Seasonal Returns

This year, two seasonal delights returned to us in the Monadnock Region after absences caused by the COVID pandemic: live performance theatre at The Peterborough Players and Fourth of July fireworks.

I can trace many steps in time along the path left by firework displays. The trail goes back to Compo Beach in Westport, Connecticut, where we lived in the early 1960s when Westport was not much bigger or busier than the rural environs of Southwestern New Hampshire today. We played and swam along Compo Beach, flew kites, and once a year took our blankets and went to watch the fireworks. The exciting part, which I imagine continues today, was seeing the displays happening on the opposite shore, along the coast of Long Island, across the Sound.

We migrated from Westport to Wilton, Connecticut, another small country town at the time, and their Fourth of July firework display on the high school field. The shows probably were not much, but we did not know or care. It was dark. We were outside in our pajamas, already dressed for bed. We sat at one end of the athletic fields and pinned our eyes on the shadowy figures of volunteer firefighters in the distance, moving around with small torches that would suddenly flare when they touched a fuse. Then, we would follow the thin orange trail of a rocket shooting into the sky, wait for it to explode into colorful bright lights, and brace for the sonic boom.

I cannot sit through a firework display without channeling the boyish enthusiasm of my parent's close friend Harry Polhemus on those Fourth of July nights in Wilton. The Polhemus family was our usual company at the event. Children the same age, frequently at each other's houses; kids on one blanket, parents on the other, side-by-side for the fireworks. And Mr. Polhemus narrated the show, beginning to end.

"Next one is for you, Bobbie!" he would call out to my mother. Then, up would go the rocket, burst, boom, and we would all commend mother on a magnificent display.

"Now you, Jarvie!" I would wait, hoping for a glimmering spectacle followed by an especially loud retort.

"Hurray!" everyone would shout.

"Who's next?" Mr. Polhemus would ask, carrying on.

So it was this past weekend, during the town's very fine display, that as the rockets streaked into the sky, I silently assigned them to someone, beginning with Mr. Polhemus.

Elsewhere we were back in the Peterborough Players theater last week for a production of Cabaret, the season's grand opening show. It is hard to think of an industry more impacted by the pandemic than live theater. Movie theater-goers could retreat to Netflix. But live theater was shuttered. The Players managed to put on an outdoor performance of Our Town last summer on the lawn behind Peterborough's town hall, which was splendid. But we have waited two years to get back into the theater, albeit with masks.

The Peterborough Players is a professional theater founded in 1933, dating to the earliest days of Summer stock. New England did not invent the Summer stock theater, but we successfully co-opted it. For one thing, we have many barns, and summer stock owes much of its endearing quality to the intimate performance setting of a barn. The Peterborough Players is no exception. To get there, follow the country road down to the grey barn. There will be volunteers wearing yellow vests to park you. In case of a fire emergency, as you will be told just before the performance, exit the barn, go to your cars, and wait. Do not start driving away. The country road can only accommodate traffic in one direction, and it is rather important the firetrucks have the right of way if needs require.

We left the New York area in the early 1970s and moved to Buffalo. Thereafter, my father, born and raised in Manhattan, became a devotee of what he called second cities. The offerings of life are more appreciated in second city places, he maintained. In respect of which, I submit the small New England town and its professional theatre. At the end of every show at the Peterborough Players, there is a standing ovation. Every show. Are all those performances worthy of standing ovations? (Naturally.) But the ovation is as much to say to the actors - most of whom come from places like New York, where they hope to have long and heralded careers - thank you for coming and putting up with the black flies and mosquitoes. We so appreciate it. Please come again next year.

We were all on our feet at the end of Cabaret, applauding and cheering. The production of Cabaret was worthy of a big city. It was that good, as are most of the Player's shows: marvelous orchestra, beautiful, rich voices, great acting, staging - all of it. There was not an empty seat in the house. We were grateful for the performance and to be back in our barn theater in communion with our neighbors.

Seasons are important to us here in New England. We say so all the time. So it is good to have a couple of them back after an extended absence.