I enrolled Emma in a Pre-Ballet class last week. Unfortunately for the instructor, Emma is only interested in twirling and watching herself in the mirror. Of course, Tyler and Noah despise Emma's ballet class because they have to sit outside in the hallway for 45 minutes during class and there is absolutely nothing exciting about the hallway (see below). I have to admit that I glean a certain amount of pleasure from this. Emma has endured two months of baseball practices and games for the boys and a little payback is very satisfying. **evil grin** I hate to admit that I already envision a future for Emma full of dance recitals and auditions on Broadway. But that is what Mothers do. We hope, we encourage and blindly believe that all things are possible.
I took ballet when I was young, but I have no memory of dancing. However, I do have one short memory that I associate with my ballet class. I remember walking after class to our home in Portland, Oregon. To my young mind, home felt miles away. The streets were busy, the cars were loud and I walked alone. It was a different world then, but I can only assume that my memory isn't entirely accurate. I recognize that it is quite possible that I never walked home at all or that our home was 2 blocks away from the studio on a quiet road next to a park rather than through a busy industrial district. It will be in my mother's hands, if she ever reads this, to verify whether or not my memory is flawed. Most likely it is, as I readily admit to having a terrible memory.
"When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not."
~ Mark Twain
2 comments:
A lovely post, weaving your threads together in a tapestry of present, past and future. Emma's joy in this indulgence of hers floods off the page.
But it is your own memory that is this post's master stroke. Writing about the past evocatively is hard to do. Done well, your reader joins you, not in your past, but in the moment in their own past that your memory evokes. Reading your story I find myself walking alone the ten blocks from School 59 to my home in October 1967. My first day in Kindergarden, a small boy in a very large world. Well done.
I had a moment of hesitation before I published the post. I was unsure if I was sharing too much including my own memory there, but I am happy with it.
Thank you for your praise. You honor me, sir!
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