Lazy Pannonian summers were never anything special for children. End of school, visits to relatives, some Adriatic liturgy and a bit of disciplinary beneficial children's work in the gardens. He knew how to get involved in the preparation of winter quarters, repair of sheds or sheds, and the painting of pigsties and chicken coops was a must. All this first and before the dusty streets covered with that wonderful, soft, warm dust that turns into grainy mud during a downpour, the one that, when it dries, so beautifully splatters from your feet as you jump over swallows or run after a football.
In the summer, there used to be various kirbajas: fairs, pumpkin festivals and village festivals, especially during the harvest. All of that is similar to each other and if it weren't for the cotton candy and merry-go-round of each fella, it wouldn't even be worth mentioning.
Just when all these fairs are over, and before the wedding season, comes the best one of all: tanyaszínház! The theater of Salaš has always been there that something which amazes every summer. At a time when there were no mobile phones and the Internet, and there were only a few telephones in the village, the day, place and time of the performance of this troupe, which still tours in smaller places without a theater, could be found out on regional or local radio, and possibly from advertisement in front of the local community.
The excitement among the locals in those days was almost unbearable. Both children and adults were equally amused. Everyone was trying to find out and tell each other as accurately as possible everything they had heard beforehand about the play. You're either funny or you're not. It's modern and you can't understand anything, it's not, but the actors don't even have proper costumes, and it seems they haven't even practiced. There is also singing and those curly wigs and dresses with zippers, and the men are all in tights and high-heeled shoes, but it's not an opera.
"The only operetta that was good was always Queen of the Czardas! For the second, God regrets the time and effort", was the only artistic comment ever uttered by our otherwise very deaf mother whenever she heard the word "opera".
All these discussions fall into the water when, on the morning of the day of the performance, the theater trolleys come crashing down the alley. While a hand-embroidered troupe flag flies above them, hungover actors in throwback costumes shout from the car:
"Stiiiglo theater from Salaš! Tonight I will be attending in your village! At the gym, we start when it gets dark."
Then they always say the name of the play and what do I know, but no one listens to that anymore. Everyone runs to the gate to see and hear the actors live, as if that's the only way to make sure that there really will be theater tonight.
Heaven only knows how that afternoon will go. We tried to shorten it even by following the actors around the village in the prosaic nature of their lives: while they were buying bread at the bakery, wandering around their camp or going to the beach. When they saw us and spoke to us, we ran away screaming, as if we heard the voices of the gods, songs of heroes and saw sowing the golden fleece. What did we know then that they first live in a village camp for a month preparing the play, and after another month they travel every day to another village to perform it. Their enthusiasm, without which none of this would have happened, has always been contagious.
Around eight in the evening, the rush starts around the house, may God protect you. She wears something for every day, thin, but with long sleeves and legs. You have to: it's an anthological truth to repel mosquitoes they bite like dogs. Then they look for and try on scarves and chairs that are easy to wear:
"Al' tak'e find that it is not very easy to cling to it on the soft grass."
I remember a Shakespeare on motorbikes who bewildered those present on a meadow in Obornjaca. We watched Ludaš Maći at the fairground in Bački Petrovo Selo. We brought twenty of our guests from Switzerland and two benches there by bus. We placed them (both the benches and the guests) in the last row, and they all fell off laughing one after the other. Then the performance was interrupted, so that, for a change, the actors could also make fun of themselves. I also remember a parody of a rock opera near the gymnasium in Ada. Small children were constantly hooting and screaming next to the actors who we could barely hear from them. There was once an operetta or a comedy of confusion in Mol, and everything happened in the courtyard of one of the local taverns. All that week it was pouring like from a cable, so it was impossible to get to the fairgrounds. No matter: the cheerful audience was wearing raincoats and umbrellas, and the actors heroically got wet on the improvised, tiny stage for local dances.
The highlight of that - due to the discomfort of standing, sleet and landing of mosquitoes - a kind of out-of-body experience, is kalopozás. After bowing, the protagonists go around the audience offering hats, caps, aprons and other props. They should include an award for actors. A few of us were able to give up ice cream and cabbage for a couple of weeks just to save up for the occasion. I remember that one of my little friends, out of excitement for meeting a character from the play, put his favorite marble in his hat, which he mourned for days afterwards. We cried with him. We knew that with the marble and the show, another summer is slowly moving into the memories, another magic that will never be again.
