September 8, 2007

Wondrous still morning, pale gray, silvery.

Went to see Barbara Bates Smith’s On Agate Hill, a one woman show based on a Lee Smith novel. It was nice to be the youngest person in the room again. I was not sorry to have bestirred myself downtown to see it, and Barbara was very professional. But it did seem a little relentless, a little familiar, the tough Southern tomboy rising out of poverty into a life of tribulation and triumph, giving her whole heart to one man, hauling him memorably out of his failings– well, I seem to have less patience with formula theater than others. One knew almost before the line was said where one was meant to smile, to wipe away a tear, to utter a knowing laugh. The age of the audience was interesting to me. Some say that old audiences are a sign of a dying form, but I think not. The gray hair at a symphony or a community theater production signifies, I think, people entering a stage of their life rather than an art form doing so. That is what we did at twenty. Now this is what we do at sixty. Smith’s story is one like they think they remember some wild aunt telling them long ago.

The Charter man came to give me cable phone service, thus ending a lifetime with the Bell system. I thought it might be cheaper. Now I don’t remember why I changed over. Perhaps just to have something different. The phone had to be in a different place, which prompted me to rearrange the living room completely. I smile now with surprise and pleasure when I enter the room. I think it’s better. It is at least different.

Planted next year’s black iris.