"Mama, is this rain?"

"Yes, Mabel. Yes it is."

These two lines were added the day before we opened The Storm in the Barn.  Eric Coble, our playwright, added a few "oh so this is what's happening" clarifications throughout the tech process, as he watched what we could and kinda-could express without words. All of these additions are brief and pragmatic and this one is my favorite.

The lines come at the end of the show, after we've somehow managed to survive the Final Confrontation between Jack and the Storm King (and by we, I mean: Damon on the stilts, Jack being chased by the stilts, Andrea changing Damon in and out of stilts, me running two boards with forty-six cues in four pages and, I guess, the audience) and we are rewarded with rainfall. For the first time the stage is silent and then FLASH, we see the lightening and hear the thunder, followed by sheets of rain. Mabel is a six year old girl who has grown up with an umbrella she doesn't know how to use and a sister dying of Dust Pneumonia. Mabel looks up to the sky, touches her face slowly and dashes across the stage in it. She grabs her umbrella and squeals "wheeee!" as I take the Go on more lightening and more thunder. Ma enters the stage and Mabel says, "Mama, is this rain?" Ma says, "Yes, Mabel. Yes it is."
These lines always make all the hairs on my arms stand up.

I have watched this play eleven times a week for the past three weeks. I know the trick behind every piece of theatrical magic that happens. I often am the trick behind the piece of theatrical magic, pressing the Go button that makes a barn cackle with lightening or makes a Storm King roar. And yet? Every time that pretend rain comes down on those pretend plains, in the faces of those people pretending to be farmers in the Dust Bowl, all my hair stands up.

What I am meaning to say is this: The Storm in the Barn closes tomorrow and it has been one hell of an experience for me. My first professional gig as a stage manager and a huge leap for me. I have been anxious, scared, nervous and uncomfortable through the majority of this process. I did not trust myself. I was petrified of making a mistake. At times I felt like my whole career was teetering on something infinitesimally thin. This rehearsal process, tech and run have been like a baseball game you can't stop watching, you know your team is going to lose and yet you can't. stop. watching. I don't think the Michael-Giannitti-Critical voice in my head has been this loud since Wall of Water, my first show as a stage manager when I was nineteen. Wall of Water was the show that made me decide to quit theater forever.*

And now that I'm looking back, I wouldn't change any part of it.
Goodbye, The Storm in the Barn. I will legitimately, surprisingly, genuinely be sad to see you go.






* I had to add this as a footnote so as not to break that sad tone I had going on up there, but I felt it might be important to clarify the sentence "Wall of Water was the show that made me decide to quit theater forever" for any readers who are maybe really confused: Obviously, it didn't stick. I went away for a Field Work Term, had an awesome experience SMing at a private middle school in NYC and came crawling back.  Before that though, I made quite a scene in Michael's office. I told Michael and Anna that I wasn't their stage manager toy and that I was a lit student for a reason and I was done with the drama department and all their bullshit and I just wanted to read books for the next two years and I never ever wanted to stage manage ever ever again. And knowing nineteen year old me I probably marched right out of there, over to Annabel's office and said the same thing, and she and I had tea and scones to celebrate.
Long live the Queen, though I think I did make her quite sad when I went back to theater.