Taking Center Stage: A True Story 1958

 

Tom and Virginia Lee Wilson’s Dance Recital memory

Miami Memories

 

View from the balcony (where the lovers used to meet).

        Before the floodlights and spotlights brush the stage, before the music begins and the plush burgundy curtains part, a world appearing in crisis is scurrying back stage, but the black and white photo of three future Rockettes shows childhood confidence and pride moments before the curtain call.  Three little girls are posing by the stage door, proudly grinning ear to ear in their colorful neon orange costumes, standing like Rockettes with an outside arm on the hip and the inside arm over shoulder, arm over shoulder, arm over shoulder and closed by an outside arm on the hip.

        Much of the excitement of that dance recital so many years ago is lost in the black and white shades of the Brownie Kodak camera photo (now lost on paper but not in my memory).   Our boots glistened pure white and silver tassels hung from the boot top.  Our white cowboy rolled hats were placed squarely on our heads with chins straps securely holding the hat in place.  Two blue eyed blondes adorned my sides while my shoulder length brunette hair hung to my shoulders.  No braces, no glasses, no earrings, no curves to our bodies, shapeless, yes, but lips flashed of Elizabeth Taylor red. Many of our mothers who never let us wear makeup allowed Virginia Lee and her mother to carefully line our lips and make us shine on stage.

        Our short dance dress costumes were sewn in the newest shiny neon material (never before seen on stage).  Mine a brilliant orange while my bookend friends are dressed in contrasting chartreuse green.  We could have passed for characters in Alice in Wonderland with those flashy colors.   The bodice of our costumes was fitted with darts and little puff sleeves.  I was mortified that I had darts, for I certainly didn’t own a bra, wear a bra, nor would I ever be caught dead in a bra.  Just the same I had darts up from the waist and arrowing across my flattened chest, but a giggle from some of us echoed that it was about womanhood.

        The twelve inch circular skirt was sewn to the bodice with a long zipper going up the back.  Unlike the surrey in the play Oklahoma our skirts had a fringe on the bottom.  Not just any fringe but silver glistening threads that sparkled in the flood lights.  When our dancing legs kicked in line our matching bloomers showed, and our conservative parents laughed.  The motivation to kick high came easily in our costumes.

        Now the Wilson Dance Recital was upon us.  A covey of nervous young girls huddled back stage awaiting the musical cue, but in the stilled silence of the dancers nervous breathing we could smell the stench of rotten fish emanating from a nearby unknown source.  Not a breath of air circulated back stage on that sultry June evening.  The sounds of “ Pee—ew” grew louder as the stench grew stronger the closer we all gathered.  Eyes scanned the area on the floor looking for the source of the sickening smell.  Mothering stage hands flew to our huddle to silence our fears, but nothing could silence the smell so strong that flowers could wilt and eyes could tear.   Suddenly, a whispered screamed and finger pointing explosion came my way.  “It’s you.  It’s you.  It’s on your back.” 

        “Smell it.  It’s on your back! Ugh, Letty.”

        “On my back,” I whispered in angry humiliated tones.  Nearly wrenching my neck peering backwards. I begged,  “Get it off whatever it is.”  All I could imagine was a dead stink bug stuck to my neon orange costume.

        No, the black and white photo does not show the oval tent shape of an iron left too long in place on the back of a costume from my mother's attempt to iron the wrinkles, nor the stench that arose from that never before used shiny neon material.  Nor does it show the disgust and moans of the dancers around a young girl when it was discovered that I was the source of the unusual odor only seconds before hearing our queue.  Before I could run and hide the music began.  My head snapped up and my heart dropped like a heavy bucket to my stomach.  The dance must go on. 

        Dancers pranced and giggled off stage and in seconds the three future Rockettes lined up proudly with hats squared.  Marching like well trained horses, one smelling of manure, we appeared on stage smiling ear to ear.  We strutted magnificently that night on stage at the Coleman Theater with tassels glistening making our parents proud.

        And yes, one little girl was made stronger that night by stepping onto center stage and kicking those tasseled boots high into the flood lights.

On stage about 1960. left to right young girls: ?, Lynette Rains Kemp, ? Nancy Owens, ? Letty Stapp Watt, Dottie Miller, Nancy Adams, Beverly Gaines. 

Letty Stapp Watt

I would love to hear your  memories or stories of the Coleman Theater or  in The Wilson Dance Recitals of the 1950's--1960's.  Please use the comment section below. 

*The original Coleman Theater was built by George Coleman and opened in April 1929. In my childhood the glory remained but had begun to fade. Now thanks to the Friends of the Coleman Theater it has been completely restored, and is the most magnificent theater that your mind can imagine.  Come travel Route 66 to Miami, Oklahoma and visit this stunning showcase. 

This photo of the replaced original carpet and shows the insignia of 
George L. Coleman Sr
Click on the link below for more information on the Coleman Theater
The Coleman Theatre