The ballet began with a short scene last fall. I had just received many yards of fabric from the stash of a retiring seamstress. As I admired my new found wealth of colors and patterns, my daughter spied 10-15 yards of vintage fabric with ballerinas in pink and blue tutus.
“This would look so cute as a pillowcase dress. I could make them for Caro’s fifth birthday.”
“You are welcome to it,” I said and the fabric disappeared.
Months later, we had a short scene when arrived at their house with a box of vintage cake toppers and decorations.
“Just look. You might find something you want. I picked these up at the end of a yard sale. They planned to pitch them as leftovers. I’ll give the leftovers to a rummage sale.”
She pulled out packages of zoo animals, cowboys and horses … and three or four packages of ballerinas: a ceramic cake topper and little dancers lifting candle holders. They all went into the cupboard for the spring birthday.
The third scene opened with my phone conversation, “I am coming up to visit. Would you like me to help you make the dresses from the vintage ballerina fabric?”
“What? Oh, yes. Sure.”
A couple days later we covered the dining room table with sewing machines, rotary cutter, mat and ruler. A hot iron stood ready on the ironing board. About five hours later, we stood back and admired eight dresses edged with coordinating strips of blue and pink.
Invitations to the ballerina party included a suggestion to wear simple dance outfits – very important attire for the final production.
The day of the party the house swirled with pink, black and fuchsia leotard clad preschoolers. Safely on the counter, tiny ballerinas held five candles as they danced around the ceramic ballerina gracing the middle of the over-sized cookie. Instead of cakes, a cupcake holder offered cups of colorful, fresh veggie strips. Across the back of each chair at the birthday table lay a simple dress made from the vintage fabric with ballerinas.
The noise level increased as one-by-one the little dancers arrived and headed either upstairs to play with the toys or out to the yard to swing. The doorbell rang announcing the tall, thin teenager and her equally thin mother carrying a turquoise and black tutu and box-toe slippers with ribbons.
“Come in, come in. You can change in the bedroom to right at the top of the stairs.” The big party day surprise had arrived. My daughter knew someone who knew a teenage girl who had studied ballet since preschool. Weeks ago the party planner asked her, “Would come dressed for the ballet and teach and dance with the little girls for a half hour?”
The teenager could fit in a half hour before a Saturday rehearsal. Her mother brought background music. Little girls in leotards and a graceful girl in a stiff tutu and ribbon tied box-toed shoes gathered in the carport where purple and pink curtains covered a brick wall and borrowed full length mirrors my daughter stood in a line outside the shop.
“Let’s do stretches and warm up.” the ballerina sat on the ground.
In total silence, eight little girls from two to six sat down to soberly, carefully bend forward, lean to the side and stretch their legs as far as they could.
Copying her movements they held their arms aloft in circles, to the side and down to their toes.
“Stand up. Hold hands, Now go in. Go out. Go to the left. Go to the right.” A circle of giggling munchkins gathered into a tight bundle, then stretched out holding hands. They pulled the tall teen to the left and to the right.
“Now let’s run and jump.” She dashed lightly across the carport and floated. A train of little copycats followed her.
For the final minutes the teen sat on the floor and asked, “does anyone want to try on my shoes or my tiara?”
The uplifted little faces looked at her in disbelief. Shyly, the black-haired child stuck out her foot to let the real ballerina slide that big shoe onto her little foot and criss-cross the ribbons up her little leg.
In awe, the child stood in front of the mirrors, held her hands gracefully over her head and stuck out that box-toe shoe. She turned this way and that, re-positioning her foot in that magical shoe glancing in the mirror to verify, “I, too, am a ballerina.”
And then the girl in the turquoise tutu glided away and the scene ended.
“When are we going to eat?” someone asked.
“I want to play,” another said, running to the toy.
Only the candles remained to be blown out, the party food eaten and presents opened before the final curtain. The production over, parents arrived to collect their child and her new dress printed with ballerinas and to hear stories of a real ballerina who came to the party.
Joan Hershberger is a staff writer at the News-Times and author of “Twenty Gallons of Milk.” Email her at joanh@everybody.org)