Thanks to the novel by Edna Ferber and later the musical by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein, most people around the country know a great deal, if not everything, about Show Boats.

Thursday, September 06, 2001

Thanks to the novel by Edna Ferber and later the musical by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein, most people around the country know a great deal, if not everything, about Show Boats. It was my lot to attend only one performance on a Show Boat. That was down in Mississippi.

When I was growing up along side of the Missouri River, a Show Boat came up stream every spring. There was always talk, though, about &uot;the wrong element&uot; going to show boat performances, and drunken young men throwing silly girls into the river. No one was ever able to attach a name to the throwers and the thrown. Nor was there any increase of drownings during the two days the show boat was with us, but neither I nor any of my friends was ever allowed to attend a show boat performance.

For my part I didn’t care. The show boat always presented the same two plays. On Friday night it was &uot;East Lynne&uot; and on Saturday night, &uot;Bringing Up Father.&uot; No Sunday performance. We, too, were part of the Bible Belt.

I was permitted to attend the tent shows presented by stock companies. Years ago someone voiced the opinion that the tent shows, or &uot;Toby Shows&uot; as they were called, were just as interesting as show boat presentations.

According to the Texas State Historical Association tent shows were popular in the rural areas of the United States during the first half of the 20th Century. The most famous of these in my area was the MacGowan Stock Co., which I remember as having originated about the time the Civil War ended.

It was a family enterprise, passed on from generation to generation, and it was a thrill for me in my childhood years to become personally acquainted with the family. The youngest two members of the family were two attractive little girls.

When we first became acquainted the elder of the two, Mima Jane, was 11 years old, two years older than I. Her sister, Edna Louise, was seven, two years younger than I. Every year, though, as I got a year older, they each got a year younger. I found it confusing, but fascinating.

The company came to Nebraska City early every summer, presented a play every night, Monday through Saturday, and a matinee on Saturday. Then the tent was folded and everyone went on to the next town.

Mima Jane and Edna Louise were never in the plays themselves, but between acts they danced, sang songs and told jokes.

The plays given were apparently not typical of tent shows. They were plays that could have been seen in any theater. The first time I saw that perennial thriller, &uot;The Gorilla,&uot; it was at a tent show.

Had I been given my way I’d have gone every night. As it was I was taken two or three nights and always allowed to go by myself, or with friends, on Saturday afternoon.

Looking back, I realize that my parents viewed the week of the plays with a complete lack of enthusiasm, and breathed a sigh of relief when the company took its departure.

Without being conscious of it I underwent a sea change under the influence of my exotic friends. When they weren’t on tour they lived someplace in southern Kansas. They had expressions, that while neither obscene nor profane grated on my parents.

For example if one of them didn’t understand what was said to her she inquired sweetly, &uot;M’am?&uot; or &uot;Sir?&uot; depending on whether she was addressing a woman or a man.

It was an expression I found beautiful beyond belief. I promptly made it my own and even when I understood what was said pretended that I didn’t so I could use it.

My mother gritted her teeth until the show left town and when she couldn’t stand it any longer snarled, &uot;Don’t ever say that again. If you don’t hear something say ‘I’m sorry I didn’t understand you,’ or ‘I beg your pardon, I didn’t hear what you said.’&uot;

&uot;Why can’t I say ‘mam?’ or ‘sir?’&uot; I wailed.

&uot;Because you’re not from the hedges and the ditches.&uot; said my mother.

I realized then that the MacGowans didn’t mean to her what they meant to me. It didn’t matter. Since then I have met a number of people famous far beyond the boundaries that enclosed my talented friends, but none I ever envied so much.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.