Estimated reading time: 6 minutes
I recently wrote about the Why Not mindset when it comes to travel and Indiana wines. But last night at the IRT, something crystallized — maybe I’m not just someone who occasionally says “why not.” Maybe it’s just who I am.
Let me pour you a glass and take you back to 1992. My wife and I were just a few months into our marriage — still in that blissful, who-does-the-dishes negotiation phase — when the home phone rang.
And I mean the home phone. Not the all-knowing oracle in your pocket that flashes “Spam Risk” before the first ring. Not the device that lets you silently decline a call while pretending you were in the shower. No, this was a glorified brick of beige plastic, tethered to the wall by a coiled cord that had somehow tangled itself into a DNA helix. It had one job: ring loudly and demand your full attention. No caller ID, no warning – you just picked it up—every single time.
The voice on the other end was the thing every home-phone household dreaded most — a cold call. The 800-pound gorilla in the room was pitching season tickets to the Indiana Repertory Theatre. Any reasonable newlywed carefully guarding a young budget would have said “no thank you” and gone back to arguing about the dishes. Instead, something took over. That stubborn, curious, why-not corner of my brain that has never once made my life simpler — but has made it infinitely more interesting.
Why not?
The caller got lucky; I answered in a why not mood. And honestly? So did we.
I never imagined, in that moment, that 34 years later—now in the IRT’s 53rd season—we would sit in what I’d argue are some of the best seats in the house (though there really isn’t a bad one), watching a show that made us smile, laugh, and wipe away tears we never expected to shed.
From Posey County to the Playhouse
Growing up in Posey County — a place where the county seat, Mount Vernon, has roughly the same population as a mid-sized apartment complex in Indianapolis — theatre wasn’t exactly part of the cultural diet. One high school musical a year, usually Oklahoma, and as a kid in the early ’80s, I couldn’t have cared less. We were a small, proud county where Friday nights meant football, not footlights.
The irony, of course, is that Posey County would eventually forge a meaningful connection with the IRT through New Harmony — one of Indiana’s most historically rich and culturally vibrant communities. The IRT’s work there brought professional theatre back to a town literally built on utopian ideals. But that realization came much later. First, life happened.
I moved to Indianapolis, landed a job at Boehringer Mannheim (now Roche), and found my soulmate from the East Coast. And for no reason other than my inner why not, the IRT became part of our life. Six date nights a year while the kids were growing up and introducing them to the stage. And now, with our kids scattered across the country, the IRT’s A Christmas Carol has become the tradition that brings everyone home. Why not.
For years, whenever I told people how much we love the IRT, the question was always the same: ‘Have they done Wicked? The Lion King? Hamilton?’ I’d explain that the IRT isn’t that kind of theatre. It’s built for plays—August Wilson, Agatha Christie, James Still—the kind of storytelling that lingers. And I wore that distinction like a badge of honor.
So when the IRT announced they were adding a musical to the season, even this why not guy hesitated.
Walking In Blind
I went into last night’s show carrying more uncertainty than I usually bring to an IRT production. For most shows, I do my research — sometimes I even buy the book when the season lineup drops. I like context. I like arriving prepared. It’s the analyst in me that never fully clocks out.
But any wine lover knows that a blind tasting can be the most honest experience of all. Strip away the label, the reputation, the vintage, and you’re left with what’s actually in the glass: no expectations, just the pure experience speaking to you.
Last night, I went in blind.
Come From Away. A musical. At the IRT.
Over the years, the IRT has put me through the full emotional spectrum. August Wilson’s Fences left my mind racing on the drive home — questions multiplying, the story refusing to let go. Agatha Christie had me second-guessing everyone in the room long after the curtain fell. And James Still, who has written plays specifically for the IRT, has a quiet way of sneaking past your defenses and hitting you somewhere you didn’t expect. That’s what great plays do. They don’t just entertain — they linger. They follow you to the car, to the dinner table, and into the next morning.
I didn’t know if a musical could do that. I wasn’t sure I wanted it to.
What I can tell you is this: the conversation about a show usually starts on the drive home. Last night, it started the moment we stood up, found the aisle, and spilled out into the IRT’s stunning lobby for a post-show celebration. Something had happened in that theatre, and none of us were ready to leave it behind.
I turned to Katy and said I was grateful that someone at the IRT had their own “why not” moment — because we all benefited. Come From Away is a story about the magic of the human spirit when tragedy strikes, and I’m honestly not sure that story could have been told any other way. The musical format didn’t just work — it was the only way it could have worked.
Every emotion showed up—laughter, grief, gratitude, the kind of quiet awe that leaves you blinking back tears. There was no hiding from it.
A Real Gem
The IRT is a gift to Indiana. The staff, the talent they bring in season after season, the stories they choose to tell — what a remarkable institution. Thirty-four years ago, a cold call on a beige brick of a phone that couldn’t screen calls — but somehow helped shape a life — set all of this in motion. I’m glad I picked up.
Why not, indeed.
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