A Summer of Theater

I love taking my grandchildren to the theater.

Well, what would you expect? Theater is such a big part of my life. And I'm not selfish. They don't only have to watch me on stage. :-) [Although that is nice.]

I'm happy to take them to whatever age-appropriate English-language productions are around. [I wish there were even more.] And this summer, for the first time I took them to two Hebrew shows.

Fortunately, I was familiar with both. The first was Frozen on Ice. The children were enthralled. They loved the Frozen movies and knew all the songs. They watched the skating and singing and special effects with wide eyes. They kept saying, "I love this! I don't want it to end!" [Really.]

Meanwhile, I was thinking, "Okay...nice." It was nice. But the rockets didn't exactly go off in my theater heart.

A few weeks later, I took another group of grandchildren to see the Hebrew production of Annie. Now, that was different.

In more than thirty years of theater-going in Israel, I had never once seen a Hebrew production of a Broadway show. I genuinely didn't know what to expect. I have no basis for comparison, and no complaints to file - the performers were terrifically talented. Real voices. Real performances. And even though they weren't on Broadway, they did a good job and really put over their songs.

History Lesson?

I wasn't sure how the children would relate to a story set in post-Depression America. Did they need to know about the Stock Market Crash of 1929? Should I explain how suddenly-poor folks were living under the bridges of New York City, or that people sold apples on the street to earn a few pennies? 

Should I tell them who President Franklin Delano Roosevelt was? Should I mention that my father, obm, once worked in the Chrysler Building, which appeared as one of the backdrops?

I wasn't sure. I could give them a history lesson before the show. Or I could just let them watch Annie. I decided to leave out the lesson and let the music do its work. 

I had seen Annie on Broadway. Not just any Annie, either. I saw the original production in 1977, with Andrea McArdle and Dorothy Loudon. Almost fifty years ago.

And somehow, sitting in a theater in Israel in 2026, watching a Hebrew-speaking Annie onstage, my mind was playing the Broadway Annie of 1977 at the same time.

I understood almost not a word of the Hebrew. But I knew the story. I knew the songs. I knew what was happening. And then the show began with: "The sun'll come out tomorrow..." Except tonight it was something like מחר תזרח השמש.

And it was wonderful. And I cried.

I cried through most of the performance - right up until the finale, when something happened that yanked me straight out of 1977 and back into my seat: the big tap number.

I think you know that I tap, and love all things tap dancing. So, I waited through the whole show for the big tap number. And when the ensemble launched into the finale, I sat up, ready.

There were no tap dancers.

Instead, "Daddy Warbucks" seemed to be wearing little tin toe taps - the kind you clip on to keep your soles from wearing down - and he sort-of, kind-of, approximately tap danced. A shuffle here. A f-lap there. He did his best, but my tap-dancing heart let out a small, private sigh.

Nobody else in the theater noticed. Nobody else cared. Only me - disappointed about the tap number  that never came. Still, when the song ended, Annie hugged Daddy Warbucks, and I was moved anew.

Part of me was watching the little girl onstage. Part of me was watching the awe surrounding my grandchildren. Part of me was back in 1977, watching Andrea McArdle and Dorothy Loudon. And part of me, apparently, was still thinking about those toe taps.

When the orphans sang It's the Hard-Knock Life, I didn't understand all the Hebrew words, but I understood the feeling. And I understood something else. The children didn't need my history lesson. They didn't need to know everything I knew about 1929, or Roosevelt, or the Depression. 

The Theater Experience

They just needed the heart-warming story. And the music. And maybe, most importantly, the experience of sitting in a theater and being transported somewhere else.

When the show ended, my granddaughters sang the Hebrew version of Tomorrow all the way home. I sat in the car listening to them, part of me in 2026, part of me in 1977, and - fine - part of me still thinking about tap shoes.

I decided that I'll keep taking my grandchildren to the theater. Not because I need them to understand what theater means to me. Not because I need them to love every show that I love. And certainly not because I want them to better appreciate me on stage. :-) [Although that would be nice.]

I'll take them because I want to give them the chance to discover what happens when the lights go down, the curtain goes up, and a story comes alive in front of you.

Frozen on Ice was nice. Annie made me cry. And somewhere between the two, I realized that this summer had become a summer of theater.

A dozen kids saw Frozen on Ice. They oohed and aahed at the special effects and were thrilled to see Olaf. Others saw Annie. They discovered a story I had loved for almost fifty years, and they sang Tomorrow all the way home.

The shows were totally different, but the kids will remember the lights going down, the music filling the hall, and hopefully, sitting in a theater with Savta and experiencing the magic of a live show.

I've spent a lifetime loving theater. Now I get to give a little bit of that love away.