Curtain!.......PLEASE

Dear Boo and Bubble,

My last blog about “Oklahoma!” opened up a flood of memories about my experiences in performing live on stage....and and the inevitable, unpredictable, and often hilarious situations that can occur.

From the time I could walk, I danced. Music was an integral part of our family life. The focal point in the living room of my very first home at University Ridge Apartments in Greenville was the Victrola record player. Your Ipod/ITunes technology of today has made access to music quite simple and unencumbered, but back then listening to music required virtual libraries of vinyl, cylindrical records and a player upon which to play them. The records came in three sizes and three speeds – 78, 45, and 33-1/3 RPMs. You chose the speed on the player based upon the size. The records revolved on a turntable while a needle, imbedded in what was called a tone arm, glided across the vinyl to read the grooves on the record. The needle then transmitted the information through the tone arm and out into speakers. Magically, the result was music.

Mamaw Mary and Granddaddy Schaefer had quite a selection of all different sizes and genre of records. From classical to big band to hits of the day – no matter what sound came out of the Victrola - you would find me sashaying around the living room interpreting what I heard, oftentimes in a world all my own. When I was three, Mamaw Mary decided to enroll me in LaBruce Heist’s School of Dance. I studied tap, ballet, jazz and acrobatics – all in the same hour. The lessons only heightened my preoccupation with dance.

The year-end recitals were held at Greenville High School and, in my second year, I was scheduled to perform in four different numbers. That night gave me my first dose of live stage surprises. The dancers in each number were assigned different classrooms in which to dress and assemble. When Ms. Heist called for the group, they would hold hands and walk in a line through the school hall to the stage and wait until it was time to go on. This meant that I had to go to four different rooms during the course of the night. I’d come off the stage, Mamaw would meet me in the wings and take me to my next room.

The fourth time, she was helping me into my costume when we both realized it was different from all the other girls. Theirs was a soft blue with a fluffy tulle, ankle-length skirt while mine was white with red polka dots and a flouncy bottom accented by fake fir around the hem. I totally panicked. Mamaw rushed to find Mrs. Heist to tell her and perhaps persuade her to let me forgo the routine. Mrs. Heist told her to put me at the back of the line. Everything would be okay.

Hand in hand, all the little dancers trooped up the hall to the stage door. When it was our turn, we entered backstage. Mrs. Heist took me forward one wing, walked away, and cued the music. As the curtain opened, a roar of tapping noises rose up behind me as my compatriots shuffled their way out of the wing. I followed suit with the prescribed choreography. We made our way left towards the center of the stage. From the opposite wing came a little boy shuffling as hard as he could to the right. We met in the middle, locked arms and proceeded to dance together. I had never seen him before (nor have I since). At the end of the number, I broke loose and shuffled back right off the stage. He shuffled to the left and disappeared into the wing and out of my life forever.

I guess Mrs. Heist was scared that I might balk if I knew ahead of time that I was going to be in front of the line and dancing with some unknown boy. Actually, Mamaw Mary was the one who balked. The next fall, she plucked me from La Bruce Heist School of Dance and enrolled me in Doris McClellan’s School of Ballet.

From that point - until many years later – ballet became an integral part of my life. I spent hours in the studio at the barre beginning each class with pliés, tendus, relevés, and grande battements. I worked diligently on the turn out of my legs so that my feet could easily slide into fifth position. In the center floor, I practiced my pirouettes, focusing on spotting my eyes to a single place with every turn. On most evenings at home you would find me with records spinning on the turntable while I honed my glissade assemblés and jetés, both petite and grande.

As I grew older, Mrs. McClellan took an interest in me. When I was eleven, she choreographed my very first recital solo, which was quite a momentous occasion for me. I have no recollection of the music or the steps she prescribed, but I vividly remember the ending. It took place once again on that stage at Greenville High.

Everything went along just fine, no mistakes, I was feeling very confident. Time came for the final combination which, in conjunction with a bravado crescendo, had me concluding my solo with a souténu turn, arms thrust high above my head into fifth position, and landing emphatically on one knee. The audience applauded with what I thought was good vigor and I held the position, as instructed. 

When the curtain started its descent from above, I began to teeter, ever slowly at first, like the leaning tower of Pisa. Frozen in the pose, I continued to smile, willing the curtain to hurry up, which it didn't. Arms still in fifth, I proceeded to fall over sideways, very much like a cardboard figure, until I hit the floor.

There is only one thing worse than utter embarrassment – death by a thousand cuts. Finally, the curtain thudded closed and I was shielded from the laughter slowly overtaking the audience. You would think that after this humiliation, I would never want to set foot on a stage again. Ah, but that's the true mystery of it ---- the stage is like love, once bitten – always smitten. Like an old bob-up toy, I bounced back only to be smacked down again.

To be continued........