As an English major in graduate school at Illinois State University, I spent many hours at the legendary Shakespeare Festival located at Ewing Manor, Bloomington-Normal. I devoted uncountable hours in class, in cafes (okay, bars), in colleagues’ apartments, engrossed in banter about the enigmatic Bard, his plays, his life, and his philosophies. It was a part of our DNA, to love Shakespeare, and to believe that with enough readings and study, we could change the world with the power of the literature. During these summer festivals, as graduate students we were privileged to cocktails and conversations at the dean’s house with actors, behind the scenes tours, and of course something important to us, discounted tickets. But the annual event did ignite a fire in me that burned quietly then and now.

To even walk onto the grounds of Ewing Manor is to be transported to another time. Though the mansion is situated on a busy street, it is rare to hear any traffic sounds once inside the immense estate. The centerpiece, the 1929 Post -Victorian style manor, rises majestically in opulence and grandeur. This slightly L shaped chateau complete with an enchanting turret, whispers secrets of a lavish past graced by unfathomable wealth. An arched brick drive adorns the front of the house where chauffer driven luxury vehicles once dropped the likes of Adlai Stevenson, but now welcome a mixed bag of picnickers and tourists during all seasons. A quiet aura hovers over the estate in reverence to all who stroll the grounds. Gardens of glorious bursts of coordinated color blanket the complete scene with some areas devoted to regional floral expressions while yet others replicate serene Japanese flower beds. Trees form canopies of welcome shade throughout the park; limestone sculptures dot the vicinity, and each blade of grass aligns in perfect symmetry. Weaved like macramé within the lawns are cobblestone pathways which are softly lit in the evenings by shimmering lanterns. Visitors lounge in strategically placed gazebos and rest upon marble-like benches where they gaze at the grounds, including the loosely replicated Globe Theater itself.

All pathways around the mansion lead to the earthen colored stone and wooden open-air theater. To see Shakespearean characters come to life under billions of glittering stars on a blissful summer’s eve is to live a grand life indeed. A lighted catwalk overlooks the descending tiered seating where there is not a poor seat to be had. When lucky enough to be in the first few rows, it is possible to see the sweat gleam on the actors’ skin. The intimate experience allows patrons to feel amiable with one another; even long bathroom lines evoke brief friendships of knowing smiles and soft complimentary whispers. It was this that I dreamed of sharing with my children. So, I waited. And I waited and I waited. At respective ages of 18, 16, 13, and 11, it was time- and as Edmund in King Lear muses “The wheel has come full circle.’

Throughout the years, we always attended various theater productions so going to another was not a huge deal. However, those were mostly musicals such as The Wizard of Oz, Beauty and the Beast, Annie, consequently this experience would be quite different. To tell the family about our exciting event, I did what most moms do- I sent a group text and told everyone to add it to their calendar. And under no circumstances could a member not attend. I got several responses but the most poignant was “Well does Dad have to go?” “Of course, Dad is going and ‘have to’ is incorrect; he is thrilled to share this experience with all of us.” I did make one concession; I agreed to let Reagan’s boyfriend come. At the time, this was unchartered territory for our family, nonetheless, I was willing to take on the challenge.

I planned the evening like I was planning a week’s vacation. Our outfits aligned nicely in the color wheel and sang “take our picture! We match!” Building the excitement of the evening did take some bribery for which I relied upon the failsafe: food. I packed our picnic with the utmost preparation and care. Each person had favorite chips (not generic), lovely Dixie plates, (not the cheap paper plates, the real china like ones), and heavy white napkins. Again, not the napkins that rip the first time, but a napkin that could withstand barbeque or Dorito fingers. I really wanted plastic champagne glasses, but my idea never made it to fruition, and we had to settle for red solo cups to drink our sparking grape juice. Three bottles. Three expensive bottles of faux bubbly. I dug a barely used wicker picnic basket from the attic and as the dust swirled into the air and momentarily blinded me, I imagined the seven of us (yes, I included the boyfriend) dreamily relaxing on the matching blank and white buffalo checked blanket, toasting our loving family as we eagerly awaited our night of theatrical magic. The crowning glory was a stop at Jimmy Johns. This may not seem like the crowning glory but splurging on someone slapping lunch meat on bread is a luxury in our large family, even if it is the controversial Jimmy.

