Dance Recital 2004

One of the risks of being a grandfather to little girls is the dance recital.

Friday, I had to buck traffic to Rickman Auditorium and pay six bucks to watch Kaylee dance. Honestly, I don't begrudge the six dollars, and I'm always glad to see my little blondie doing things that make her happy, but the surging masses of dance families is hard for a borderline misanthrope to deal with. I steel myself to brave the crowds assembled to see their daughters (and a smattering of sons) tap, shuffle and pirouette.

The lot is packed with every manner of car, from Suburbans down to a Mini. I park without too much trouble, and meander my way to the auditorium. The heat is stifling, though it has been worse. I tell the ticket taker I need to buy a ticket, and he directs me to Mae West, who struggles to give me change with elbow-length black gloves.

The show has started, and according to the program book, there are over 40 acts that have to be plowed through one-by-one. I am one of my late arrivals who stand in the darkened aisle hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar head. I scan and scan, increasingly nervous that I am blocking some grandparent's one chance to see her little darling prance across the huge, distant stage. I decide to try the balcony.

In the vestibule there is a small gaggle of dancers. Some wear sleek black spandex with irregular florescent sashes. Others are more typical glittery getups designed to catch he spotlights and twinkle madly.

I find my family above. Grandpa George and Marie, Gemey, Kristi, Jessie, Jared and Kaleb are all watching, waiting patiently for Kaylee's troupe to make the scene. There are several numbers ahead of Kaylee's. A passable dance of the sugarplum fairies, although no dancer gets up on their toes, and one poor girl has a wardrobe malfunction. There are two dance numbers with adorable little kids. One group wear raincoats and carry umbrellas, all of bright yellow. They dance to Singin' in the Rain. The other group are farmer's daughters dressed in canary dresses and fluffy white petticoats with a solitary boy in overalls and straw hat, dancing to an unrecalled song.

Finally, Kaylee's group is up. They dance to Crocodile Rock, taking direction from instructors just beyond the foot of the stage. Hands on hips, hands in the air, move left, tap right. All the other girls moved in the wrong direction, and Kaylee had to compensate by catching up with them.

Kaylee has clearly outgrown the adorable outfits. She is seventh from stage left, slender and coated in green sequins with a matching cap. Her costume is more sophisticated (in a little-girl way). She is growing up, and sweet ruffles are dropping off the index of interest.

She seems happy to be up there, and I can't help but smile, but inside I mourn to know that her little-girl days are waning.

Tim McNabb