Worthy Witness

What can be more endearing than a two and a half-hour recital of dance students in the local, beautifully renovated, Art Deco theatre?  When the local ballet instructor with 25 students has a theme-driven, personally written storyline to go with classical music at the local VFW hall.

Instead of the beautifully dressed, perfectly coiffed smiling grandmother of last night’s recital, I am the crabby wife who was woken by the smell of coffee brewing by a husband who is leaving the house at 5:30 this morning so that we can attend the 2:00 recital of yet another family tumbler.  Mascara from last night’s event has settled under my eyes, I have bed head and can’t fall back asleep.  I can’t get it out of my mind how much simpler life was in the olden days when I was the mother and not the matriarch.  I can assure you that the same feelings happened to my mother before me and hers before her.  Do you follow my line of thinking?

I believe I am most tired of super-sized flower bouquets for two-year old prima ballerinas.  No matter how much or how little money I’ve had over the years, my children and now grandchildren have always gotten a single white rose neatly tucked into a floral tube of water, that is wrapped with green, waterproof tape and white satin ribbons.  Festooned with white tulle and cascading pink and purple ribbons, I then attach a beautiful pin to the tulle.  Last night’s performance garnered an antique pewter sprite with magical stones on her wand and dress that change colors  as you turn.  An enameled butterfly of bright yellow and blue will cover today’s event.  Cost of all:  my time, white rose from the garden, and $3.50 for the tube and pin from the thrift store.

Shall I mention the costumes.  Yes, I must.  When my girls were on the dance circuit, my sister made the tutus for me;  yards of tulle layered one atop another and gathered by an elastic band.  I bought the rest of the costume from monies saved from grocery shopping in a tin jar, and added sequins if any, by hand.  I had to close my eyes for one routine last night.  Employing a Rockefeller Center routine, the costumes of the 21 pre-adolescent girls bought on temporary vertigo as they tapped and turned, one after another, black, sparkling sequined costumes reflecting throughout the theatre’s darkened space.

Our seats in the theatre were a disaster.  I couldn’t understand how my daughter, one of the back-stage helpers, managed to get us the worst seats.  We were three rows from the rear exit. It wasn’t until my granddaughter dropped her beach ball prop, that we realized we were watching the wrong girl all three minutes of her act.   Nostalgia washed over me, and I yearned for the days in the musty VFW when we sat on folding chairs, holding toddlers in our arms.