DANCING WITH THE DAFFODILS

"Curtain going up in fifteen minutes. Everyone on stage. Take your places,” the student messenger announced with
exaggerated importance as he went from school room to school room. The classrooms were filled with daffodils, roses, daisies, violets, butterflies and other garden look-alikes of this children's play. My sister, Chris, and I were daisies.

Excitement was feverish as we actors took one last look in mirrors or our mothers’ eyes to check for correctness of costume and make-up. This 1933 show, an annual event for our small town, was as big an occasion for the music and speech pupils of the De Funiak Springs elementary school as any on Broadway. Our directors were considered by everyone to be as talented as their big city counterparts. And, indeed, each had studied in New York City.

My mother, the musical director, had studied piano rather han theater, but as a good musician and teacher, she had put on many programs. The quality of theater in our town had been enhanced when Julia Byrd MacDonald began to teach elocution and became drama director of all local productions, from elementary school to community. Julia Byrd was a perfectionist and a well-trained actress/director. She and my mother appreciated one another's talents and formed a happy partnership when musical plays were to be presented.

For this opening night of “Dancing with the Daffodils" my sister, Chris, and I had practiced our songs over and over—at home, in the car, in the make-up room, in the corridors and all the way to the stage. For me, this was a serious matter. For my sister, it was fun.

As we walked up the stairs to get in place for the opening number, from behind the thick burgundy curtains, we could hear the happy conversational hum of the audience. The stage looked beautiful with green, artificial grass. (1 tried not to think about the fact that the grass was on loan from the funeral parlor.) A picket fence complete with archway trellis upon which coral vines were entwined was enchanting. And, somehow, Mamma and Julia Byrd had formed a slight hill on one side of the stage covering it too with the grass. This pastoral scene was set aglow by the dazzling effect of blue, amber and rose colored footlights.

My awestruck mood was broken by some unruly boys out front who began to clap impatiently as the eight o'clock curtain was delayed. On stage we were now all in place, except for Sally, who at the last minute claimed, as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, that she had to go to the bathroom. At ten years old I was one of the older girls and was provoked that this child had not followed instructions and gone to the bathroom earlier.

To make matters worse, as we continued to wait, Jane and Billie decided to peek through the slight curtain opening to look at the audience. One of them even committed the unpardonable, unprofessional act of waving. I was flooded with embarrassment.

In exasperation I lashed out at the nearest target—my daisy sister, who had neither caused the delay by a late trip to the bathroom, nor waved to the audience. She just happened to be handy and younger. I poked _r while ordering, “Stand up straight. You look like a wilted flower."

With that non-so-soft command little Margaret Ann dressed as an English maiden looked at us while swinging her watering can. “Had anyone actually put water in this child's prop?" I worried. Fervently I hoped not, for the petals of our flower costumes were all made of Dennison's crepe paper. I had seen the effect of rain water on crepe paper decorations at a recent parade. What a mess water on our costumes would be!

As my mother played the introduction for a second time, the boys out front intensified the clapping, which I thought was very discourteous. At last everyone was in place. Julia Byrd came out, her back to the closed curtain, faced us and gave us a wonderfully approving look. She told us we were beautiful and to smile, smile, smile.

As the curtain opened, we did smile. We also sang “Dancing with the daffodils beside the garden wall" as never before. No one made a wrong turn, not one daisy bumped into a violet. The boys, who were bees, behaved and did not pinch the roses as they had in rehearsal.

Only little Margaret Ann with the watering can made a mistake. Halfway through the number, she walked to the front of the stage, put down her watering can, placed a hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare of footlights and scanned the audience trying to locate her family. This caused an outburst of laughter. I recall thinking this was not funny. Julia Byrd, who was more accustomed to first rate college performances of Shakespeare than to young children, was not immediately responsive to this infraction. However, soon, from the wings she began to signal a large boy, who played a gardener with a hoe, to take Margaret Ann's hand and lead her off the stage. All this was very nerve-wracking to me as the more conscientious of us tried bravely to continue our turns and steps in "Dancing with the Daffodils,” even as the audience laughed while Margaret Ann first protested leaving the stage and then waved vigorously in departure.

