It must have been about 1953. We were putting on a backyard performance of Cinderella and had charged everyone in the audience a nickel admission. Our stage was under the clothesline, with bed sheets hanging from the wires as curtains. The big old upright piano sat just inside an open window in the nearest bedroom, where one of our mothers sat, banging out live music.
It must have been about 1953. We were putting on a backyard performance of Cinderella and had charged everyone in the audience a nickel admission. Our stage was under the clothesline, with bed sheets hanging from the wires as curtains. The big old upright piano sat just inside an open window in the nearest bedroom, where one of our mothers sat, banging out live music.
It was an all-female cast, probably because we couldn’t find any boys who would stoop to join in. My sister and I were playing the ugly stepsisters, Anastasia and Drizella. Cousin Jill was the wicked stepmother, our friend Glee was the Fairy Godmother, and Glee’s younger sister, Janet, was Cinderella. That left Cousin Klaudia playing the Prince, whose only name was, "Charming" – a name that did not exactly apply to our production.
Right from the get-go we ran into trouble. When we yanked the "curtain" for the first act, some clothespins snapped off and one bounced on the head of a neighbor who was sitting in the front row. There wasn’t time to do repairs, so the dangling sheet was left askew, to lie in wait as a snare.
As Cinderella entered from stage left and began to act out her scullery chores, her foot got tangled in the fabric and she totally forgot her lines. Those of us who weren’t on stage started arguing about what to do while my sister sputtered a lot of stage whispers. Most of them were nonsensical, but audible, to both Cinderella and the entire audience.
In a panic, we all started entering and leaving the stage at will, ad-libbing yet trying to stick to the Disney script as best we could. There was more movement in the curtains than on center stage because they bulged and rippled while, behind them, we each tried to push and shove ourselves into the roles of Director and Star.
Somehow we reached the point where Cinderella was about to be transformed into a raving beauty by her Fairy Godmother, when Prince Charming stuck her head out from between two sheets and yelled, "This is the good part!" The announcement brought down the house, literally, because, as she retreated, she pulled down the entire right side of the curtains, exposing a wide-eyed Cinderella in the process of changing her costume.
Our mother was the first to lose it. She started laughing and was soon whooping so hard she couldn’t stop. Within seconds the other adults ceded all self-control and joined in, most of them guffawing helplessly.
Taking the ruckus as their cue, the little kids in the audience began jumping up and down and screaming, adding to the pandemonium and stealing what little dignity we had left. We weren’t even through the second act, and the play was clearly over.
We were humiliated. Nevertheless, obeying my sister to whatever tune was being banged out on the piano, we hacked our way through the few sheets that were still dangling, and took a bow. If I remember correctly, a couple of people noticed and even clapped a little, but we couldn’t really tell, because the entire back yard was in such an uproar.
To this day, the mere mention of Cinderella reminds us that our big debut was a total flop. It was, however, a total success in giving us so much laughter for so many years.
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