Looking Glass Playhouse’s The Diary of Anne Frank

Discovering there was a community theater in Lebanon, Illinois, while driving home from work, I knew I wanted to view a performance.  Perusing the Looking Glass Playhouse’s site, I saw The Diary of Anne Frank was showing in March.  Having recently watched a six-episode documentary on Auschwitz, I had to purchase tickets.

Recruiting my Hot Yoga/Yoga under the Arch buddy, Beth P. agreed to sit in the first row with me, front and center, for opening night, March 13, 2014.

Directed by Kathleen Dwyer and Rob Lippert, the utilization of the stage was mesmerizing- not a nook or cranny was wasted.  With different scenes highlighted through lighting, the audience was led through two tempestuous years of the life of a young girl.

Anne Frank, played by Diana Risse, Margot Frank played by Victoria Symonds, and Peter Van Daan played by Connor Sanders truly embraced the metamorphosis from innocent children to burdened young adults due to the horrors of warfare.

Close attention to detail was made by the costume designer, Cathy Symonds.  Characters initially dressed in white socks and kempt attire for Act I were found to be in holey socks and ragged sweaters for Act II showing the progression of time and the effects of lingering circumstances.

The visual impact of the final scene with all characters on stage standing at attention as excerpts of Anne Frank’s diary projected across their bodies had quite the influence on the audience.  When lights were brought up again, there was brief hesitation as to whether the audience should clap or cry after such an absorbing orchestration.

My only complaint was the lack of biographies on the cast, staff, and directors in the program.  Overwhelmed by such a production, I wanted to learn more about those involved in The Diary of Anne Frank’s fruition.

Future showings are March 14, 15, 16, 20, 21, 22, 23, 2014.


“Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.”  (Mark 1:35)

“Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.” (Luke 5:16)
Having just read Anna Quindlen’s memoir, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, I was thrilled to turn the page (or tap my Kindle rather) and see Quindlen devoted an entire chapter to the topic of solitude.  Intrigued, I was anxious to read on . . .  In this portion of her writing, Quindlen describes her living arrangements with her husband during the summer months:  he spends the week in the city while she flies solo out in the country;  they reunite on the weekends.  She writes: 
There are two different responses to this kind of arrangement.  The first is pity, the notion that being alone is synonymous with loneliness and must be remedied with company at all costs.  The second is the minority reaction:   that solitude sounds wonderful.  (Loc 1034)

At this point of my life, I would be considered according to Quindlen in the minority although there was a season in my life where I would have been in the former camp.  While a grad student living in Chicago, I can remember attending the movie theater with a friend or love interest and see many young sailors (i.e. the nearby Great Lakes Training Center) sitting in what I thought of as isolated islands, people in theater seats minus an adjacent breathing being.  Literally, my heart wrenched for these young people (yes, I was young and dramatic and in love with the classics), and if I didn’t have that shy streak, I would have asked if he or she would like to have joined us in our row and inevitably passed the popcorn.  In my heart, I knew they had to have been lonely and wanting of companionship of any kind.  Now, I realize he or she was probably relishing the solitude after being packed in with others dressed identically morning, noon, and night.
As my thoughts about solitude matured along with the years in my life, I enjoyed living alone in my early 30s.  I could read when I wanted, watch television when I wanted, sleep when I wanted, and interact with others when I wanted.  As fate would have it, the man of my dreams followed this same theory.  In fact, he tells me he knew he was in love with me on our drive from Springfield, IL, to New Salem, IL.  It was my 31st birthday, and we were on our way to see the outdoor production of Quilters at this historic locale.  During the roughly forty-minute drive, we drove in silence: no radio, no cd, no conversation, no uncomfortable silence.  We simply enjoyed being together without having to fill the space between us with words.  The reality of the situation never dawned on me until he brought it to my attention years later, and I dug that he dug the contented hush.  You dig?
As a first-time mother, I found my solitude in sleep.  If a willing anyone volunteered to watch over my squirt, I headed for a pallet of any sort to lose myself in slumber, the ultimate solo activity.  As a second-time mother, I was more adventurous in terms of seeking solitude.  Reading through the MOBOT newsletter, I knew a day and night with strangers in a log cabin was calling my name, so I registered.  Now, I did ask friends to join me, but they either laughed or tried desperately to find care for their children to no avail.  During my 24-hour span, I learned to felt wool, realized fleece sweats were not a good choice when walking through woods riddled with burrs (yes, I’m a dork and never seem to dress appropriately), and read to my heart’s content on my lower bunk in the cabin all while listening to unfamiliar stories and unfamiliar snores.
As I am now middle-aged woman, it‘s a relief to be surrounded by people who understand my quirks when it comes to solitude.  While hospitalized last year for the second time for an infection, I decided to embrace the solitude a solo room on the oncology floor can bring.  My best friend and hub assured me they wouldn’t announce this hospitalization to others because I truly wanted to reflect on the here and now and read without interruption. This nearly week-long stay was loooooooooooong, but I attempted to glean the good from this opportunity which I knew I may not have again.

My friends who know me well, I believe, respect my love of solitude and join in right along with me.  This past weekend, a dear friend I hadn’t seen in over a year stayed at my house for the night.  We talked and laughed, but when the witching hour of 10:00 p.m rolled around, we knew our reading awaited us, and we lovingly said our good nights.