By Emma Tremont
I grew up in Healdsburg. We lived with my grandmother, who owned a building called Camp Rose. In the evenings, lots of adults would gather in her basement and perform for her. I got to sit with her and watch until it was my bedtime. Then my parents would take me upstairs into our home, and we’d have to tip-toe so the floors didn’t creak too loud for the actors. I fell asleep listening to their songs and laughter.
I didn’t know I was the luckiest kid ever. Apart from my sister Lily, my home was a sea of theatrical grown-ups. And their interest in the two toddlers wading through was endless! I observed and absorbed the spirit of community before I had a chance to learn any different, because my grandma’s basement theater was built on it. I understood that everyone who came to “play pretend” after working all day was not amassing fame and riches. But I did understand that everyone was having fun!
As I grew older, I began to feel a little embarrassed about my home. It was a lot weirder and dustier than the Disney Channel. And I didn’t understand why my grandma insisted on wearing huge, bug-eyed sunglasses and taking a wooden walking stick everywhere. She was the matriarch of our family, and people seemed to follow her. But the world that she built was very specific, and I was afraid of it being misunderstood by my peers. So I stopped watching rehearsals for a while.
I soon came to my senses. And I was ready to be a star! My grandma started casting me in small roles and directing me like the rest of the actors. I felt big. Once she roped my sister onto the stage, it was game over. We were an unstoppable duo, simply adorable. Matching costumes, high-pitched voices and lots of admiration. My life path suddenly became very clear to me—I was going to be famous.
But then my grandma got sick. She used all her might to direct one last show, then she had to listen to the performances from her bed. My sister and I were acting alongside our mom with our aunt in the lighting booth. We were pulled upstairs at intermission one night to say goodbye. Our matriarch was gone.
If it weren’t for my aunt Suzy, the Camp Rose Theater would have ended there. But she had been studying my grandma’s leadership for a long time, so while the rest of us scrambled she took the reins. And we all grieved the best way we could think to: We put on a show! And we continued all the way into my senior year of high school, when I was finally old enough to play adult roles. The magic of this house was still very much alive, and the audiences were glad for it. Community prevailed!
When the pandemic hit, we had no choice but to stop. Nothing spreads germs faster than sharing a stage. And during that time of rest, Camp Rose took a big exhale. This place had been hosting crowds of people for a long time; it had nearly a century of history as a gathering spot before becoming a theater! In the quiet it settled into Fitch Mountain, with a front-row view of the Russian River, and calm felt welcome. By the time pandemic days were over, this beloved building was ready to retire.
Join Emma Tremont and Ken Dalton for a reading from their book ‘Jane’s Camp Rose: An Era of Magic’ at the Healdsburg Library, Saturday Aug. 22, from 2-5pm (not sponsored by the Library).
