Belly up to the Baton

You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I can twirl a mean baton. An essential skill in the ‘burbs in the late seventies, baton was one of five daily classes–with tap, modern, ballet, and jazz. I only just discovered that this wasn’t early onset over-scheduling. Turns out it was just so my mother could belly dance.

While I was occupied after school every day, she and her buddy Marje could get a little time off. Time to plan their next adventure at Jack LaLanne’s studio or just sign up for evening belly dance classes. I can remember her sewing some outfits for them to wear. This one pictured ended up in my costume box and plenty more kids have shimmied in it since then. The skirts were huge and I loved to twirl in them. This photo is from a Halloween party – my parents threw quite a few of these but I do not recognize the groovy wallpaper.

Since my mother’s birthday rolled around again today, I looked into the photo box and heard the jingling of coin belts and anklets. I can still smell the perfume that meant she was going out. A cloud of Chanel with a vinyl green overcoat wrapped over her sparkling skirts. The promise of a tv dinner with pirate tater tots and burnt chocolate pudding.

That’s me, top row and second on the left. My pal Helen is bottom center.

Of course I had to ask Marje about the classes when I visited New Zealand last year. (This photo is from our class recital as strawberry tarts in tap shoes.) Her daughter, my childhood buddy Helen, had even saved a box containing shoes and a silver tiara–one of precious few memories salvaged from the Christchurch earthquakes. Marje wouldn’t spill exactly what they got up to while we were baton twirling, but I hope it was a little debauched.

Happy birthday, mom. Provided things go well, this is the year I will outlive you. Maybe I should take a belly dancing class just in case.