Last Night I Could Not Stop Laughing

Brothers of Briar

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RSteve

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Saturday, October 23, is the 13th anniversary of my wife's passing. She was petite and very proper, rarely ever spoke in harsh tones to criticize anyone. When she laughed, it was tastefully quiet.

Her breast cancer exploded from remission to virulent in November, 2007, as it spread to her liver and brain.

The year prior to her cancer metastasizing, we explored every available entertainment venue in Minneapolis-St. Paul; from small theaters to the Minnesota Orchestra and the Tyrone Guthrie Theater. We dined out several times a week and if there was a concert she wanted to attend (Neil Diamond) and I didn't, I'd recruit a daughter to go with her. I knew the clock was ticking.

As I lay in bed last night, I thought of the evening we attended a play at the Guthrie Theater. It had received absolutely brutal reviews, but was in repertory, and the Guthrie continued to present it. We had season tickets, so we made reservations at a fine restaurant and had dinner prior to the performance.

The theater was packed, obviously with those with season tickets or those who were given tickets by season ticket holders who had read the reviews.

The Guthrie has since moved and been remodeled. In the old thrust stage theater, the seats were smallish and very close together. As a male, by the time a play was over, you just wanted to spread your legs and let your "boys" breathe.

We sat down in our regular seats and next to us was a couple we did not recognize from prior performances. We assumed that the season ticket holders had given away their tickets.

From virtually the moment it began, the performance was a complete bore. I could feel myself slowly wanting to drift into slumberland. The chap sitting next to Barbara (my wife) was crammed into his seat. As the play progressed, he began to lean into Barbara and snore. His wife (I think she was his wife) to wake him up, whacked him with her program. It was much louder than she expected and drew the attention of almost everyone in the nearby rows. He sat up for a bit, looked like he was trying to shake his head awake, then leaned back into Barbara.

She and I were about to trade seats when the poor guy, now sound asleep, really ripped one. It was flatulence that an elephant would have claimed with pride. Barbara, God rest her soul, burst out in hysterical uncontrollable laughter, and seeing her like this I followed suit. And soon everyone around us was howling with uproarious laughter. The play was a serious drama and we were damn near choking with laughter. I have no doubt that others also heard the methane explosion, but only started laughing after Barbara's and my hysterics. Things calmed down and we sat, bored, until the intermission.

At the intermission, I suggested that we call it a night. Barbara said she expected that many would leave at the intermission and that it was impolite to the cast of the play; we should just go in and sit through to the end. I didn't argue, but said we should just straggle in as late as possible. As we entered the theater from the lobby, we could see that well over half the seats were empty. Barbara gave me the "Let's blow this pop stand" look and we went to the exit.

We saw some folks we'd seen at other times during the season. The man asked me if I knew what all the laughter was about. Barbara looked at me and we both burst into uncontrollable laughter.

It's a good memory.
 
Saturday, October 23, is the 13th anniversary of my wife's passing. She was petite and very proper, rarely ever spoke in harsh tones to criticize anyone. When she laughed, it was tastefully quiet.

Her breast cancer exploded from remission to virulent in November, 2007, as it spread to her liver and brain.

The year prior to her cancer metastasizing, we explored every available entertainment venue in Minneapolis-St. Paul; from small theaters to the Minnesota Orchestra and the Tyrone Guthrie Theater. We dined out several times a week and if there was a concert she wanted to attend (Neil Diamond) and I didn't, I'd recruit a daughter to go with her. I knew the clock was ticking.

As I lay in bed last night, I thought of the evening we attended a play at the Guthrie Theater. It had received absolutely brutal reviews, but was in repertory, and the Guthrie continued to present it. We had season tickets, so we made reservations at a fine restaurant and had dinner prior to the performance.

The theater was packed, obviously with those with season tickets or those who were given tickets by season ticket holders who had read the reviews.

The Guthrie has since moved and been remodeled. In the old thrust stage theater, the seats were smallish and very close together. As a male, by the time a play was over, you just wanted to spread your legs and let your "boys" breathe.

We sat down in our regular seats and next to us was a couple we did not recognize from prior performances. We assumed that the season ticket holders had given away their tickets.

From virtually the moment it began, the performance was a complete bore. I could feel myself slowly wanting to drift into slumberland. The chap sitting next to Barbara (my wife) was crammed into his seat. As the play progressed, he began to lean into Barbara and snore. His wife (I think she was his wife) to wake him up, whacked him with her program. It was much louder than she expected and drew the attention of almost everyone in the nearby rows. He sat up for a bit, looked like he was trying to shake his head awake, then leaned back into Barbara.

She and I were about to trade seats when the poor guy, now sound asleep, really ripped one. It was flatulence that an elephant would have claimed with pride. Barbara, God rest her soul, burst out in hysterical uncontrollable laughter, and seeing her like this I followed suit. And soon everyone around us was howling with uproarious laughter. The play was a serious drama and we were damn near choking with laughter. I have no doubt that others also heard the methane explosion, but only started laughing after Barbara's and my hysterics. Things calmed down and we sat, bored, until the intermission.

At the intermission, I suggested that we call it a night. Barbara said she expected that many would leave at the intermission and that it was impolite to the cast of the play; we should just go in and sit through to the end. I didn't argue, but said we should just straggle in as late as possible. As we entered the theater from the lobby, we could see that well over half the seats were empty. Barbara gave me the "Let's blow this pop stand" look and we went to the exit.

We saw some folks we'd seen at other times during the season. The man asked me if I knew what all the laughter was about. Barbara looked at me and we both burst into uncontrollable laughter.

It's a good memory.
Nice to have good memories.
 
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