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.