I do not know why but the gods seemingly worked against me as we attempted to leave. It’s not like the kids are babies but trying to get them out of the house nicely dressed always makes me think of watching a Nat Geo special where angry male monkeys run around beating their chests while the lone female patiently corrals the beasts (and picks a nit or two). After a quick check to make sure the children were presentable, I hurriedly gathered additional supplies from the pantry. Catastrophically, I knocked an enormous bottle of soy sauce on the concrete floor which exploded and splattered all over my legs. While I could see a few faint spots on my new pink and white stripe seersucker lawn dress, the children suspiciously reassured me that these were not discernable to the naked eye.  For the first time in my life, I had to shut the door, leave the mess, and run to the car while hurriedly wiping my legs with the dog towel hanging on the fence reserved for muddy feet and excessive drool. Amid the ensuing rising argument of seating arrangements in the car, I could see awful curse words forming in my head. Shrill voices rose and rose, each one higher than the last. “I had to sit by Reese last year on the way to Florida, I don’t have too now. But I had to sit in the back when we went to St. Louis two years ago. I called the front seat last week, remember Mom? It isn’t fair, is it Mom? Mom?” In a quick count of heads, I realized the boyfriend was not in yet in attendance. Ever so quietly, Reagan revealed he was at the dentist and would be catching up with us. However, Reese with his bionic hearing, overheard and this was all it took for him to capitalize on the unfolding turmoil. “Oh… at the dentist. Wow. Who has a dentist appointment on Wednesday evening? That’s convenient. Are you sure he is at the dentist? Has he paid Mom for his ticket? Mom, did he pay for his ticket? What? He is going to meet us in Bloomington. Mom did you hear that one? He is going to meet us there. Does he even know where it is? Isn’t it two hours away Mom? Mom? MOOOOOM.”  I began to back out of the garage as bodies were still catapulting over seats, several sets of feet were in my hair and in the review mirror. With doors agape, piercing alarms sounded brazenly as the van inched down the driveway. Shirts immediately wrinkled in the scuffle, hair stood on end, but finally, the doors closed with every limb intact and the journey began in earnest.

When we arrived at the sandwich shop, the oldest continued his barrage. “What, you are still buying HIM a sandwich too? That is so stupid. Is he paying for it? Did he give you money? He doesn’t need a sandwich. I’m eating that sandwich.” I could see the cashier’s eyes widen while he tracked this closely as well as the additions and deletions to the order. Tomato, no tomato, no mayo, no onion, I don’t like that one, wheat bread, white bread. The store was empty, yet it was as though we filled the entire space and sucked the air out of the establishment. I briefly envisioned the younger boys jumping on the counter, grabbing and throwing bread like the macaques of New Delhi. I tried to keep harmony, tried to stay polite and charming but I fear the cashier heard me fiercely whisper “Thou pestilent knotty pated devil incarnates. Be gone with you” to the vehicle.  I really did not say that. I wish I would have; Shakespeare just sounds so much better than what I really said.

While we waited for Ray at his office, the sun bore down intensely further destroying our attire and wafts of teenage scents began to fill the tightly confined area. After five frantic phone calls, my husband finally sauntered out of the building. We all turned our heads so we could not see him change his clothes in the car and no, I did not bring fresh underwear. I glanced in the rear-view mirror just in time to see Reagan’s face fall. My phone dinged with the message of “he can’t make it.” Yes, she was twelve inches behind me and texted me, but after the earlier onslaught in JJ’s, I understood. I also understood this situation could escalate to immense proportions if I didn’t handle it with the utmost care. Reese, I realized, would take this information and run with it like a rogue monkey stealing from a vendor. I know I have made several references as such and I might seem a bit obsessed with monkey similes. Well, I am. They seem to reflect my feelings often. In fact, like the people of India who see the monkeys as both to be feared and revered, as do I see my boys.  Anyhow, I did what most parents do when faced with a difficult task, I ignored it. Then I returned a text with “it is okay honey. Next time.” I clung to the hope that maybe no one would notice his absence.

