Fate of a ballerina

My Christmas seasons always came with certain routine comforts. There were typical things, such as decorating the house, learning to cook various desserts with Mom; Dad teaching me how to perfectly wrap a present, and listening to my family read the story of Jesus’ birth before opening gifts.

Among my favorite tradition was watching The Nutcracker on PBS. I didn’t usually have anyone else join me on this one. I suppose everyone else might have seen it a hundred times, but by the time I turned nine, I was prepared to see it one hundred more times. The elegant costumes seemed so beautiful, even through the glass of a fuzzy TV screen that didn’t provide many close-ups. My fourth grade reading program was slowly teaching us the importance of plot. This, coupled with watching the same story once a year, meant I practically memorized the story of the Nutcracker.


At some point, my mom decided she wanted to see the Nutcracker as a family. As a school teacher, she had always harbored a love for the arts of piano, ballet and written works, but hadn’t had many aesthetic experiences. My dad has been a postman through most of his career, but enjoys all music and literary experiences from the comfort of his car or home. He listened to books on cassette in his mail-vehicle and kept the Bose radio playing constantly with blues, jazz and classical works. One thing he did not appreciate was seeing men in tights, so he reduced ballet to this ghastly image. “Why would you want to see that…men in tights should be reserved for Robin Hood: men in tights and that only,” he said. After mom’s convincing, we all headed to the Robinson Center in Little Rock for an aesthetic family experience.


In preparation for the ballet, mom chose a dress and jewelry from her closet, advised dad on a button up shirt and slacks, then tried to work on my outfit. Although I had not been to any professional concerts or ballets, I was convinced that no one would really want or need to get that dressed up for such an event. If you are going to enjoy something, why does the enjoyment come with stipulations, like wearing a dress? Mom had grown used this attitude, so our truce on my outfit was a teal-colored jumper over a teal & lavender shirt, complete with cute little tights and Sunday shoes.


As the evening began, I’m sure my dad had more than one fantasy about bailing on the ballet. At this point, he had lost the argument whether to go or not, then was forced to dress up (something he hadn’t done in years) and was the chosen driver (and supply of a new tank of gas) to make the one hour trek to combat the “city traffic” of Little Rock, which had never failed to irritate him. Later, he would be expected to sit quietly through the program he so hated, possibly buy a souvenir, then drive us home in the premature dark of winter.


Once in Little Rock, I marveled at the large buildings and bright lights of the city. The steps leading to the front door of the Robinson were intimidating, but certainly worth it. Even as a fourth grader, I was becoming increasingly embarrassed by my corduroy jumper as I eyed the golden silk, mauve taffeta, and black velvet gowns that surrounded us in the elevator.


All the stress of preparation and my embarrassment melted away as we stepped into the grand Robinson Theatre. There were so many seats…there were so many people, even several ushers to show you where to sit. How could mom and dad find our seats, even with the ushers’ help? Sure, I would watch the Nutcracker on television again next year, but I realized I would be jealous of myself sitting here now, seeing the grandeur right before me. The stage was no longer 20 inches wide, it was larger than life. Larger than my life, that’s for sure. After the introduction to the ballet, the same blue spotlight came on the curtain, as I watched the very video-cameras prepare to record what they had provided me with so many times.


The Nutcracker was more than I had hoped it would be. The colors were vivid now, not chromatic shades of one color as the TV had reduced them to. Sure, there were men in tights, but what did I know about their bodies? Whatever it was, I wasn’t concerned about their appearance. Their movements mesmerized me. From the suspended movements like something you would see underwater and not the air, to the hurried, accurate movements of the spinning top-like tutus, each was graceful. So graceful, it inspired patience in my musical focus. They were true artists and they had each experienced a first year of dancing. Maybe there was hope for me to become a true pianist, even though I was in my first year of piano.


During the intermission, my family returned to the theatre-red lobby, where several vendors had set up. They sold everything from coffees to wines, Christmas ornaments to ballet collectibles. The graceful audience members bustled in their netted skirts, tasteful black suits and uniform black patent leather shoes without seeming hurried like people on the street. They were all speaking, catching up in a quieter way that didn’t remind me of anything else I had seen or heard before.


While we were perusing the many items for sale, Dad allowed me to choose one item to take home. “That’s easy,” I thought. There were many beautiful things in the lobby, but the one that topped all was obvious. Shining faultlessly, glistening under the dimmed lighting was the frosted glass figure of a poised ballerina. Since I chose so quickly, Mom & Dad took me around the room once to make sure I wouldn’t see something else and regret my choice. As we came around again, Dad realized I had my mind made up. The ballerina was just right. I squealed with delight and gave him a kiss on the cheek as he presented me with my first (non-homemade) Christmas ornament.
There was really nothing particularly unique about it. Clear glass without a spot of color, the ballerina was wearing the traditional tutu, standard shoes, had her hair in a bun, and formed her arms in an oval, the same gesture that little girls make when imitating these lovely artists.


Following the show, I paid little attention to our reverse-trek to the vehicle. Mom and Dad knew their way out of the confusing building, back to the parking garage. I used this carefree time to relive the fabulous experience. Once we made it to the car, my parents surely thought half the battle was over. We simply had to maneuver out of the garage and then hit the freeway home. Unfortunately, our old Eddie Bauer Bronco began smoking as Dad attempted to pull it out of the parking space. It was barely detectable at first, a slight smell that made us wonder if it was another vehicle. I was turning the ballerina in my small hands, wondering how someone could train movements into something so stunning.


