Adventures of Mason #4

Men on the Sun...or...What I Learned About Theatre at the Abraham Lincoln Freedom Festival

There are performances you remember because they went well.

And then there are performances you remember because they tested the fundamental limits of what a human body can endure while wearing period-appropriate clothing and pretending to care about historical accuracy.

This is about the second kind.

The Setup

Rockport, Indiana. July. The Abraham Lincoln Freedom Festival, held annually at the boyhood home of our 16th president. We were hired to perform a show about the Lincoln assassination.

Outside.

In a heat index of 110 degrees.

For three people.

Sitting approximately 100 yards away.

Let me say that again: 100 yards away.

Fortunately, we had microphones. Unfortunately, microphones don't regulate body temperature or prevent existential despair.

The Opening Act

Before we went on, we were treated to a performance by Kenny Presley, who—and I want to be very clear about this—says he is the secret son of Elvis.

Not a tribute artist. Not an impersonator. The secret son.

I have no idea what Kenny Presley performed that day. My brain had already begun the process of shutting down non-essential functions to conserve energy for the act of standing upright in wool. But I do remember thinking that this was either the best possible or worst possible warm-up act for a show about presidential assassination.

It set a tone. That tone was "anything can happen at a festival."

The Performance

You know the phrase "man on the moon"? That triumphant image of human achievement against impossible odds?

Forget it.

We were men on the sun.

The sun was the stage. The sun was the audience. The sun was the subject, the antagonist, and the only thing anyone could think about. Abraham Lincoln got shot in our show, but honestly, the heat was doing most of the killing.

My co-actor and I had a system. We'd discussed it beforehand, the way you discuss emergency protocols before a flight. Hydrate constantly. Find shade during any possible moment offstage. Accept that historical accuracy would be compromised by the sheer amount of sweat currently dissolving our period-appropriate collars.

The three audience members—bless them—stayed for the whole thing.

I don't know if it was politeness, stubbornness, or genuine interest in the material. I like to think it was all three. They were troopers. We were troopers. Kenny Presley, secret son of Elvis, was presumably somewhere nearby being a trooper in his own way.

What Museum Theatre Teaches You

Here's the thing about museum theatre, living history, and festival performances: they teach you that context is everything, and sometimes context is actively hostile to your art.

You can have a great script. You can be fully prepared. You can have done your research on John Wilkes Booth's motivations and Mary Todd Lincoln's grief and the complicated legacy of Reconstruction.

And none of it matters if the sun is personally trying to murder you.

This isn't a complaint. This is just the job.

Museum theatre exists in the space between education and entertainment, between historical fact and theatrical storytelling. It happens in libraries and living history sites and presidential boyhood homes. It happens for three people or three hundred people. It happens when the conditions are perfect and when the conditions are apocalyptic.

And you do it anyway.

Because someone hired you to tell a story, and that's what you do. You tell the story. Even if the story is competing with heat stroke and a guy who claims to be Elvis's secret son and an audience so far away you can barely see if they're still conscious.

The Lesson

I've performed in beautiful theaters with perfect acoustics and lighting designed by people who actually went to school for that. I've performed in black box spaces with audiences so close you can see them deciding whether or not they like you.

But some of my most vivid memories are from the weird ones.

The library performances where someone's cell phone goes off and it's their grandkid and they take the call.

The outdoor shows where weather becomes a character you didn't rehearse with.

The festivals where you follow Kenny Presley and precede a guy doing balloon animals.

These are the gigs that remind you why live performance matters. Because it's live. Because it's unpredictable. Because the audience showed up—even if there are only three of them, even if they're sitting 100 yards away, even if it's hot enough to make you question every choice that led you to this moment.

They showed up.

So you show up.

Epilogue: On Survival

We survived.

Abraham Lincoln, in our play, did not. But historically, we already knew that.

The three audience members survived. I hope they remember the show fondly, or at least remember that time they watched two guys nearly melt while talking about the Booth conspiracy.

Kenny Presley, secret son of Elvis, presumably survived. I like to imagine he's still out there, performing at festivals, making bold claims, living his truth.

And me? I learned that I can perform in 110-degree heat for an audience of three people 100 yards away and still care about getting the story right.

That feels like a useful skill.

Even if I never want to use it again.

If you're going to perform outside in July in Indiana, bring water. Bring extra water. Bring water for the water. And maybe follow someone with a really interesting personal mythology—it helps put your own situation in perspective.Adventures of Mason #4

Men on the Sun

Or: What I Learned About Theatre at the Abraham Lincoln Freedom Festival

There are performances you remember because they went well.