We arrived at the grounds behind schedule, but I would not let this deter our evening. We tumbled out of the car in noisy fashion to a thankfully sparsely populated parking lot and I assigned each child something to carry. They pushed and shoved their way to the trunk to discover one lonely sack of sparkling juices. That was it. Immediately the accusations began- “what dumbass forgot the food? Who was supposed to carry it? Not me. . . not me. . . not me. . .” The jabbering escalated to a fever pitch and the lawyers, judges, and ultimately executioners decided it was Roark and then descended upon him with a vengeance. “Dipshit Roark forgot the stuff. What the hell were you doing Roark? You had a job to carry the chips. Who forgot the basket? What the hell.” Honestly, you would have thought Roark had sold his brothers out in a mafia deal gone awry. In my best cheerful mom voice, I reassured all would be fine and we could buy chips inside. I ignored Ray’s loud comment concerning the high cost of goods within the gates. After all, this coming from a man who pays $12 a beer at a Cardinal game. Nevertheless, I planted a kiss on the sweet baby’s cheek, told him to not listen to this scathing repertoire and reminded him that he is perfect in every way (I also discreetly murmured that I forgot the picnic basket).

Entering Ewing Manor with my family filled me with the greatest joy. We quickly found a vacant picnic table adjacent to the cobblestone terrace. An orchestra of soft summer sounds filled the air as crickets and katydids harmoniously touted their musical compositions. Other patrons glanced at us and we exchanged warm knowing looks of a mutual love of Shakespeare. There were not many other children present, so I held my head a bit higher, allowing myself to feel dangerously proud that I accomplished this grand outing. I settled the family around the table and asked Reagan to help me at the concession stand. Thirty dollars later, complete with of a rundown of our evening escapades to the worker, I turned to stroll back to the table. Sunlight streamed across the patio and shadows danced through the turret windows which made a lovely kaleidoscope of shapes on the patio. I briefly considered hopscotching these patterns when, unexpectedly, directly in front of me stood my graduate school advisor, Professor Emeritus Dr. Janice Neuleib. Because we had not communicated for years there was so much to say in so little time. As she stood with her glass of white wine, she patiently inquired into every moment of my life for the past 25 years and in turn, I inquired about hers. From my vantage point, I could see the family growing ever impatient and I grew increasingly worried as I saw one by one, the boys stand and begin their approach. After all, I still had the chips. They looked like warriors leaving on a hunt. Their eyes pierced mine and their long strut was unmistakably aggressive. Khaki shorts blurred into loin cloths, hands formed in an imaginary spear like grip to grab the chips and run. Shockingly, I saw their faces were already dirty and this mocked my motherhood when I dared to put it on display. However, their advance slowed when they realized they might have to make small talk with my professor if they did breach our conversation.  Please. Please. I pleaded silently. Don’t be assholes. Quickly we were surrounded, and the boys moved closer and closer as if to smother the dialogue. Dr. Neuleib was oblivious, I think, as I politely pressed the conversation to end, she politely continued to chat.  

