We gathered at my in-laws’ home over the weekend where the boys got to play with their nine cousins.
On our first evening together, the kids put on a play for the adults. The theatrical effort was spearheaded largely by a couple of the older girl cousins, and they recruited – or accepted volunteers – based on the needs of the show.
Last year’s performance was a very-loosely-based adaptation of Annie. I remember a little bit of singing and a lot of children lying around on the concrete, with not a lot happening; all while the adults recorded and photographed every minute for posterity’s sake.
This year, well, I’m still not sure what this year’s production was called. But uncle Josh was the thief. And the professor was the police. And one of the boy cousins was wearing a dress and a wig. And the Hen wore pink kitten heels at one point. And little bits of dialogue and ‘what’s-going-on-pauses’ were interspersed with all of the older kids standing in the back of a pick-up truck and riding around the yard looking for clues.
My mind couldn’t help recalling those images of the turban-ed, robed Taliban piled into the back of Toyota pick-up trucks. We were being held hostage by the cultural police, as minutes turned into tens of minutes and babies cried and cast members lost interest and it got dark-ish and I kept wondering when uncle Josh was going to get caught by the police.
Because they’d found his discarded black leather gloves, after circling the grassy perimeter with the truck (driven by grandpa) a handful of times.
In the end, the thief was caught. And there was a curtain call in which the actors clasped hands and bowed ceremoniously. Until next year.