"What kind of tea are we drinking?”
“It’s a musically inspired blend.”
“What’s it called?”
“Chai Kovsky.”
“It’s a musically inspired blend.”
“What’s it called?”
“Chai Kovsky.”
I recently saw my tenth Nutcracker performance by the Virginia Ballet Company. It’s not that I am addicted to Christmas Nutcracker performances; it’s that my daughter decided that dance is her thing. This was her last VBC Nutcracker before college.
So, first I want to talk a bit about the actual performance. When the glorious Tchaikovsky music begins, the audience sees a couple of girls sashay across the floor in front of a closed curtain. They are pretending to dust imaginary furniture in preparation for an elegant, Christmas party. As they move offstage, the curtains open and the audience is treated to a brightly lit stage full of gay partiers. The ladies are dressed in colorful gowns and the men attired in formal wear. Little children are dashing here and there. The performance includes dancing dads who engage their daughters in an elegant minuet. I auditioned as a dancing dad one year because several of the ballerinas encouraged me. That is when I discovered that during my hip operation, the surgeon mistakenly gave me two left legs. When the party scene ends, an energetic dream sequence unfolds pitting marauding mice and a rat king combating nutcracker troops. Naturally, the nutcrackers prevail. The rest of the production features a fantasy in which the young girl of the house dreams about a series of exotic dancers and graceful ballerinas, some solo and some with male partners, showing off for her amusement. All too soon the dream ends and the cast bids goodbye to each other and to the audience.
Now, I want to mention the nostalgic part. I used to drop Sarah off every day at the ballet school for her lessons. That was my time to talk with the many parents who also had children training in ballet. As the years passed, we got to know each other. I learned about their lives and shared my life’s adventures. Then disaster struck. Sarah got her driver’s license. No more chit chats with fellow parents. No more conversations with the wonderful ladies who manned the front desk. No more shared time learning about dance from the artistic director and her staff. I went from total engagement to cold turkey. But, performances were another matter. I could still schlep costumes, backdrops, scenery, and props with the best of them. I could help usher, staff the will call table, pull curtains, and sweep floors. That is, until this last, final, ending, finished, kaput Nutcracker. Yes, there will be a spring show. But, it is not the same because the spring show engages far fewer parents and lacks the excitement of a winter-time, holiday-season, Nutcracker.
So, I will attend other Nutcracker performances. I will likely see a parent or two by chance. But, the glory days of parenting a young ballerina are over.
So, first I want to talk a bit about the actual performance. When the glorious Tchaikovsky music begins, the audience sees a couple of girls sashay across the floor in front of a closed curtain. They are pretending to dust imaginary furniture in preparation for an elegant, Christmas party. As they move offstage, the curtains open and the audience is treated to a brightly lit stage full of gay partiers. The ladies are dressed in colorful gowns and the men attired in formal wear. Little children are dashing here and there. The performance includes dancing dads who engage their daughters in an elegant minuet. I auditioned as a dancing dad one year because several of the ballerinas encouraged me. That is when I discovered that during my hip operation, the surgeon mistakenly gave me two left legs. When the party scene ends, an energetic dream sequence unfolds pitting marauding mice and a rat king combating nutcracker troops. Naturally, the nutcrackers prevail. The rest of the production features a fantasy in which the young girl of the house dreams about a series of exotic dancers and graceful ballerinas, some solo and some with male partners, showing off for her amusement. All too soon the dream ends and the cast bids goodbye to each other and to the audience.
Now, I want to mention the nostalgic part. I used to drop Sarah off every day at the ballet school for her lessons. That was my time to talk with the many parents who also had children training in ballet. As the years passed, we got to know each other. I learned about their lives and shared my life’s adventures. Then disaster struck. Sarah got her driver’s license. No more chit chats with fellow parents. No more conversations with the wonderful ladies who manned the front desk. No more shared time learning about dance from the artistic director and her staff. I went from total engagement to cold turkey. But, performances were another matter. I could still schlep costumes, backdrops, scenery, and props with the best of them. I could help usher, staff the will call table, pull curtains, and sweep floors. That is, until this last, final, ending, finished, kaput Nutcracker. Yes, there will be a spring show. But, it is not the same because the spring show engages far fewer parents and lacks the excitement of a winter-time, holiday-season, Nutcracker.
So, I will attend other Nutcracker performances. I will likely see a parent or two by chance. But, the glory days of parenting a young ballerina are over.