I managed to courteously extricate myself from the chat without a blatant incident from my tribe, and when we finally arrived at the table, I was flush with my good fortune in encountering such an influential person in my life. However, my joy shrank as the boys quickly forgot to remain on their best behavior and began to chatter loudly about the “bird shit all over the table.” Immediately, accusatory looks bore into my back from nearby guests. I tried to deflect the kids’ complaining with a creative synopsis of the play but suddenly, Reed noisily announced that “Reese said he’d just lick up that bird shit, so we’d shut the hell up.” Stunned I looked at them and then Ray in the hopes that he would stifle this obscene talk. However, he also piped in with “He did Shelley. Reese said he would lick that bird shit right up. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him. LICKING bird shit, for Christ’s sake.” Before my eyes my picturesque evening was unraveling so in my best stern voice, I informed them there would be “no more talk of licking gd bird shit. Just ignore it. A little bird shit on a picnic table never hurt anyone.” Then I did what needed to be done; I distracted them by handing out food. Next, I produced the sparkling grape juice much like a waiter at an upscale establishment. With a flourish I placed it on the towel that I draped over the inside of my forearm; basking in the sudden adoration at this grand treat to mark our unique evening. To extend their longing, I slowly peeled away the foil to open the bubbly when to my dismay, I found this brand required an actual corkscrew. My adoring fans quickly turned cold. Up from the table rose a cacophony of grievances and declarations of extreme thirst. I had no choice but to once again trudge through the other polite picnickers to beg for a wine opener.  I am embarrassed to admit that I ducked and dodged my professor like a middle schooler who has missed a homework assignment. The concession worker’s eyes sparkled as I walked up to him; no doubt he quickly recalled the obscene amount I spent on potato chips. I proceeded once again with my story when he benevolently produced the much-needed corkscrew. Triumphantly I returned to the table and with celebratory flare opened the juice. Then I reached for the bag which held the red solo cups, and they were nowhere to be found. This revelation was more than the children could take. Immediately, each began their own form of wailing and their voices rose in collective grief. Reese grabbed the bottle and when he went to put his lips on the rim, Reagan staggered in abject horror and nearly collapsed right in front of me. As often happens in trying times, instead of bonding together in unity, the children returned to finding a scapegoat for the forgotten supplies. I did not even try to quell the ensuing argument; instead, I slogged back to my friendly concession worker as echoes of “Mom, Mom, Mom what will we do?” trailed after me. Before I could even speak, my newfound savior held up his hand like a stop sign and said, “What did you forget now?” I did not even have the entire story out of my mouth before he placed six small souvenir cups in my hands and dismissed my wallet with a hurried and I felt exasperated gesture. Admittedly, my feelings were a bit hurt by this obvious judgement, but I had what I needed and this time, I strutted right through the middle of the courtyard. We had little more time to waste. I could not play Frogger with the other diners and potential old friends again. I had to take my chances.

In a rare moment of silence, we all sipped our now hot sparkling juice. I thought perhaps each of us were finally able to comprehend the beauty, grandeur, and weight of the moment as well as the stunning setting now that the dinner issues were resolved. However, because of the absent boyfriend, a lone uneaten sandwich remained in the middle of the table. As if by telekinesis, each man in my family simultaneously realized there was more food. Fingers shot out and clawed at the wrap; I suddenly remembered the hand in the movie Carrie which shoots viciously from the grave to grab the lone survivor. Reagan even joined in the fray and in an oddly vengeful tone growled “Mom said he could still have his sandwich.” This was all Reese could take. His eyes bugged out of his head as he screeched “MOOOOM this is so stupid. He can’t have the sandwich if he didn’t even come. I am eating that sandwich.” In my mind’s eye, the other Macaw Monkeys jumped on the table and begin beating their chests to establish dominance and in turn, be awarded the surplus food. We all have these Mom moments where we are forced to sacrifice one child’s happiness for another. I quickly calculated the risks and realized I did not have a sharp knife to slice the lone sandwich in equal portions and I could not possibly return to the concession stand. So, I awarded the prize to Reagan, which Reese loudly proclaimed for all to hear that this was the “GD stupidest thing ever and he shouldn’t get it if he didn’t come. Is he paying for his ticket AND his sandwich, Mom? Mom MOOOOM?”

My resolve for the evening began to wane but the dinging of a bell signaling fifteen minutes until show time splendidly chimed, rescuing me from the dinner debacle.  I quickly forgot my anger and herded my brood closer to the theater for the token family picture. We painfully assembled ourselves in appropriate formation when I heard a soft thud, and as I turned, I witnessed my youngest child rolling down the sloping lush hill towards the auditorium. Other theater goers stopped to avoid being swept up in his cataclysmic turning. Our jaws dropped in shock and Reese hissed “just take the damn picture without the brat.” I forgot about the pleasant young woman who I snagged to take the photo but as the bell chimed again, she looked at me expectantly and perhaps worriedly. A slightly grass stained Roark suddenly popped back into our group and without further ado, she snapped a semi-passable picture where only half of the eyes were shut. Later the youngest would claim his feet got tangled which launched him into such a dramatic spin; I did not believe him. To this day I imagine that gentle incline of invitingly soft grass was far too great a temptation for the lad.

