Last night was the annual membership meeting at my community theatre. It's usually a very acrimonious event -- the annual ritual when the old timers heave themselves from their Barcaloungers and drag themselves away from the shuffleboard courts and some of the ladies ill-advisedly paint their faces up with gallons of oily make-up that probably reached its expiration point at least a decade ago. They come and take up the front rows of the creaky old maple seats and grumble and grouse about how we kids are running the theatre into the ground with our dirty plays that use the eff word and other such indignities we are heaping upon the great old lady (the theatre).

They are all too old now to tread the boards any longer, their advanced years keep them from being able to memorize lines or climb the stairs that lead from the dressing room to the wings backstage. So now they buy season ticktes and come to see all the shows, relegated forevermore to the role of audience member, a painful transition.

So they rail against what time has wrought at the annual meeting every year. It's an opportunity to play one last scene, to "take the stage" in a way. Old battles and rivalries are revisited and bruised egos flame anew. I always find it exhilarating and relish the glimpses I see here and there of great beauty and drama coming from people one would walk past at the grocery store, never guessing that at one time they lit up the stage with a fearfully thrilling portrayal of King Lear or Desdemona. It's something I look forward to every year.

But last night's meeting was such a disappointment. There was no rumbling or grumbling, no one took a pregnant pause and shuffled to their feet to ceremoniously and defiantly nominate a confederate from the floor when the proposed slate of new board members was announced. Margarite, our flame-haired 80-something parliamentarian and Roberts Rules devotee (who bears a startling resemblance to Carol Burnette) was still at her summer home in North Carolina, the first time in decades that she has not arranged her seasonal migration to enable her to grace us with her presence and tsk, tsk and/or sternly correct us when we stepped over the line of proper decorum.

Tim and Lena, a pair of 75-year-olds who met and fell in love 30 years ago while performing in Life With Father up and got married last month after years of loving one another from afar and waiting until they both were widowed to hook up. They moved to New Hampshire to be closer to his kids.

Clark, a mean old kid-hating S.O.B. who has convincingly played the warmest, most loving Santa in Miracle on 34th Street every year since I can remember, is recovering from a stroke and he sat forlornly silent at the back of the theatre, unable to negotiate the downward rake of the floor in the auditorium.
The meeting was quiet and collegial and there was no reckoning -- no arguing or snarky commentary from the peanut gallery as reports from various committees were made. It was as if the backbone of every production (the chorus) and of our theatre -- the old-timers -- had collectively decided to wander upstage and not let any of us know they were exiting and we were left not sure of when they might enter again. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked from the building and replaced with ether.

The meeting was over in exactly an hour and we all wandered out to the lobby and stood over the full punchbowl and murmured, quiet little conversations about vacations and school starting up again and gas prices. I looked around and realized Cookie wasn't there either -- she maintains the same hairdo she has sported since I was in high school- a fluffy blonde pageboy with a slight pink rinse on it so that it resembles backlit carnival cotton candy from across the room. Cookie was a regular on the Jackie Gleason show back in the 1950s and '60s and used to entertain us with backstage stories about how sweet it was. The show taped in Miami and all the June Taylor dancer girls would spend the mornings basting on the beach before the evening shows. Jackie would have flowers delivered to every female in his show before every performance. As a teenager I found Cookie's stories tedious because she kept telling the same ones over and over, so I began to avoid her whenever she spotted me in the lobby after a show and waved a lavender scarf to get my attention. Now of course, I realize how cool her memories are. Cookie is a widow now and she doesn't like to drive at night anymore and she is recovering from hip surgery. As I stood and looked at the platters of pinwheels and brie and crackers it ocurred to me that I should have called Cookie and asked her if she wanted a ride. She hasn't missed am annual meeting in years.