Yee-huh? We're done? We're done!

Our reluctant, one-year, guilt-ridden directorial gig somehow expanded into three. We've explored weird and wonderful realms:  medieval kingdoms, industrial steampunk circus tents, and the Wild West. We yelled ("Projected"), threatened ("You CAN be replaced!), encouraged ("Cut! Do it again!"), cajoled, quick-stepped and clapped our way through three productions, feeling like fake, foolish frauds. When was someone going to realize that Erin and I had no business doing this?

Directing young actors is an exhausting, soul-sucking endeavor that encompasses your entire life. How on earth were we going to quickly attach a sheriff's badge that could be easily seen by the back row to three consecutive individuals? I sat bolt-upright at three in the morning. Giant magnets! I wrestled a sheriff badge out of cardboard to prototype my idea, Erin glittered it up and we were done. "I appreciated your inclusivity," my daughter commented after viewing the afternoon performance. I was confused. "I liked the Star of David that all of your lawmen were sporting," Sydney snickered. Oh no! I was so busy making sure we didn't unintentionally culturally-appropriate  from our Native American friends (re-casting the part of Chief Squatting Squirrel to the more politically-correct Miner Inconvenience) that I forgot about the tribe of Israel. Oy vey!

I am not sure why this worked. There is nothing subtle about Erin and me. We are loud, obsessive, and have no trouble expressing our feelings. Thanks to God, though, we were blessed with talented, dedicated actors and surrounded by a hard-working, gifted team who all put up with our antics. We front-loaded forgiveness in the beginning, prioritized our friendship over the esteemed (and ridiculous) position of "director", took turns venting, constantly balanced out our roles of "good cop" and "bad cop" and communicated constantly. Rarely were we at 100%. We picked up one another's slacks during the flu, kid-commitments, care-taking, death, and the constant up-keep of Erin's waxed floors. 

We respected and encouraged each other's gifts. Erin is a brilliant choreographer and is insanely organized. She has high expectations of her cast and will nip at their heels to help them bring out their best performances. She kept us to a tight schedule with the end goal always in mind and can delegate needed-responsibilities like a drill sergeant. My roles included re-writing British puns for rural American audiences, creating posters and programs, team-building with unnecessary improv exercises, and, oddly enough, following up Erin's constructive comments to our cast with constant reminders that we love them and are proud of them. Ugh.

Our brain-storming sessions were seasoned with bouts of screaming laughter that alerted our prop manager that she was going to be asked to do yet another ridiculously-impossible thing for a one-second sight gag. A water closet, a stage coach, 18 pairs of cardboard boxer underwear? How hard could it possibly be to create a tumbleweed? C'mon! Snap-snap! And Sandy would smilingly "snap-snap" our vision into place. It would not be too far off to say that one of the real stars of those plays were the sets. 

We never did trust-falls in improv but that's what being involved in a play is like:  One big trust-fall. Holding our breath waiting for the spotlight to hit or a sound effect to land...and it always did (Thank you, Eric and Katriel.). Needing a shovel right at the last minute and suddenly, it appears. Needing a rolling cart to be moved two feet over in the pitch dark near the edge of a stage with a three foot drop? Thank you, Cindy. "Yes, I know you aren't really going anywhere, but we need you to lift your knees higher as you walk in place. I don't care how stupid you feel. Just do it." And Joey did it, keeping a straight face as she sang, holding onto the string connecting

her to a ridiculous costumed mule while behind them, clouds cavorted by, the sun shimmied through, a cabaret of cactuses crossed, tumbleweeds trickled in, and a stagecoach full of our administrators sped by. And Joey just kept singing, trusting Erin to keep time. Trust is what happens with the stage lights go out and the auditorium empties and the entire Mistretta family joins the stage crew to take down a set that took months to assemble. Trust is what happens when, seconds before the performance, Erin and I clasp hands in the darkened hallway and we pray, thanking God for this opportunity to serve Him by providing an environment of acceptance and encouragement for kids to support one another and showcase their incredible talents in a safe and loving atmosphere. We thanked God for our friendship and for the people He provided to help us with a task we weren't sure we wanted or even could do but, by His Great Grace, we'd reached the finish line. 

Jokingly, our much-repeated line to the kids, our first year, was "This is the best play we've ever directed!" To which they would happily bellow back, "It's the ONLY play you've ever directed!" This year, with the Wild West theme clearly in mind, Erin and I, much quieter, determined to make it as much about the kids as possible, promised one another, "This year, we will go out with a bang." During the finale, a rousing number called "The Stetson Stomp," our cast clapped, stomped, and do-si-do-ed around the stage. A high-energy performance that almost knocks Erin and me out of our chairs. What we were NOT prepared for was the wave of matching energy that hit like a tsunami coming from behind us. Our eyes on the stage, we didn't dare look but we could feel the clapping and stomping that accompanied our actors as our audience unexpectedly joined the cast. 

It was perfect.

Last play.

Last song.

We did it. We went out with a bang.

That's a wrap, folks.

Thanks.