A few moments later, it was obvious that the Bronco wasn’t acting normally. Mom and Dad’s stress brought me out of my artistic daydreams. Dad never panics, but his urgent way of checking things on the vehicle signaled that something was going wrong. Suddenly, as Dad realized what was happening, he leapt out of the Bronco, slammed the door and grabbed the fire extinguisher from the back. “Grab April and get out of the car NOW,” he yelled at Mom. Mom didn’t waste any time, but I was still holding the ballerina and had to grab my coat and book. Those precious seconds could have been too long, but there was no time to explain that to a nine-year-old.
Mom dutifully hustled me to the far wall, within sight of our vehicle. Surrounded by a constant line of vehicles of our fellow audience members that were still elegantly dressed, now opened their car doors and each waved cell phones and yelled at us, “Who should we call?!” Their eyes nervously darted from us to the front windshield, wondering how long it would take to get their own families out of the underground parking garage.


Fear gripped my entire being while I watched dad dodge flames, trying to extinguish a fire that could spread to that full tank of gas he bought in mom’s and my best interest. Sweating, running back and forth, he sprayed the underside of the vehicle, trying to figure out where the fire was coming from. Next, he opened the hood of the Bronco. Mom and I cried out in shock as my dad narrowly missed the large, collective tangerine flames lashed out as a huge orange tongue of our once-trusty old vehicle. I’m not sure how long we spent frozen in fear and huddled together in our winter coats by that grey concrete wall. Too long, I think. We had nowhere to sit, not that we could have relaxed anyway.


The sophisticated people were now realistic with normal, room-volume voices. Finally, my mom had had enough with the audience’s yelling. When you are in a crisis, the only way to handle it is to do the most you can and leave the rest up to God, she always told me. We briskly walked up to the vehicle of the loudest dainty shouter. “STOP YELLING AT US…WE ARE TRYING TO PRAY,” she said. The lady didn’t miss a beat, “We have a cell phone, who should we call for you?” Since we didn’t have any family or friends in Little Rock, mom told her, “Call 911 and call God.” That was the extent of the conversation, there was no way mom would waste her time explaining to others when she had a direct line to the only being that could help us. Others had called 911 as well, but the fire department hadn’t arrived yet. Nor could they drive right up to us, since the traffic blocked us on all sides.


After what felt like hours of praying, hours of listening to distraught people trying to get our attention, hours of holding onto my glass figurine, I started to feel helpless. We were going to die here, in a slow-motion picture that only a few could see at such a high cost? Is this the way to go as a nine-year-old, to die in an underground parking lot explosion? Had God allowed me a beautiful evening to conclude a short life and a new comfort object to die with?


Dad’s fire extinguisher had run out, so there was little more that could be done.
Then Mom and I saw a figure come through the thick smoke. Did the fire department finally make it? No, it was just some guy, an ordinary-looking man wearing glasses, but…he had a fire extinguisher that was twice as big as what ours had been. Together, he and my dad made quick-work out of the rest of the fire.


In what seemed like a few seconds, the fire was finally put out, the rest of the nobly-dressed shouters had exited the garage and suddenly the man with the extinguisher was nowhere to be seen. Dad returned to us, ashen and spent; the perfect ending to his ideal night. As we celebrated our reunion, the firemen came walking towards us calmly and check the Bronco over, in case there was anything left to finish.


We returned to the theatre-red lobby, this time in search of a phone and a phone book to make arrangements for the vehicle and find a ride home. After Mom explained the situation to my sister, she came to pick us up.


After returning home, I was thankful to place the ballerina on our Christmas tree. Thankful that I would return to my last few days of classes and thankful that I’d be watching the Nutcracker on TV next year. For the first time, Christmas had a different meaning for me. Someone had helped my family, helped a crowd of ballet-goers survive. We had done more than just survived, no one was injured and eventually Dad would restore the vehicle.


For some reason, Mom, Dad and I were not supposed to die that night.


Christmas, the celebration of a savior, doesn’t begin until I reunite with the ballerina, until I have a thanksgiving for life, for safety and forgiveness. She is wrapped separately from the other ornaments, kept in a different place. It’d be such a waste for her to narrowly miss a fire, only to be crushed by Grandma Swindle’s hand-me-down ceramic ornaments. Multi-faceted, the artistic creature reminds me of eminent death, of the reason for life. It gave me something to look forward to; now that I was sure a protective God existed.


Each time I step off the bus, each time I leave the campus in the middle of the night, anytime that I am in public by myself, I feel his strong presence with me. I may not have a roommate, but I am not alone. After a long day of work, I sense the peace from his generous provision. I have a place to stay. I never go hungry. My only sickness is an annual bout with the flu. Each Christmas, I can go home and place the ballerina on the tree and enjoy the company of my family.


The frosted ballerina pirouettes on the tree, catching each primary hue of the Christmas light string, transforming from a royal blue ballerina to a golden-orange ballerina; ruby red ballerina to an evergreen ballerina.