It was a small local theater, velvet on the seats worn from generations of patrons. Our seats commanded a view of the stage and, of equal importance to musicians, the pit. I remember watching The Pirates of Penzance, admiring the obvious care that had gone into the set and how much fun the actors were having. More than that, the smell of cypress that formed the backs of the seats. Woody, peppery, warm from so many happy people, if sunshine had so thoroughly soaked into the place that its aroma drifted up even under eletric candlelight. We have since gone our separate ways, but in that space that had been cherished for so long, magic happened when the curtain raised. Buildings like that, time moves differently. For a night it seemed to stop entirely, as enthralled by the show as the audience. Then the curtain fell and the lights came on, and there was only the lingering smell of cypress.