It started with
dancing. I have memories of attending dancing school in Bad Reichenhall,
Germany, so I had to be about 4 or 5 years old. I can remember standing at the
barre doing pliés and relevés, and lying on a mat with a brick on my stomach to
practice breathing from my diaphragm. Being the only American girl in the
German studio, I was singled out for the special honor of leading the parade
for Fasching, Germany’s version of Mardi Gras. I wore a frilly costume, held
high a heart-shaped sign at the head of the procession, and got to sit up on
the stage with the King and Queen of Fasching.
I made up my mind
to be a ballerina when I grew up. But my hopes were dashed by a well-meaning
family friend who told the six-year-old me that I didn’t have the build to be a
ballerina. Maybe I was a little chubby, I don’t remember. But that was a blow from
which I didn’t soon recover. I did take a few dance lessons in elementary
school in northern Virginia and performed in one recital, to a tune from Scheherezade.
And a partner and I won the rhumba contest two years in a row, in 4th and 5th
grades, at the after-school dances. (We had a principal who set great store by
teaching us manners via school dances, with little cards on which our dance
partners could sign up for the waltz, cha-cha, etc.)
My self-expressive drive
turned to other vehicles. I could sing, and I got the notion I wanted to be an
opera singer. My father loved opera, maybe that’s why. I chose to study French
in high school, which carried over into college, because my dad said many
operas were sung in French (Carmen comes to mind). Italian would have
made more sense, if my high school had offered it. I made it to the finals of an
elementary school talent contest singing “Santa Lucia” and accompanying myself
on the piano, all alone on the stage in a big high school auditorium.
A forray into
acting came next. I performed the role of Emily in Our Town in high
school, managing to forget my lines and having to be prompted during the
graveyard scene by one of the other “dead” people. (This seems to be a pattern:
I forgot my lines at my own wedding!) I sang solos at the Teen Club and
Officers Club (“Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”) and in a talent show on the SS United
States, crossing the Atlantic (“My Funny Valentine”).
A big break came
when my father’s young secretary, playing the role of Amy in the musical Charlie’s
Aunt in my local little theatre group, realized that the only time she
could get vacation overlapped with the two-week run of the show. I quickly
learned Amy’s lines and songs and dance steps, and they brought in the rest of
the crew to rehearse just the scenes Amy was in, and I filled in for the last
two performances. What a hoot! Remember the lyric, “Once in love with Amy,
always in love with Amy”? That was me.
From being a big
deal in choir, school chorus, and drama in high school, I went to being a
nothing at Oberlin College, where everyone, it seemed, was more talented than
I. I managed to make the chorus of Gilbert & Sullivan’s “Pirates of
Penzance” my freshman year, but at the next year’s G&S tryouts I didn’t get
picked for anything. And there was no way I could get into the Oberlin Choir,
the legendary group that got to perform at New York’s Lincoln Center. Next to
all those conservatory students, my voice must have sounded pretty puny. So,
hopes dashed again, I gave up performing.
And that was it for
the stage, until 30 years later when my aerobics instructor Beth introduced me
to her friend Margaret who taught dance. I took up dancing again, attending
jazz and tap classes at Margaret’s home studio on Keystone Avenue in
Indianapolis. Schooled in dance at Butler University, Margaret was strong on
technique and brought me quickly along. It was just the best to be on the stage
again in her yearly recitals, even if I shared the program with 4 and
5-year-olds who following the steps of the teacher standing behind the curtain.
When Margaret retired
and moved away, I danced at Jordan Academy of Butler University for a few years,
always the oldster in a class of nubile young dancers, taking my chances with
jazz splits—one in particular that left me unable to walk comfortably for six
weeks. When we moved to a different neighborhood, I cast about for new dance
classes and settled at Village Dance Studio in Zionsville. My jazz and tap
teacher, Fred, a man close to my age, had been choreographer to the stars in
California and even appeared in a dance scene in a Hollywood movie. Fred was
great, not formally trained but creative with funky, jazzy steps and full of
heart. We always lingered after class to talk about life and hear about Fred’s
recurring knee problems, insurance woes (endemic with self-employed dance
teachers), and family cares.
The studio mounted a
series of bi-annual recitals, huge productions in high school auditoriums with costumes
and stage sets, lighting, dress rehearsals and two performances to the delight
of family and friends. I eschewed dancing with the youngsters in jazz class,
but tapped my heart out with the motley assortment of young and old in my tap
class. At my last (and apparently final) recital, three of us older ladies
danced with Fred in a Caribbean-themed number featuring palm trees and pink
flamingoes, we girls wearing flowy beach cover-ups, Fred wearing an embroidered
Mexican dress shirt. We were all swaying hips and paddle turns and waltz clogs
and arms waving gently. A minor annoyance, we danced in front of the curtain,
where the gaffer had taped electric cords across the stage so we had to watch
carefully where we stepped, not a situation conducive to the kind of
concentration a performance demands. Margaret, who has become a dear friend,
came to see me dance and lavished compliments on me. I was so pleased.
Fred retired, the knee
problems finally sealing his fate, and now lives in a mobile home in Florida
near the beach, happy as a clam. I’ve had several young misses as teachers
since his departure, but things are just not the same without Fred, and with
the vigorous hoofing they encouraged—and which I thrilled to—I’ve developed
plantar fasciitis and have had to stop tapping, at least until my heels stop
hurting with every step.
And I guess that’s
it for my career on the stage. Sad, so sad. I’ve so loved to perform.
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