I grew up in a small farming community, and our senior high school class numbered only about 60, of which two-thirds were girls. When it came time to select and cast the traditional senior class play, our English teacher, rather than choosing the usual light comedy with a limited cast, decided on “I Remember Mama,” a play about an extended Norwegian family living in San Francisco in the early 20th century.
Right away, there were problems. Even in a play as matriarchal as “Mama,” there were many male roles. Alas, most of the boys in the class were farm kids, and they were needed at home after school and evenings — prime rehearsal times. Most of the few remaining boys were on the track team, and their meets coincided precisely with rehearsals.
We found enough available boys to play the roles of Papa, son Nels and Uncle Chris. All the other male roles had to be played by the girls. Somehow it worked. I shared the role of Mama with another girl, mainly because we were good friends and the teacher, knowing hurt feelings would undoubtedly ensue, didn’t want to have to choose between us. We would each perform the role one night. I got Saturday, and she got Sunday.
The simplified set the school janitor constructed for us consisted of a dining room with a large table at center stage, and a sort of buffet against the back. Above the buffet was a hole in the wall pretending to be a window, with fake draperies hanging in front. Other scenes were staged on small platforms to the left and right of the main stage.
A key scene in Act I is when Mama learns that roomer Mr. Hyde — who had read to the family in the evenings, keeping the children safe at home while their friends got into trouble — has skipped town without paying his rent. Mama rushes offstage to check if he’s truly gone and returns with an armload of books, which Mr. Hyde has left behind as partial rent payment. She places the books proudly on the buffet in front of the window, stating that the overdue rent is fully paid with these books. The books remain on the buffet for all of Act II.
The Saturday night performance went smoothly, despite the fact that Act II was severely under-rehearsed. We cast members knew where the play was supposed to go, but not necessarily our actual lines. The offstage prompter sat in dismay and anguish as we ad-libbed our way through the last few scenes to the conclusion. But we made it. The applause was polite and appreciative.
The Sunday presentation was a bit more eventful, however, and perhaps a bit more entertaining, in retrospect. Somehow, after the Saturday performance, the props person had failed to move Mr. Hyde’s books from the buffet to backstage where they were supposed to be.
The books were on the buffet when the Act I curtain went up. When Mama learned that Mr. Hyde has skipped town, she rushed backstage as usual — and then failed to return, leaving other actors on stage to cover the absence as best they could. Seconds stretched into minutes, and each minute seemed endless. (Perhaps unforgivably, as I watched this unfold, I remember being glad that I wasn’t playing Mama that night.)
Finally, restless cast and audience members saw two arms reach through the draperies covering the stage “window” and grab the books on the buffet. Immediately after, Mama came back on stage, holding the armload of books, and proudly put them back on the buffet.
The rest of the play went without mishap. The applause at the end was overwhelming.
There is always the danger that a play will go wrong. Sometimes a set falls down, sometimes an actor falls down, and sometimes the props person falls down on the job. But the show must go on.
We expanded our horizons with “I Remember Mama.” Girls learned to play male roles, actors figured out how to get through the play when we didn’t know our lines, and we learned that an audience appreciates effort — even if we can’t deliver perfection, or even competence.
These days, more than 50 years later, when we remember “Mama,” it’s with a good, long laugh — and a mild curse to the props person.
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