On My Own

I grew up with Les Miserables.  I watched my father paint our house in Cape Cod as he sang "Drink with me."  "Master of the House" filled our frequent five-hour drives to Brooklyn.  When the CD broke, my mother replaced it with the Broadway version.  Our ears, so attuned to the West End lyrics and voices, rebelled.   She quickly returned it for the original London cast.

My Aunt Linda promised tickets for my twelfth birthday - my first Broadway play.  I dressed up in a black ruffle skirt, and we went to the Hard Rock Cafe with Joyce, her best friend.  In my excitement, I soaked my blouse with Italian dressing.  We smelled it through Marius's rescue.

I belted out "On my own" with my first year roommate Alison as we drove back to UVA after fall break.  Lost in the music, she failed to see the ever-present Green County police.  Her dad always said if she got a speeding ticket, it would be due to the Les Mis distraction.

Kelly, Lauren and I began our post college backpacking trip watching Cozet wish for her castle in a small theater in the West End.  We ate ice cream during intermission - a seemingly odd treat for a play.

I saw the "last show" at the Kennedy Center with my family shortly after I married Dave though I am positive it will never stop playing.

I have now seen dozens of Broadway plays - each sound track tighly knit with a memory.   Driving to our New Year's Eve party in 1999 six months post college graduation, singing "We're dying in America at the the end of the millinium to come into our own" from Rent.  Watching Rosie drop her earing in the Bye Bye Birdie revival with Tommy Tune.  Sprinting to meet Grandma and Grandpa for How to Succeed in Buiseness without Really Trying with Aunt Linda.   A surprise trip to Manhatten for our first annierversy to see The Producers.  Walking 30 blocks with Dave to my Aunt's apartment after Jersey Boys - a Christmas gift the year Emily turned one.  Being asked, "Who goes to plays alone?" when I sat down in an aisle seat at American Idiot  (a mother of two whose aunt and uncle are kind enough to watch the kids).

On my own for the second week, I deciced to escape from "Mommy can I have..." into my favorite play-turned movie Les Mis.  What a disappointment.  My ears could barely tolerate Russel Crowe's voice.  The extreme close ups and odd angles felt like a Tim Burton movie.  The songs seemed to be missing notes.  Yet, the music connected me with home and reminded me I am not so far away.