Tag Archives: dance

The Girls

Encore, Encore ….

When it came time for her to pick her final tap solo for her final dance recital, she didn’t agonize over the decision. Didn’t spend weeks trading, reviewing and debating dozens of tracks with her Mom and her instructor, like she’d always done with her competitive solos. As I recall, we were casually informed after she came home one day that she’d chosen Nat King Cole’s version of L-O-V-E.

“L – is foooor the way you … look at me ….”

When I overheard her telling her Mom, my heart leapt a little bit.

At the time, she didn’t know my mom just L-O-V-E’d all things Nat King Cole. 

She didn’t know that L-O-V-E was probably my favorite tune when I played drums in Sammy Bill’s band … when I was an 18-year-old old soul like she is now. 

She didn’t know that, whenever Sam used to call that tune – I still remember it was #252 in his book —  I used to audibly enthuse, which the rest of the band always got a kick out of. 

She didn’t know that Dad loved playing that tune, too. 

She didn’t know that, even though the arrangement we played was pretty vanilla, Dad, if he was havin’ a good night, would improvise some of those ornery trumpet riffs behind our vocalist on the second verse, just like Nat’s version. 

She didn’t know that, when it came time for me to walk away from playing after 14 years, that I somehow managed to talk Karry into us taking dance lessons so I could surprise my Dad by showing up at one of his gigs to dance to the music I had loved so much. He was over the moon when he saw us walk in, and I’m not sure who had the better time that night. All I remember is that we used every step in our meager repertoire, dancing our hearts out while he blew his horn from his shoetops. 

She didn’t know that I made one request that night — #252 in the books. 

She didn’t know that, years later, in the wake of my Dad’s passing, when I somehow talked her into taking the same ballroom dance class with me — with the same instructors Karry and I had, no less — that I had secretly hoped that we might put our meager steps to good use one day … maybe at her wedding.

At the time I didn’t know that, years later, she would be saying goodbye to something she loved so much. 

I didn’t know that, after her 14 years of being on stage, she would know exactly how to put a bow on her closing chapter. 

I didn’t know that she would make one request … #252 in the books. 

So, after all those years of watching her with a lump in my throat and a pit in my stomach from my seat in the very last row, I got to stand in the wings for the very first time … and see her walk on stage for one of her very last. 

Got to watch and listen to her dance her heart out as she sounded the stage from her shoetops one more time. 

I didn’t know she was going to turn to me and smile the way she did. 

“L – is foooor the way you … look at me ….”

And she didn’t know as I was tearing up and beaming back at her that I was thinking of Mom while Nate King Cole crooned. And hearing my Dad as that ornery trumpet riffed behind the vocal. And thinking of Karry as I walked on stage and took a beautiful young lady in my arms again.  

When the moment came, though, we jitterbugged.  

That part … that part she knew. 

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The Girls

Picture Day

So normally at this time of year, my wife and daughter spend a long, excruciating Saturday at the dance studio for Picture Day.  Typically — and gratefully — I orbit beyond the gravity of this black hole. From a distance I appreciate it to be a 10-hour, concentrated amalgam of hair, make-up, costume changes, drama, yelling, teen angst, pasted smiles, and despair. 

Saturday morning, my wife made a vague reference to “Picture Day,” and “Dad helping,” which I took in stride as my wife, the kidder, exercising her playful side. 

Had I thought deeply in the moment, I would’ve remembered that my wife (a.) is not a kidder, and (b.) has no appreciable playful side. 

Since the studio is shut down due to the pandemic, all photos have to be DIY.

So around noon, Karry informs me of the executional guardrails: all white background, no visible wall outlets, good lighting. 

 Our house is old, tiny, and meets NONE of the aforementioned criteria. As such, it offers few places for me to hide. So, before I know it, I’m push-pinning a sheet to the wall, moving the dining room table, and gazing through my son’s I-phone (best camera in the house) to see if we can frame a scene that approximates the guardrails while excluding the ‘tender clutter’ of our dining room. 

Full disclosure: I am in no way qualified for the task. The only reason I’m holding the camera is that (a.) Karry has to iron and steam 12 costumes, (b.) it’s the early afternoon, therefore my son is still in bed, and (c.) Emma has to be in the pictures. 

My daughter has been dancing for 11 years, during which I’ve watched from afar, apart. I’m a seat in a theater, participating only in a support role, loading bags and luggage, occasionally dropping off, picking up. I’ve watched every single one of her dances with a lump in my throat and a pit in my stomach … wanting her to kill it, recognizing I have no bearing on the outcome. It is she, alone, on stage, buoyed only by her genuine love for the craft, her discipline, countless hours of practice, a full heart, and her desire to simply do her very best. While I would love to believe that she’s My Girl on that stage, she is not. It’s hard for me to admit that, when I see the game face, the make-up, the costumes. She is herself. Strong. Confident. Prepared. And while I’m sure fear is somewhere in the equation, she’s never afraid. With hundreds of hours of practice under her belt, it’s merely a question of execution. 

Awes me every time. 

So, with the camera in my hand I establish three goals for myself, two obvious, one surreptitious. 

  1. Try not to displease my wife (the goal I roll out of bed every day with, and usually blow before exiting the breakfast table). 
  2. Keep a steady hand. 

My third goal is humble, and, admittedly, purely selfish. I just want to crack her game face. I want to see through the make-up, the costumes, the stage smile and catch a glimpse of … My Girl, the one I never get to see from my seat in the theater. 

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