The Stratford theatre became part of our lives and our daily routine. Because we moved in January, the new life began early for us: opening night was in June. The whole town responded to that deadline, too: fresh paint, newly planted gardens, new stores, with hopes they would last through the winter. All summer I would tell the kids to come home after supper when the “cannon” boomed” (signalling the start of the play—later then; it booms at 7 pm. now). I think it was a tradition that began with Molière but I can’t find it yet on Google.

Our children were immersed in theatre, but in a different way. None of them became involved in it as a career, unlike our perennial summer guest . The Canadian actress, Martha Burns, and my daughter Kate had been friends since Grade Two and shared summers, one month each, first at our respective lake places and later between Stratford and Lake of the Woods (Kenora, Ontario—I didn’t have to change OHIP details for Kate). That was Martha’s introduction to theatre. Bill used to “write them in” to see the shows. They were small enough and quick enough to be able to sit on the steps to watch when no seats were avaiiable. It had a permanent effect on Martha. She was eleven years old when she went home and asked her father to get her a copy of Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler, one of the shows she had seen that summer. It didn’t take like that with my children. But they knew their Shakespeare.

So did I. It was almost ordained. I had taken a Renaissance course as an honours English student in third year and read Shakespeare, then a full Shakespeare course in fifth year. So I had read the entire canon twice and there I was at Stratford seeing the entire canon over the years four, five, six times, even the lesser known and seldom performed plays two or three times. Familiar lines and phrases became part of my domestic vocabulary.

I have always struggled with my weight. My constant refrain was, “Oh. that this too too solid flesh would thaw, melt and resolve itself into a dew.” I said it to a friend of mine once and she said “Oh, that’s what il’s like to be a writer. You can say something like that.” I explained that I didn’t say it.

Readers of my blog will know I frequently use the word anon.

Anon, Adverb, synonyms: before long, by and by, directly, momentarily, presently, shortly, soon

Shakespeare used it a lot.

You know the story about the boss who took his secretary to see Hamlet. When it was over he asked her how she liked it. “Just fine,” she said “but it was full of clichés”—created by Shakespeare. i’m full of his clichés. We all are.

Anon.

So we moved in the dead of winter - January the first (1968), Bill’s choice so he would remember the date—leaving Winnipeg in well below zero weather and arriving in Stratford, where it was 10 above (Fahrenheit). We went to get the keys to our new home and our real estate agent apologized for the cold weather and we all laughed. To us it was balmy. But we had to stay in a hotel for several nights until our mattresses, having travelled the northern route along Lake Superior, warmed up enough to lay our bodies on. And if the movers had attempted to unwrap a mirror or a picture, the glass would have pinged and shattered. So we enjoyed a lovely experience that we made a tradition until Bill died and all traditions ended.

New Year’ s Day Dinner at the Queen’s Hotel in Stratford—a family affair. We were strangers that year but by the following year we knew everyone. Red velvet bows, all lovingly made by Mrs. Pinkney, adorned everything that was adornable, and she garnished every dinner plate with her own preserved crab apples. Memorable! It didn’t last long after that for her either. The Pinkneys lived in the hotel that they owned. She always talked about having a real house with a front and back door and a basement and a garden—all that. Her husband died around the same time that Bill did, and Muriel Pinkney didn’t wait long enough. She sold the hotel and bought a suburban house, what used to be called a ranch house, with a big back yard and a swimming pool. She spent six months renovating and shopping and settling, and then, I guess, she looked around and said “What have I done?” She missed the hotel. I only heard all this. I was not intimate with her. But she told people that she had made the biggest mistake of her life. I think of her every year when I go to Stratford and pass what used to be the Queen’s Hotel (new name now). Lo, how the world changes.

Anyway, we moved in, and our complete dinner, including dessert, was brought to us that first evening, not by Meals on Wheels or DishDash (it didn’t exist in those days) but by Dama Bell, bless her.

Then we all had to face living in a new place. Town and Gown, that’s the distinction drawn in a university town. I don’t know that there’s a similar phrase for the discrepancy (gulf!) between theatre people and civilians, but it certainly exists. We were mugwumps, with one foot in the kitchen and one foot backstage. I was more split than Bill was. He was a businessman, that’s why they hired him, a rare choice in those days. Most managers were stage managers manqués, working their way back off the stage to an office in front. Bill had a bus.ad. degree, very rare in the theatre at that time, and his business career to date fitted him ideally for the job he was given to undertake. He had done fund-raising, publicity and promotion and of course accounting. His bussiness manager told me that Bill said numbers danced for him. (Wow.) Besides being a wife and mother, I was a writer, in fact, an aspiring playwright, with a couple of plays (at MTC) to my credit. I said, when Bill was hired by the Festival, “At last! -someone I can sleep with to further my career!” Actually, it didn’t work that way. If anything, it became an obstacle and a discredit. I didn’t know that then.

I’m sorry. This is still about me. Too much. But Stratford influenced my life enormously and still does. So, of course, does Shakespeare.

I’m getting there.