Waiting for Daddy...

Waiting for Daddy…

It is a warm afternoon in a small Southern town - warm enough for short sleeves.  Young children could play outside unattended and alone.  It was the first house my parents built, and it is the first house I remember – made of brick and on a “good” street by local standards.  Our neighbors included our family doctor who would stop by on his way home with medicine for a sick child. 

Memories include the Esso station, the hardware store, the Piggly Wiggly and vague interior details of a few houses where my mother would play bridge with friends.

I was young – no more than four years old.  My younger brother may have been taking his afternoon nap.  That would be a likely reason for me to be outside on most days when the school day ended. 

Our backyard looked across what may have been a vacant lot or small field, and you could see the parking lot of the school.  If there were trees or a hedge, the growth was not mature enough to significantly block the view.  My daddy worked there as a teacher, coach and administrator.  In small towns educators wear many hats.  He wore a dark suit and tie to work, and maintained a slightly longer version of his Army haircut.  Daddy could fix anything and solve any problem.

The memories are fuzzy in the way that most early memories are.  We had a swing set that my dad may have made although I’m unsure on that point.  It was painted dark rust red.  There were one or two swing seats and a teeter totter.  The details I do remember would not pass current safety standards, but I don’t remember anyone getting hurt. 

There is a row of school buses – waiting to take students home at the end of the day. In those days, students walked, rode bikes or rode the bus.  I don’t remember car pool lines or student parking lots in my childhood.  I would have been too far away to hear the bell or other signal to end the school day.  But I remember the buses filling up with drivers and students.  The engines would turn over and idle while each bus driver waited until the next had pulled away.  Some days there would be an athletic practice or a teachers’ meeting but most days…the departure of the last bus meant Daddy would be home soon.

Dr. John C. Richardson completed a long career in the field of education, retiring from Clemson University.  He championed the causes of children with special needs and those living in rural areas.

 I am his proud daughter.

First Day of Class

“Everyone is beautiful at the ballet. Every prince has got to have his swan. Yes, Everyone is beautiful at the ballet.”   Lyrics: “At The Ballet” from  A Chorus Line

New Beginnings and Big Dreams

A new dress, new shoes and a new bag…sounds like a party or Easter or the first day of school.  It’s the first day of class but not at school.  The first day of ballet classes in the fall semester is like many other first days.  Everything is fresh and new, and each student has a dream that probably involves a solo, a standing ovation and an armful of flowers. 

Yesterday I caught up with a new friend.  Her daughter will take her first ballet class this morning.  We laughed about buying the tiny leotard, tights and shoes.  Her daughter was very proud of her new clothing, and had been watching the big girls in the window of the dance studio for months.  Now it’s her turn.  I could tell this little girl envisions herself in a tutu with a sparkly headpiece. 

My first stop of the morning was to drop my daughter off for her private ballet lesson.  I visited with one of the dance instructors while the first young girl arrived with her mother for her very first class.  Her leotard and shoes were pink, and she wore a sweater because it was just a little cooler this morning.  She held a precious stuffed animal and was a little shy.  The connection between the instructor and young dancer was made.  Another dream took flight.  I departed and navigated a parking lot filling with pastel leotards and smiles.

My trip home took me past the studio where my daughter began her lessons at age 3.  The joke has always been finding a parking place, and I saw the best spot was open.  We call it the “platinum” spot, and for years I’d have bought the right to park there every evening.  I turned in and watched another group of dancers and parents experience the first day of dance class.  There were a hugs from the instructors there as they collected email addresses and got started with their classes.  More big dreams…

My daughter is older.  The leotards are black or bright colors and the style is a little edgier.  Two elastics crisscross the instep of her ballet slippers now instead of a single strap.  She has a full array of pointe shoes from brand new to “dead”.  She does her own hair and make-up, and packs her dance bag each night for the next day.  The last two summers have been consumed by ballet intensives in communities far from our home in Charlotte, NC.  Her dreams are the same, but they are becoming realities.  Some of these will be wonderful – others may be tougher.

On this day though…the first day of ballet class of the fall semester…all dreams are possibilities.

Dance Mom - A Different Perspective

photo by Heather Liebler

 

 

It started so simply – enrolling my daughter in preschool dance lessons at the local YMCA.  She wore a pink leotard, tights that sometimes bagged around her knees and ankles and light pink ballet shoes.  Each shoe comes pre-sewn with one elastic across each tiny instep.  Her fine hair would never stay back in a proper ballet bun, and I was a typical, harried, working mom.  We had dance class on Saturday mornings in between soccer games.  Olivia had fun.  She loved her teacher.

Each semester I would get up early on the day of dance registration so we get a coveted spot in her favorite teacher’s ballet class.  When Olivia got older, our nanny would get her dressed, and take her to dance class.  I would be waiting in the lobby at the end of class to take her home.  By now we had moved through light blue leotards and were wearing navy blue.   One day, Olivia was agitated at the end of class and indicated she wanted to speak to her teacher who was also the dance director.  She expressed her frustration with some classmates who giggled and talked more than they danced.  “I’m serious about my dance!” she said, stomping that small foot with a hand on her hip.  At this point nothing had changed about the shoes except the size.

Olivia was promoted into “the company”.  We had more classes each week with different teachers and she asked me to sew her shoes like the ones the older girls wore.  Not pointe shoes yet – but she wanted two elastics, criss-crossing her foot.  These shoes don’t come pre-sewn so I learned to sew the elastics, and was inwardly grateful that she only needed two pairs of shoes a year.  All the while, Olivia was still enjoying soccer and was becoming a respectable middle school cross country runner.  Her teacher kept saying she was a talented dancer.  How could it be?  I didn’t dance, and I am less than graceful.

As her twelfth birthday drew closer, Olivia desperately hoped she could begin pointe work and was disappointed to have to wait another year.  Finally the big day arrived and she got the news.  That was only the beginning.  You see, you have to be fitted and this can take time.  We got lucky and were able to be fitted easily.  I was handed a bag with two satin shoes, a piece of thick elastic about an inch wide, and a length of pale pink ribbon along with sewing instructions.  Of course Olivia wanted those shoes to be ready for the very next class. 

I should probably interject at this point.  I am not artsy craftsy and my sewing skills are basic at best.  I came home and got started.  SIX HOURS later, I was done, and the ritual had its beginnings.  I had numerous finger sticks and had used words that would not please God or my mother.  Somewhere in the six hours, I asked God to give me the patience to sew those darn shoes.  I put her initials and a small picture in each shoe to identify them as hers.  I sewed the thick elastic and the ribbons, using brightly colored thread so I could see the stitches and being careful not to sew through the satin of the shoe.  And while I sewed, I prayed.  I prayed for my daughter, that her joy with dance continued.  I prayed for her health as a dancer – both physical and emotional.  I prayed for the other dancers in her group and her teachers.

It has been several years.  Olivia can sew her own shoes, but I still do them for her – about four to six pairs each time.  The ritual is the same.  I mark the insides with something meaningful.  We choose a thread color.  I can do a pair in just over an hour now, but the prayers are the same.  I often sew them in the dance lobby.  Little girls walk up.  They are curious and want to touch the shoes.  Ordinarily I would resent the interruption.  But not with pointe shoe sewing…each of those little girls gets a silent prayer as she walks away, dreaming of the day when she will have pointe shoes.

Olivia has done her first summer intensive ballet experience and will audition soon for a ballet conservatory.  I am not sure how we will continue the ritual.  Perhaps one day we will need to give it up – the logistics could get very complicated.  For now, I want to keep sewing and praying.