May 20, 2009

When I returned from New York, the garden had burst into wilderness of roses and peonies. The voodoo lily lifts its weird spear amid the roses. The valerian holds white sprays into the shade of the back yard. The lupines are Disney castle turrets of pink and red and purple. It is within a year of exactly the way I want it. A sweetness drifts from it all I the morning and evening air.

Tech and dress for Heather’s Irish dance recital last afternoon and evening. I fluffed my way through the poems, but tonight will be better. The evening will be a strange mix of the inept and the wonderful. I’d never put on a show in the state it’s in, but I must remember the primary audience will be fathers and mothers, who won’t care. The musicians– Red Wellie– are good. and there are moments when the dancers almost carry it off. No lines are straight, and some of the little ones get distracted after ten seconds on stage, though that will be dear to all the parents in the audience. It’s funny to hear Heather shouting into the mic: “Now! Now! Go now!. . . Don’t look at the floor. The floor won’t help you. . . Crystal, stop doing that. It’s very distracting.” Despite their clear differences, Heather and Ann must be made of similar stuff, and it is stuff to be feared. Putting together a dance recital is tougher than anything I have been called upon to do.