The first time I appeared on stage was at summer camp in Maine when I was twelve years old. I played a gambler who crooned, “You’ve Got That Look.” to my beloved. On the day of the performance, an atavistic mosquito landed in my eye, and I appeared on stage in dark glasses that reflected the spotlights with so much heat that the object of my affection suffered third degree burns and had to be carted off the stage.

My next venture into the world of drama was in college. I was to sing “I’m a Little Teapot” in appropriate costume. The cup, the saucer and the pourer were on stage when I was suddenly overcome with a severe cramp that reduced me to an agonized heap, paper mache spout and all. The cup remained empty, but the pourer had excellent stage presence and improvised “You’re the Cream in my Coffee”.

I changed my major to Education.

It was another ten years before I ventured behind the lights once more. This time, I was part of a fledgling Community Theater Group desperate for participants. I had just had a divorce and the director, who knew my parents, managed to convince my mother that if I played the lead, it would enhance my opportunity to meet husband #3. Although I was approaching thirty, I still felt compelled to obey my mother and I was at every rehearsal on time.

The man who played my lover in this drama was my dentist in real life and the villain of the piece was a darling innocent we nicknamed Buckets Bershon for obvious reasons. I invited all my first graders to opening night and they sat in the front row waving and whistling as the curtain rose. I appeared clad in a spectacular dress and my Aunt Sally’s mink cape. My dentist kissed me before I had a chance to say a word, and while I was gasping from his ardent embrace, Buckets Bershon hit me on the head with a rifle butt and locked me in a steel cabinet. He turned swiftly and aimed his weapon at my dentist. From this incident, the plot evolved. I did not return to the stage until the end of the last act when my dentist managed to convince the authorities that Buckets belonged behind bars. My hero rushed to the cabinet, dynamited the lock, I emerged and we embraced. At that point, I was to say my only line: “DAHLING!”. However, the cabinet was very stuffy and I had been in it for two hours, Instead of returning his embrace, I fainted and the director called 911.

That ended my stage career until the summer I enrolled in an acting workshop. There were 14 of us in the class and every one of the participants could memorize lines in an instant and extemporize on call. For our final session, each of us performed one monologue and one scene. My classmates seemed to need no coaching because of their unbelievable natural ability. I wrote out all my speeches several times, recited them at coffee houses, in doctors’ offices and while bathing. Still, I could not remember one word or gesture once I stood before the class. “You’ll do fine once you’re on stage,” said my teacher.

I recalled my previous stage fiascoes and drank a gallon of Ginkgo before I addressed my scripts once more. My monologue was easy because all I had to do was speak to a corpse, but the assigned scene presented immense difficulties for me. Brynn Kramer and I were to perform a dialogue from “Agnes of God.” She played Agnes and I was supposed to be the cold, professional therapist. I blanked out every time we rehearsed but I did manage to remember that if I forgot a phrase all I had to do was grab Brynn’s hand and shout “Agnes, You are a mistake” to trigger a long monologue from my partner.

This past Saturday, the members of the workshop gathered on stage to perform. I glanced out into the audience and THERE WAS JOHN PANTOLEON the director of our local theater. I had absolutely no doubt that once the man saw my performance, he would insist on launching a series of one woman shows for me and offer me a series of starring roles in the 2005 theater season.

I was first on the program because my teacher had the wisdom to know that in good theater one saves the best for last. I stood behind those lights for my monologue and looked down at what was supposed to be my dead husband. I cleared my throat, straightened my shoulders and shouted “WALTER! LOOK ME IN THE EYE!!!

“He’s dead,” hissed my teacher.

Brynn and I were next and my only hope was that our piece would save my day. I was supposed to say the first line. I looked at Brynn and all the words I had tried to memorize froze in my throat. I managed to remember the one phrase guaranteed to get a reaction and I shouted, “AGNES!!! I AM A MISTAKE!”

Brynn looked up with a shocked expression and cried, “NO! I am the mistake.”

It was too much for both of us. I wrapped her in my arms and sobbed, “I think this whole thing was a mistake.”

The applause was deafening.

When the show was over, I met John Pantoleon in the lobby. Now, I know John Pantoleon and he is a very perceptive man. I was certain he would see my latent abilities despite the poor showing I made on stage. “Well, John,” I said. “How did you like my performance?”

John, whose tact is legendary, took my hand in his and looked deep into my eyes. “Well, said he. “You certainly had That Look.”

I blushed. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve had it since I was twelve years old.”