Julia Byrd had a perfect stand-in for Margaret Ann—tiny Adair Beasley. She was younger than any of the other children, but like Shirley Temple was a natural actress with enviable stage presence and charm. Adair new exactly what to do.

From then on, everything went well. That is, until just before the finale. From the balcony a girl screamed shrilly, "It's a bat!" It was hard to see out into the auditorium, but suddenly I caught sight of a bird flying low near the stage, then fly up crazily and again circle low. When the girl shouted, “bat,” my mind—undoubtedly like that of many others—recalled every scary tale I'd ever heard about bats from Dracula to the ugly things alighting on top of one's head and sticking there.

As I looked out at the first visible few rows, girls and women (even those who were wearing hats) covered their heads with their hands. They looked funny, but no one was laughing.

In seconds after the first alarm several boys from the front row rushed out of the auditorium. We could hear them tramping up the stairs to the balcony, shouting loudly as they ran. With so much commotion Mamma stopped playing the piano and the roses, daisies, daffodils, and violets on Stage stood frozen in place.

Almost as quickly as the boys ran up the stairs, the principal, Mr. Bailey, was on his feet walking to the front of the room. In a strong voice, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, some kind of bird has flown in an open window upstairs on this warm, spring evening, and in fright is flying about. It cannot hurt anyone. The custodians are now in the balcony. They will keep an eye on the trapped bird while we keep our eyes on these talented children." Clearing this throat, Mr. Bailey continued, sounding very stern as he ordered, “Charles, Robert, Johnny, come back downstairs right now. Do not run. I will meet you outside the auditorium." I wondered what Mr. Bailey would do to the boys. I knew him to be a kind man, but people said he believed in firm discipline.

“And now,” Mr. Bailey continued in a friendly tone, "let's give these young thespians our full attention. On with the show."

As the audience applauded, Mamma played the introduction and we went through our well-rehearsed final number.

After the play, people came backstage to compliment us.  "Honey,” my Aunt Bern said, "you were perfect. Both you and Chris were perfect!" 

Everyone basked in the warmth of Southern effusiveness. Soon afterwards, our family headed downtown to the drug store for an ice cream treat. There, the events of the evening were replayed as parents and children gathered to

talk it all over. 

“Best show I ever saw!" Daddy sang out to anyone listening in the drug store, as we approached the counter to give our orders. 

“What'd you like best, Malcolm, the show on the stage, or in the auditorium?" his friend, Gillis Douglass, asked laughingly. 

"Why, the wonderful performance of our gifted children, of course,” Daddy replied. "But, I must say the bat's appearance did add some unusual excitement.” 

“Hey, Tom,” someone called to Mr. Bailey as he arrived with his daughters and Mrs. Bailey. "Was that really a bat circling the crowd?"

"Don't know," Mr. Bailey replied. "When I left, the men still had not located it."

"Mamie Ruth," Mrs. Bailey said to Mamma. "You and Julia Byrd presented a lovely play. The children were all so well-trained and sang beautifully."

My mother smiled graciously and turned the compliments to the children, concluding with "Wasn't Adair Beasley remarkable, and for such a little child?" Everyone agreed that Adair was the star of the show. We children ran outside the store and began to chase one another around lampposts. Soon afterwards, parents and performers departed for our respective homes, the children calling good-byes to one another.

As the days passed, I forgave Margaret Ann, Sally, Jane and Billie for their lapses into amateurish acts. I appreciated even more my seven-year-old sister, who had not missed a step. And I ceased to dwell on the rowdiness of the boys. I even felt a little sorry for them as I recalled the wooden paddle Mr. Bailey was rumored to have used.

The mishaps of the evening faded, but I don't recall ice cream's ever tasting as good as when we ate it after taking off those itchy tarleton and crepe paper costumes on the night we performed “Dancing with the Daffodils.”

It's hard to be a pretty, perfect flower.