Living off the beaten path as many of us do, it is not often
that we are exposed to the cultural side of life. So when the
opportunity arises to visit a museum or attend the opera or
theater, I’ve always thought that it would be educational and
enriching to avail ourselves of that opportunity. Therefore, I
was quite pleased when my mother suggested taking my seven year
old daughter to see the Russian Ballet’s performance of The
Nutcracker.
Mum wondered if Josie-Earl would be old enough to appreciate
it. I told her I thought so, and then went on to say that I had
seen it once, myself, but I hadn’t been mature enough at the
time.
I was twenty-eight. I hadn’t quite made up my mind that
“culture” was a good thing. Of course, I can always lay part of
the blame for my inappropriate behavior on my friend Patty.
She’s actually proud of the effect she has on me. When I
accepted her invitation to see The Nutcracker, I should have
known that I would revert to the ten year old I was when we
first met in Mrs. Gilmore’s fourth grade class. And I did.
The first surprise of the evening came when we arrived at the
Maine Center for the Arts. Hillbillies that we were, we made our
entrance in slacks and sweaters, and were immediately surrounded
by ladies in formal gowns and gentlemen in suits and tuxedos!
Talk about feeling conspicuous! I immediately swatted Patty, who
should have warned me about the formality of the occasion.
Patty’s husband John was even wearing dungarees-- really nice,
neat, new ones-- but blue jeans, none-the-less. I could feel the
familiar tingle of hilarity crawling up my spine.
We found our seats, and were entertained with the sounds of
the symphony orchestra as they tuned up their instruments. Based
on the caterwauling emanating from the pit, I wasn’t at all sure
they knew what they were doing. The pre-show clamor sounded more
like the rumble of my husband’s belly after a good bowl of
chili-- magnified by one hundred-- and the racket made by the
neighborhood tomcats on a hot summer night. In all honesty, once
the show began, the music was perfection. Unfortunately, it was
too late to really appreciate it. For the dancers had emerged on
the stage.
I didn’t know what The Nutcracker story line was about. I
still don’t. It became a non-issue once the first male dancer
pranced across my line of vision.
If a female ballet dancer is called a “ballerina”, what do
you call a male ballet dancer? The word “exhibitionist” comes to
mind.
I’m not a prude. I’m not a voyeur. And yet, with Patricia
Anne giggling at my side, I felt like a combination of the two.
With something like morbid fascination, I attempted to watch the
talented star, while at the same time I tried NOT to look at
him! Really! Is it breaking some ballet directorate to properly
dress the dancers? Could not a single pair of baggy pants be
found? Was I the only person in the audience who was slightly
offended or embarrassed by the vaunting, leaping athlete?
Perhaps if I’d dressed formally, I too, would have been able to
retain a dignified countenance. Instead, I had to fight the urge
to rush onstage, cover the poor lad’s lap with my jacket and
hustle him to the wings.
No, I certainly wasn’t mature enough to appreciate that
particular form of art. Patty and I made utter fools of
ourselves, although I felt the safety of anonymity since I lived
two hours away from the Bangor area. Poor John was beet red from
the open neck of his classy flannel shirt all the way up to his
hairline. He hates for John Q. Publick to know that he is
associated with Patty and me. And so we cling to him all the
more-- in retribution, don’t you see.
Well, Josie liked the ballet; her only negative comment was
that it was “too long.” She loved dressing up... no way
was my daughter going to get caught out like her poor Mama had!
She went in an emerald velvet and cream silk dress with green
tights and snazzy shoes! Josie also loved spending the night
with her Nanny. And upon arriving home, we were all treated to
the spectacle of Josie attempting to imitate those great
professional dancers. She pirouetted, flapped her toes right and
left, and then performed a great leaping split, arms whipped out
high to each side. At which time she smacked one hand against
the corner of the wood stove, which caused even greater leaps,
flails and bounds as she tore through the living room and
kitchen in pain. She broke every blood vessel in her poor little
ring finger, which swelled and turned blue from one end to the
other.
Ah, culture.
