  Cousins weren't very far behind.  I spent time with Lucy, who was several years older than me, listening to ABBA on her cassette player and visiting other Summer People.  It was in one of these cottages that a gathering of adults posed the question of what to call the Summer People.  It was reasoned that if you lived in New York, you would be called a New Yorker.  If you were from Italy you were Italian.  If you were from the South, you were a Southerner.  Lucy  thought it was simple.  The pond was called Bauneg Beg so we should be called Bauneg Beggars.  The adults laughed and agreed that it was most fitting.  To this day, when I pass that cottage where the discussion took place so many years ago, I smile when I see the plaque hanging outside with the words "Bauneg Beggars" burned into the surface and I wonder how many of us still remember.

Barefoot Summers

Crushing rocks
and "Kick the Can"
Who runs faster
across the sand?

Barefoot summers
at the lake
collecting gravel
with micah flakes.

Restaurant owner
by the age of nine
had just two patrons
at "The Nickel and Dime".

Last one standing
on an inner tube
endless fun
with nothing to prove.

Walking in a line
down to Camp Waban
Buying penny candy
was the only plan.

Cousins on a raft
with the rain falling down
holding an umbrella
so we wouldn't drown.

Capture the Flag
climbing birch trees
hiding from enemies
and skinning our knees.

Childhood summers
with memories so fond
All of us together
at Bauneg Beg Pond.