As the last bell warned us to move to the theater, Reese abruptly decided he absolutely had to use the restroom. Patrons were sternly warned repeatedly on paper and in person that there is no entrance or exit once the play begins so I was immediately concerned for his welfare. As the crowd pressed towards the entrance, I frantically tried to keep track of the other five and wave at Reese but the area suddenly became like trying to board a ride at Disney. Everyone felt the communal pressure to get into the show at the exact same time, the lights flickered, the bells chimed, volunteers feverishly ripped ticket stubs and before I knew it, I was in the theater. Magically, I corralled the rest of the family but still no Reese. My eyes swept the audience and my lip quivered.  I looked quickly at my husband, eyes begging him to save our son from this most unfortunate incident; Ray read my look and true to his character loudly replied, “Serves his dumb lucky ass right.” I did not even have time to scowl at him for in true Elizabethan spirit, the enormous wooden doors laden with iron hinges began their foreboding closure and the lights dimmed to barely a glow. Perhaps faster than he had ever moved, Reese miraculously slipped through the very slight opening and scuttled to his seat to avoid the critical eye of the docent.

We settled into our seats for The Merry Wives of Windsor. In this comedic play, the aging, overweight, broke, and quite sexual Falstaff tries to sway, at the same time, one (or both) of the already married wives to be his lover. Though the language is indeed Shakespearean, the intentions and inuendoes are quite clear. This particular production used the 1970’s as a setting so the costumes and stage were ablaze with disco fever, bell bottoms, and flamboyant frocks. Combing this setting with the hilarity of the play made for such a lively and provocative production; I marveled at how fortunate we were to be in this audience. When the play ended, I felt an instantaneous surge of delight and I turned my beaming face to my family.  However, my glee was met by ten stone cold eyes and I was taken aback. Quickly I recovered and gushed “didn’t you just love it? Everything about this play was absolutely perfect!”

And then the baby, in a flat monotone voice declared “Well geez Mom. That was inappropriate for us. Wow. Embarrassing.”

Because the children were once again ravenous due to the near starvation at dinner, we agreed to visit a convenience market on the way home. As they ebbed and flowed, stopped and started, argued and cajoled their way through the store and out the door, the attendant laughed heartily and remarked “Little Momma do all of these belong to you?” For a moment, I wanted to say “I have never seen them before in my life” and then walk out. However, I gazed at these delightful creatures who made my wishes come true – who I spent the night with under a thousand stars and my eyes filled with tears, my throat tightened, and I choked out “yes, indeed. They are mine.” And he banally replied, “That will be $27.50.”

Time appeared to be suspended in the finally quiet harmony of the vehicle.  It was like we were guided by an unknown force which was simultaneously binding us and leading us home. The monkeys were finally tired and momentarily full, the warriors returned victorious from the hunt, and my dream was complete. I silently prayed to never forget this feeling of connection; our family was like one body, joined by this splendid evening. Finally, number #3 child broke the sweet stillness and ever so tenderly murmured, “Mom, you know what?”

Here it comes I thought. . . the thank you. Forces of the universe do align. The revelation that tonight was truly a night they would forever remember – a night that would stand out above all in familial love, in a shared bond of ageless literature and theater. A night that would live in perpetuity. My heart melted. I turned to gaze at my son and in his eyes, I unexpectedly saw my own life reflected in those almond pools of blue. I stretched out my hand to him; I imagined my touch would be like ET reaching for Elliot and our hearts would simultaneously beat as one. I whispered to my miracle, my now Shakespearean comrade, “Yes my angel? What is it?”

“You still smell like soy sauce.”