And then there are performances you remember because they tested the fundamental limits of what a human body can endure while wearing period-appropriate clothing and pretending to care about historical accuracy.

This is about the second kind.

The Setup

Rockport, Indiana. July. The Abraham Lincoln Freedom Festival, held annually at the boyhood home of our 16th president. We were hired to perform a show about the Lincoln assassination.

Outside.

In a heat index of 110 degrees.

For three people.

Sitting approximately 100 yards away.

Let me say that again: 100 yards away.

Fortunately, we had microphones. Unfortunately, microphones don't regulate body temperature or prevent existential despair.

The Opening Act

Before we went on, we were treated to a performance by Kenny Presley, who—and I want to be very clear about this—says he is the secret son of Elvis.

Not a tribute artist. Not an impersonator. The secret son.

I have no idea what Kenny Presley performed that day. My brain had already begun the process of shutting down non-essential functions to conserve energy for the act of standing upright in wool. But I do remember thinking that this was either the best possible or worst possible warm-up act for a show about presidential assassination.

It set a tone. That tone was "anything can happen at a festival."

The Performance

You know the phrase "man on the moon"? That triumphant image of human achievement against impossible odds?

Forget it.

We were men on the sun.

The sun was the stage. The sun was the audience. The sun was the subject, the antagonist, and the only thing anyone could think about. Abraham Lincoln got shot in our show, but honestly, the heat was doing most of the killing.

My co-actor and I had a system. We'd discussed it beforehand, the way you discuss emergency protocols before a flight. Hydrate constantly. Find shade during any possible moment offstage. Accept that historical accuracy would be compromised by the sheer amount of sweat currently dissolving our period-appropriate collars.

The three audience members—bless them—stayed for the whole thing.

I don't know if it was politeness, stubbornness, or genuine interest in the material. I like to think it was all three. They were troopers. We were troopers. Kenny Presley, secret son of Elvis, was presumably somewhere nearby being a trooper in his own way.

What Museum Theatre Teaches You

Here's the thing about museum theatre, living history, and festival performances: they teach you that context is everything, and sometimes context is actively hostile to your art.

You can have a great script. You can be fully prepared. You can have done your research on John Wilkes Booth's motivations and Mary Todd Lincoln's grief and the complicated legacy of Reconstruction.

And none of it matters if the sun is personally trying to murder you.

This isn't a complaint. This is just the job.

Museum theatre exists in the space between education and entertainment, between historical fact and theatrical storytelling. It happens in libraries and living history sites and presidential boyhood homes. It happens for three people or three hundred people. It happens when the conditions are perfect and when the conditions are apocalyptic.

And you do it anyway.

Because someone hired you to tell a story, and that's what you do. You tell the story. Even if the story is competing with heat stroke and a guy who claims to be Elvis's secret son and an audience so far away you can barely see if they're still conscious.

The Lesson

I've performed in beautiful theaters with perfect acoustics and lighting designed by people who actually went to school for that. I've performed in black box spaces with audiences so close you can see them deciding whether or not they like you.

But some of my most vivid memories are from the weird ones.

The library performances where someone's cell phone goes off and it's their grandkid and they take the call.

The outdoor shows where weather becomes a character you didn't rehearse with.

The festivals where you follow Kenny Presley and precede a guy doing balloon animals.

These are the gigs that remind you why live performance matters. Because it's live. Because it's unpredictable. Because the audience showed up—even if there are only three of them, even if they're sitting 100 yards away, even if it's hot enough to make you question every choice that led you to this moment.

They showed up.

So you show up.

Epilogue: On Survival

We survived.

Abraham Lincoln, in our play, did not. But historically, we already knew that.

The three audience members survived. I hope they remember the show fondly, or at least remember that time they watched two guys nearly melt while talking about the Booth conspiracy.

Kenny Presley, secret son of Elvis, presumably survived. I like to imagine he's still out there, performing at festivals, making bold claims, living his truth.

And me? I learned that I can perform in 110-degree heat for an audience of three people 100 yards away and still care about getting the story right.

That feels like a useful skill.

Even if I never want to use it again.

If you're going to perform outside in July in Indiana, bring water. Bring extra water. Bring water for the water. And maybe follow someone with a really interesting personal mythology—it helps put your own situation in perspective.