Call Your Grandma

The Reservoir is a love letter to my grandparents. I owe so much to them—including my passion for the theatre. When I was four, my Grandma Beryl took me to my first play: a high school production of Oklahoma! Grandma had notes, but I was transfixed. From that moment on, she considered my passion her responsibility. At seven, Grandma took me on a theatre trip to London. On arrival, I suggested we see a revival of Grease—a huge mistake. Grandma dressed me down, explaining why Grease was childish and sexist. She insisted we attend Mrs. Warren’s Profession by George Bernard Shaw instead. And that is why, for better or worse, I am the person I am today.

One of the joys of working on this play has been getting to hear grandparent memories. Below are some stories from our glorious cast and team. I hope they might help you jog memories of your own. And for the young folk out there, I hope this play and these memories inspire you to call your grandma. I promise she has all of your answers.

—Jake Brasch Playwright

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My grandpa Thomas was an insurance salesman, an Elks Lodge member, a lover of eggs Benedict and bacon. He campaigned shamelessly for a namesake—when my parents arrived home with his first grandchild (me), they were greeted by a giant banner proclaiming “WELCOME HOME SARA THOMAS!” His cribbage winnings went into my college fund, and I loved him dearly.

—Sara Ryung Clement Costume Designer

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When I was ten, Grandma Margaret came to live with us. She was an excellent seamstress, knitting me colorful hats, sweaters and comfy yet embarrassing underwear. When my Raggedy Ann lost her leg, Grandma sewed it back on. The only problem was she did it backwards. My mom quickly took me aside and whispered, “Don’t say anything!” For months I played with my beloved backwards leg doll, until I returned home from school to find Raggedy’s leg oriented correctly again. Grandma met me at the door, laughing, holding her. “It’s crazy! Her leg was on backwards!”

—Marin Hinkle Patricia / Others

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When I was 16, I had a punk rock band that booked this gig in New York that was a huge deal to us at the time, and my Italian grandma Camille insisted on hosting the band in her little apartment in Chelsea for lunch beforehand, which I remember was cold rotisserie chicken. And she came to the show of course—we had video of it, and she features prominently, dancing alongside the teenagers with a big grin on her face.

—Michael Costagliola Sound Designer & Composer

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My main memory of my Grandpa Jerome is him singing “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof. He sometimes would change the lyrics or add sounds to get me to laugh.

—Rebecca K. Hsia Assistant Stage Manager

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When my sister and I stayed at our grandparents’ house, our Grandma would lie in bed with us telling stories about her childhood late into the night… usually late enough that at some point, we would claim we were hungry. No matter what time it was, Gram would take us downstairs for late-night cereal. She is still a night owl: if I call at 9pm from LA, she’ll pick up the phone in Pennsylvania—at midnight—like it’s the middle of the afternoon.

—Olivia O'Connor Dramaturg

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My love for storytelling began in my Abuelita Nena’s living room, in front of a wooden cabinet filled with VHS tapes. Opening it always felt like unlocking a little world of magic. We’d watch The Sound of Music, Funny Girl, Doctor Zhivago—her favorites. Julie Andrews, Barbra Streisand, Omar Sharif became part of my childhood. But what I really fell in love with was the way she lit up during every scene. That cabinet was our theater, and she was my guide.

—Adrián González Hugo / Others

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My Grandma Joyce—which I could not pronounce and so has always been known as Grandma Juice—is a passionate proponent of traveling and exploring and passed that down to me, particularly when she took me to Buenos Aires. It was the furthest I’d been from home, and it’s one of my fondest memories with her, sitting at a mesmerizing Tango performance thousands of miles from Brooklyn, eating steak.

—Jake Horowitz Josh

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My grandfather, Frank: a genuinely elegant man. Lived well, yet modestly. Loved the outdoors and gardening, always in a coat and tie. Smoked Chesterfields with a discreet tortoise-shell holder. Dress impeccable, never self-conscious. Took his heart medication with champagne. Shared his amateur geologist’s exquisite treasure trove of rock samples with a small grandson far more interested in their weighty shine than the mighty forces which produced them. Rose from humble chemist to company president. Laughed; never belittled.

—Geoffrey Wade Hank

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At about eleven, I was sent to my Italian Grandmom to be taught to make “sauce.” She was small, fierce and had the most amazing hands. She measured only by the pinch or handful. I said, “But how will I know exactly how much?” With her low, throaty laugh, she said, “Caroleeneh, lookeh…” She opened her hand, displayed the ingredient, tossed it in sideways, brushed both hands over the pot and said, “Now you tryah.” I did. She nodded slowly and something passed between us; we really saw each other—maybe for the first time. I’ll never forget it. Or her.

—Carolyn Mignini Irene

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My grandpa Joe was a true family man and a hard worker who immigrated from Russia at the age of 17 and loved to bring joy to others. He owned a furniture store in Brooklyn, and he gifted my parents their most beloved possession, a 1942 Steinway (that is still in their living room today). I remember sitting on his lap while he proudly watched my dad play that piano and serenade us all with “Autumn Leaves.”

—Shelley Butler Director

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Every Friday evening from the day I was brought home from the hospital when I was born, until the summer of my 18th year, in which they passed away within three weeks of each other, my family and I had Shabbos dinner at my grandparents Morris and Ida Wilkof’s home. Candles lit. Prayer over the wine. Prayer over the challah. A delicious meal. Lots of laughter. Occasionally tears. But always love. So much love.

—Lee Wilkof Shrimpy

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The Reservoir

JUNE 18 – JULY 20, 2025
WORLD PREMIERE
GIL CATES THEATER

Written by Jake Brasch
Directed by Shelley Butler
In Partnership with Denver Center for the Performing Arts & Alliance Theatre
Featuring Adrián González, Marin Hinkle, Jake Horowitz, Liz Larsen, Carolyn Mignini, Geoffrey Wade & Lee Wilkof

Josh’s life is spiraling, but luckily, his grandparents are here to help. And by help, we mean offering unsolicited advice, relentlessly judging his life choices, bringing up their own mortality over coffee, and dragging him to Jazzercise class at the JCC. From Bev’s no-nonsense tough love to Shrimpy’s wildly inappropriate jokes, these grandparents steal the show—and maybe, just maybe, help Josh find his way. The Reservoir is a sharply funny and deeply heartfelt new play by Jake Brasch about family, memory, and healing.

PRODUCTION SPONSOR

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