[I wrote this a while back around Yule-time.]

I’m often reminded in December of a special winter season in which I was lucky enough to perform in a play that has become rather meaningful to me. Though some would debate how well this particular play was written, the adaptation of Dylan Thomas’s “A Child’s Christmas In Wales” has gained a very deep appreciation in my heart, and one of my fondest memories from my life on the stage.

I was not the director’s first choice for the role of Glyn, the main character’s unmarried uncle, possibly because my first choice in creating the role was not to unzip my fly, push my shirt tail through the zipper, and stand there with my ‘dragon’ hanging out. This may come as a surprise to some, but my first instinct, when assuming the role after that actor was fired, was relating to the other actors on stage, and I had little interest in an uproariously unfunny stunt that was designed to cover my lack of training.

No, I was initially cast as an understudy for several roles, which was acceptable for my level of experience, I felt; I studied each role fervently in the hope that I would eventually be chosen to go on. As I sit here, I try to remember which of the other roles I was covering, but I cannot for the life of me recall which ones they were, though I feel relatively certain it was the other two uncles. Regardless, when the decision was made to release the other actor from his contract–I can still see the muscular rolling of Bud Leslie’s eyes as he watched the rehearsal–I was ready to step in.

I’m sure I was too intense, since I nearly always am, but I was Olivier compared to the poor slob they cast initially in the role, and he was hopelessly outmatched; in comparison, I was a master thespian, and could do no wrong. Since I’d been studying the script voraciously, I was nearly already off-book by that point, and able to step in and keep things moving, though I’d not had the time onstage that the other members of the cast had been able to accumulate. What I lacked in experience and rehearsal time, however, I more than made up for in dedication, as I quickly realized that the Welsh part of me was very much attuned to the character of the play’s setting. Though my father’s Scottish family’s history and culture was the strongest part of who I was, it was in the performance of this play that I realized how Welsh I was as well, as I have the strong musical appreciation that is so essentially a part of the Welsh point of view. (Evidence of the impact of my mother and her family, it would seem.)

Which is not to say, of course, that I am a great musician; one only has to recall that afternoon when we had given what we generally considered our best performance up to that point, and had gone, as normal, to the Chinese restaurant up the street for our dinner together as we often did. To begin with, I should also say that this play was an annual event, and had been presented for the past 8-10 years at the Grove Theatre in Garden Grove, California. If memory serves, my first and only time being a part of the production was the last time it was presented at that theatre, though I don’t think that I was the reason it was never seen again at the Grove. It was a tradition, however, as evidenced by the number of previous cast members who invariably showed up after the performance.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

This particular Saturday afternoon’s performance was splendid–it really was; we were on, and all the acting, the music, the interaction between all the characters, it was right on point, as they say, and the audience was appreciative of our work. We walked down to the restaurant, which was our wont of a Saturday afternoon between shows, and had our dinner as a group at the Chinese place a block up the street. We had a fine time and ended with our favorite game: each cast member would read his or her fortune, aloud, and add the words “in bed” at the end of our fortune–this invariably broke us all up, and we giggled and laughed out loud as each of us topped the other with our fortunes. We paid for our meal, and returned to the theatre up the street.

We were all excited, confident (dare I say, cocky?) after the matinee, and felt surely that this evening’s performance would be all the better. We prepared as usual, but there was quite a bit of chatter in the dressing room as we put on make-up and costumes, and readied ourselves for the evening’s performance. There were no backstage romances at this point, though I’m sure they were either brewing or going on secretly, and we were just good friends preparing for our performances, filled with good food and cheer.

I don’t even remember the exact point in the story at which it happened, though it was near the end. I can still recall our musical director helping me through a particularly difficult (for me) musical moment in the play: an a capella performance of the chorus of one of the show’s Christmas-y songs. Chuck playfully referred to this as singing ‘Acapulco,’ and he was helping me remember my note progression in the tune, using the song “My Way” as an example of the notes to help my not-musically-trained mind figure out the best way to hit those notes without any kind of playback to help me. Since there was no instrumentation on this particular piece of music, we had to be able to mentally figure out those notes, that melody, without the benefit of an orchestra or even a taped version of the music to accompany us. Normally, this was not difficult for us, mostly because so many of the cast-members had done the show previously. On this night, however, this specific strain of the melody was to become very strained, and brought us all crashing down to Earth.

The moment came. I’m not sure who was off–maybe all of us were–but someone hit a clunker in this short chorus of voices without accompaniment; it was probably me, as I have a history of finding it difficult to keep other voices from throwing me off. Whoever it was, though, really hit a sour note, and the other singers heard it instantly, and stopped singing. Everyone but me, that is. I may actually have sung louder at that moment, though I don’t remember for sure. All I know is that I kept trying because the show must go on, you know. And we walked off-stage, and we all looked at each other, and we thought, “Oh, my God, that was hideous.”

And it really was, for us at any rate; I think we all still hope that the audience didn’t realize how bad it was, as ridiculous as that sounds. Hard to know, but I still hope that was the case. The language in the script was really marvelous. Though I often find myself at a loss to describe what makes for good poetry, Dylan Thomas had such mastery of the language, as I found yet again a few weeks ago, when I was persuaded to do a staged reading of his poem for a fundraising event at my school. I performed it with my attempt at a Welsh accent, and closed with the Welsh National Anthem in both Welsh and English, as we always did with our play. I don’t know if they enjoyed it, as it is very long, but it felt great to do it again, to connect with that group as I did long ago, and find that Welsh part of myself in the process.

Thinking back on the connection to this play I felt that year, I also recall that it was the worst holiday I ever had, as I spent Christmas alone in my apartment. Because of the timing of our performances, I had the bright idea that I should try going through Christmas at my apartment. Alone. Without my family. Bad idea. It’ll be fine, I thought: I have all my movies, especially all of my holiday movies, and I’ll just occupy myself with that. Right. Lasted through two and a half movies…maybe. I was miserable. I missed my family, my friends, and ended up just sitting there feeling sorry for myself all Christmas Eve and Christmas the day after. I resolved never to do that again.

And here I am again: in a one-bedroom apartment, just like then, and planning to spend Christmas trying to occupy myself with whatever I can find within these four walls.

Wish me luck. And Merry Christmas!