When I was 16, I discovered my life's calling. I needed to sing. Period. Who'd have thought that a musical about an English cavalier, The Scarlet Pimpernel, who saved the "Frenchies" from having their heads severed during the reign of terror could have inspired me so much? Besides, I was in the last row, wedged in the corner. Something about that theatre was special. Magic. Everywhere.

After the show, I decided I must meet the leading lady to tell her she'd changed my life. I wasn't sure how to go about it, but I was sure the man at the stagedoor could tell me.

This was before I started writing letters to performers and warning them in advance of my arrival. These days I can go to see a friend at one of the Broadway houses and walk backstage without batting an eye—but I still remember how special that first visit was, standing on the sidewalk in the chilly air of an early November evening.

Scores of performers filed through the cold steel door bearing a sign reading: "Minskoff Theatre Stage Door: Authorized Personnel Only."

After twenty minutes, a petite woman with closely-cropped brown hair, wearing a long black wool coat and a red silk top opened the door. Finally. Christine Andreas.

I pulled my silver marker from my purse, uncapped it, and crept toward the stage door. She led a small boy by the elbow.

"Hold on a minute, Macaroni," she told him. "Mommy's got to say hi to some people." My aunt nudged me toward her.
"Could you sign this for me?" I mumbled.
"Of course I can. Did you enjoy the show?" she asked, blue-green eyes glittering.
"Very much," I said. "I want to sing more than anything, and I'd love to see this again."
"Well, if you decide to come back, drop me a note to remind me and I'll see if we can talk about singing for a little while," she told me, squeezing my arm and slipping into the gathering dark.

* * *

June took forever to come. I had written a letter in mid-May telling Christine I would see the show again. Her solo version of "Storybook," my favorite song from Pimpernel a bouncy rousing waltz— serenaded me on continuous repeat as I boarded a plane, thudded through a thunderstorm and arrived at La Guardia with just enough time to eat and to get a poster for the cast to sign.

I didn't quite know what to do with myself as I climbed the aisle leaving the front row. Christine had grown into her role immensely in six months and I adored her even more now. Somehow I found the courage to sing along at curtain call. The only thought that penetrated the buzzing in my brain after the lights dimmed was one of concern. What if she couldn't see me?

This time, I arrived at the stage door, and read the sign: "Minskoff Theatre Stage Door: Authorized Personnel Only," smiled, and walked right through. The doorman sent us up in the elevator, telling us to get off at the stage level. The doors opened and a bunch of actors greeted my aunt and me.

"You were really brave to sing along during the encore in the front row— everyone loved you! We were all talking about it as we were leaving the stage…"

Smiling, I wandered down the hall toward the dressing room at the far end and studied the Hirschfeld drawing on the door. I knocked.

The original costume sketches hung on the facing wall. There was a giant mirror with a light bar above it to my right, and a counter, a giant plush brown couch on my left. Her six dresses hung on a pole near the bathroom, and I could hear Christine humming "Storybook" through the door.

She entered the room with a rippling laugh and a glowing smile, playing with her earrings while she spoke. They looked like tiny fans.
"It's lovely to meet you again. I love your enthusiasm, you know, and the rest of the cast did, too."
I blushed and handed her the roses I had brought with me.
"Oh they're beautiful!"
Her dresser took them from her and said "Would you like me to put them in some water, dear?" Christine nodded.
"I'm taking them home though. I want to be able to enjoy them. Are the ones in the other room still alive? Or have they died?"

She followed the dresser into the other room, put the flowers in a half-empty bottle of Poland Springs near her purse before rejoining us in the visiting room.

"So, did you enjoy yourself?"
"The show was even more beautiful than I remember-and so is your voice," I told her.
"I have changed voice coaches three times since November and the one that I am with now is amazing! Are you looking to go into singing?"
I explained that my parents wanted me to have a backup.
"Yes, second skills are very important. Make it something you can get money doing. I did secretarial work and that was stupid. But you could do anything you want. Would you consider massage therapy? I'd hire you now!" I laughed.

I asked her timidly if we could take a photo together.
"Don't be nervous! I'm only another human being—who can sing—really well!"
We laughed about it for a minute. My favorite memory from the whole trip to New York is captured in that one frame—Christine's face shining with happiness.

"Are you a soprano, too?"
"Sort of. I always loved to belt-I guess I'm more of an alto, but I'd like to have as many notes as I can."
"It is a very difficult habit to break. I was once like that too! I know it's hard, but that's the other thing, you can't give up. Instead of feeling them here," she gestured to her throat. "You need to work on feeling them here."
She put her hands on my face under my eyes. Her fingers were cold. Maybe it was the makeup remover.
"Still, I don't know how you do it," I told her.

Christine put her hands on my shoulders when she continued, as if speaking to a small child. It felt as though her words were meant only for me. Like those little secrets you told to your best friend in second grade.

"Honestly? Learn yoga and use it. Stress is a singer's worst nightmare. People pack their tension in so many different places, their butt, their stomach, their knees…. Most importantly, when you're onstage, relax!
"My diaphragmatic breathing wasn't very good before, but now when I warm up for a show, I do my yoga and I bend my stomach over the back of a chair 15 or 20 times and it primes the muscles of my diaphragm so I can sing."

I smiled.

"Can you sign these for me?" I asked her, gesturing to the CD liners I'd put on the counter.
She bent over them and said "Oklahoma! I love this album- I was so much younger then, but I still think it's quite good. You?"
"It's wonderful… I would love to do that show. There's a lot of dance in it, though."
"You'd be all right. The singers don't dance that much, and our choreographer had an excellent personality. She recreated all of DeMille's dances. I wish you could meet her. Gemze de Lappe's a great lady."
"Really?"
"Really. Oklahoma would be a good one for you. What a great score! If you ever do it, let me know."
"I sure will. I'd love that."

***

I studied my face in the long mirror and applied the last of my pink eyeshadow to my upper lids. I had 45 minutes until I had to make my entrance, but I wanted to finish in time to watch the curtain rise. There was something about an opening night. This was my opening night. My time to prove I was doing the right thing-I had just graduated from high school and I decided it was time to start doing summer stock. They'd auditioned 70 women for four slots in the women singer's chorus in Oklahoma! I was one of them.

My mind drifted back to the first day we'd blocked the title song, and our director brought in the choreographer. Gemze de Lappe, who had to be at least in her 70's took the stage—she had choreographed the 1978 Broadway revival, starring Laurence Guittard and Christine Andreas.

I felt so out of place in the talented group of women on that stage. Most of them were professionally-trained ballerinas in their mid-twenties, early-thirties. I was 19 and all I knew how to do was to sing. I was surprised I hadn't driven Gemze crazy. She had scolded me for tilting my hand too far to the right during the press preview.

As I sat at the dressing table, I put my face in my hands, put in Christine's CD to hear her version of "Storybook" again and gather my inspiration. I tried to lose myself amid the swirl of girls: babbling, giggling, preening-scattered in various states of undress.

A slight, bony hand touched my shoulder. Gemze.

She had a piece of paper in her right hand.

"I thought you should see this," she told me.

She handed me a fax written in Christine's familiar swishy handwriting. A message for Gemze to pass along to the company. Warm wishes for a successful run. And at the bottom: "Give my love to Karen."

Suddenly, it didn't matter so much that I wasn't a dancer.

"My dear, it seems to me, you are where you belong. The dancing, we can work on."