A very 'Midsummer' madness at 20 years away, a show starting anew | MARK HUGHES COBB

The amazing Shelley Jones could do magic with one hand.

There was probably more to it — like a lifetime as educator and leader — but if you ever saw Shelley quiet 800 out-of-school-excited kids, squeaking and squawking in the Bama Theatre, by simply raising a hand, you'd think: magic.

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Speaking of, I'm currently directing "A Midsummer Night's Dream," founding show of the Rude Mechanicals back in 2003. The confusion we bump into: 20 years from a thing isn't the 20th anniversary. Anniversaries don't start until a year after the first. This is kind of like the issue some misunderstand, saying "Our first annual." There's no such thing, until there's an annual, a year after the first.

Ain't English grand?

Our first anniversary was 2004, with "Much Ado About Nothing," thus this year, pandammit notwithstanding, is our 20th anniversary. It made creative sense to loop back to beginnings.

After my one-and-only (clearly I'm not great at predictions) dip into theater with "Jesus Christ Superstar," I had to be gently talked into playing Oberon, by Andre LaSalle, a grad directing student who'd been assistant director on "JCS."

My objection: "I'm not an actor. I'm a rock singer who thought it'd be fun to see how a show is crafted, from within."

Quoth Dre: "I gotcha." Words to that effect.

As old folks like myself say, because it's true, long-term memory remains superb even as I struggle to remember names I just heard, isolate a surprise flavor (baristas sorta like me) in my iced coffee, or type out the 55th password I'd been forced to change this month.

I can recall being Dre's newbie, distinctly, and thus with awareness of the challenge, took on the idea of kids ― as in single-digit age ― playing Titania's retinue of boisterous, hilarious, colorful and oft-demented fairies.

Madness in the method: Of the eight kids twittering through haunted forests outside ancient Athens, only one does not have a parent in the grown folks' cast, and she's been one of the best-behaved right out of the gate, having been well-coached by Doff and Laurel Procter, recently retired leadership of the Alabama Choir School.

All, make no mistake, are delightful. Last night (as I write) seeing the eight of them supporting and surrounding Titania on her fairy bed, singing her night-night with "Lullaby" — first song I wrote with Shakespeare, back in 2003, and essentially unaltered from then — I will not lie, I misted up. My old cubemate Lydia knows how much I love the word "cuuuuuute" (which cannot be said without multiple Us), so I'll just keep it short, at "sweet."

Not just saying this because their parents are among my favorite people, but these kids are all ethereally lovely. And remarkably, as this is not true of all, they look even more so under stage lighting.

We haven't even attached wings yet — got to spray fixative, to make sure tiny detailing doesn't drop off in all the activity — or put them in full costume or makeup, and yet they are already, to overuse the word: magic.

Yet anything can happen in the woods. Sometimes they forget rules: no running or talking (except when onstage, or querying/answering the director or choreographer). Their energy is enormous. When you're not around kinder all day, you can forget they are burning, every moment.

Until they turn into gremlins.

The hours we should not feed are different for each, with ages ranging from 3 to 9, and yes, I did know what I was doing, as the youngest are not only adorable but sweet-natured, and yes, their parents are right with us.

But some have 8 p.m. bedtimes. This is tough to reconcile, even in long-term memory, because while my folks were good about getting us down — with stories, of course, and tuck-ins, stuffed animals and all the fine sweet-dream paraphernalia — when we were teeny, with teenhood came willfulness and insomnia in near-equal 64-gallon drums.

Ever since, I've struggled with the reality I'm not made for sun, except as in "down." I'd say I'm part bat (on a dark knight), a bit of owl (as in the pompous, theoretically educated WOL of A.A. Milne), a touch coyote (Wile E.), a hair ocelot (the furtive, secretive predator), a slice of pangolin (the spiny anteater that rolls into a tight armored ball when threatened), and a chunk of, let's face it, sloth, whenever I'm forced to rise before the crack of 9.

Work now is trying to get these youngsters acclimated to the idea that not only will they have to wait quietly offstage for stretches, but that shows will begin at a time when they're ordinarily about to slip into silent slumber: Our pre-show music starts at 7:30, with the show proper at 8. I cut Will with what I hope is an incisive hand, but I do ruthlessly trim until our shows clock in at a good-and-proper 90 minutes.

If 9:30 sounds like crazy time for kids, imagine the patience of their folks. If I was paying all what they deserve, I'd be bankrupt seven times unto seven generations.

Some of this cast are educators, like Shelley. They have tricks, among them rhythmic claps, gestures and, I'm guessing, auras that beam peace and tranquility. I just sorta Hulk up, raise my voice, then when that miserably fails, look pleadingly at a parent or three.

One of the best tricks involves "catch a bubble," which I intentionally misremember as "eat a bubble." You tell the tiny ones to catch a bubble. They reach up with imagination-forefront minds, snag a fragile floating translucence, and pop it in their maws. Knowing they're now protectors of the easily-vanquished, they remain stoically still and tight-mouthed.

For a bit.

And really, that's all we need to make the magic: bits, one after another, guided, collided, and cascading into a dream of a story at night.

Mark Hughes Cobb is the editor of Tusk. Reach him at [email protected].

This article originally appeared on The Tuscaloosa News: Very 'Midsummer' madness, utilizing energy, parents | MARK HUGHES COBB