A-Town

Back in High School I was introduced to Thorton Wilder’s Our Town by my English teacher who casually mentioned that his daughter’s name was Emily. As his daughter was a classmate and my home town was not far removed from Grover’s Corner, except by ninety years and most of the distance of the United States, I already knew her name.

In Our Town, baseball was one of the themes of life and cars were new and exciting. In my day, I believe basketball was a higher ranking sport, and we were learning about personal computers. I don’t doubt that every one of us now has a laptop, not to mention a car.

As I was in Anacortes visiting my parents, the small town play seemed highly appropriate, so I read it the other morning. I may have read it before. I can’t be sure. But this time I realize that the stuff of the play is much less about baseball and cars than I had expected when I picked it up. (Which it ought to be, considering that it is part of the Franklin Library Classics.) Trappings aside, my view of small town life remains highly indistinguishable from Wilder’s in this play.

However, I find our narrator, who’s official title is Stage Manager, to be a really fascinating chap. He’s half townsperson and half universal being. What a strange situation, even if fairly typical of a small town where people do tend to take on a few different roles. The Manager physically sets the stage and introduces Grover’s Corners, but then he interacts with the characters at will, standing in for a preacher and a soda fountain jerk.

This Manager even brings in a variety of experts on the town, either from the university or local paper, to fill in some of the details. It’s a rather surprising addition considering he appears every bit as knowledgeable as his special guests. You’ll remember how the Manager puts together the newspaperman’s kitchen as we were all getting settled in to learn about Grover’s Corners. Not to get too logical about it, but if you know the layout of someone’s home and how many breakfasts they eat together, well then there’s little doubt that you couldn’t go ahead and fry the bacon, too.

But that seems to be Wilder’s point. Sure Mrs. Webb makes coffee every single morning, as regular as the milk delivery, but we must wrestle with the question of whether or not she savors it. She knows it’s good and right for her children to eat slowly, so I’m one who votes that she, too, remarks on the heliotrope in the Gibbs’ garden as readily as saints and poets do.