Ballet Dad

This post originally appeared in The Long Beach Post (www.LBPost.com) in March 2007.  I came up in a conversation today and I thought I would repost here on my infrequently used blog site

My daughter Blaire 5 years after this post was written as Spanish
Dancer in Long Beach Ballet's "The Nutcracker"

My Front Porch

Dennis C. Smith

Post #10 Long Beach Post

March 31, 2007

Come Prepared

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“One or two?”

“Two, then a third at one.”

“Man.”
“Yeah.”

It is just before nine o’clock on Saturday morning, the above conversation just happened between me and one of my peers, someone who fits my demographic, a demographic that appears not to be as heavily sought after as our counter-demographic—if there is such a thing.  I am a white male in my mid-forties who is engaged in private enterprise with no tattoos or piercings and have Barry Manilow, Glenn Miller, Alan Jackson, Vegas Lounge Tunes and Vivaldi on my iPod.  The only thing I know about my demographic cohort is that he is about ten to fifteen years younger than me, black, has an earring in each ear, a tattoo on his impressive bicep slightly covered by the sleeve of his UCLA t-shirt and when he plugs his earbuds in I hear what sounds like R&B/Rap mix—who can tell right?  But we share a demographic that appears to be ignored by politicians and the ubiquitous Madison Avenue marketers. 

My cohort and I are not alone, but we are once again in the minority this morning, outnumbered about fifteen to one.  There is another one of us standing by the water fountain, holding his Styrofoam coffee cup, sporting the weekend stubble I am unable to grow, wearing a ball cap with the logo of a golf resort, a well worn t-shirt from some pub in Illinois, cargo shorts and sandals.  He appears to bridge the fellow sitting next to me and myself, he’s olive skinned, late thirties and no visible piercings but a small Asian symbol tattooed on his ankle.  He doesn’t move for the next 55 minutes, I never notice him even sipping his coffee he is so still; he looks the way I have felt some mornings after a great night at Lasher’s or 555 enjoying a terrific meal with a few bottles of wine and then a nightcap at Four Olives or EJs before we can walk home to relieve the babysitter. 

At 9:55 the number of occupants in the room practically triples, the cacophony some mornings drives me nuts.  I have finished the Saturday editions of the Press-Telegram and the LA Times and the Sudoku was too easy.  I wait for the transition before firing up the laptop—must keep occupied.  One group comes out and the other group goes in.  By 10:05 the transition is complete.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You camping this morning?"
“Yep, one just finished and one just started.”
“Man.”

My neighbor has changed, replaced by a late forties white male opening a biography of Benjamin Franklin.  The human hangover by the water fountain is gone, I look around and now there are just two of us—Franklin scholar and me.

We spend our Saturday mornings in hour increments, some of the guys get an hour, some of us two, I heard of one guy who did four hours one day—4 Hours.  We are vastly outnumbered, of the forty people in the room there are usually one or two other men, sometimes four or five, and the rest are women.  We try to occupy ourselves but nonetheless we hear the conversations, usually we just don’t get them.  They aren’t talking about whether UCLA will beat Florida tonight or if Georgetown will contain Oden and Ohio State; the snippets of conversation aren’t about the tree on the left side of the fairway on number 10 at El Dorado Golf Course that eats drives and spits them into the sand traps in back; none of them are wondering if the Angels will win the West or if the Dodgers rotation will hold up; nothing about Benjamin Franklin’s “diplomatic” relations while in France with the ladies of court. 

“Hey, Sooners huh?”

“Yeah, Boomer Sooner.”

“Great game.”
“Sure was, unbelievable.”

He takes his seat catty-corner from the Franklin scholar and I, he picks up last month’s Golf Magazine from the stack on the floor next to him—I have already read it, it is mine and I left it here last Saturday; so I know I need to roll my left wrist while keeping it loose and my arm straight and flexible while pointing my right toe in a little to prevent my right hip from flaring with my chin on my chest and head up pretending there is another ball in front of mine to hit straighter and longer drives (none of it worked).  I look at my t-shirt, that is where the “Sooners” comment came from, my Oklahoma Football shirt and their loss to Boise State in the Fiesta Bowl.  Guys use t-shirts as conversation starters much the way women use purses and shoes.  No matter what t-shirt another man is wearing I can probably find a conversation to have with that as the premise—it is a skill almost all of us have. Ramones? No problem, “Hate Mondays huh?”  Joe Jost’s? Too easy, “Hey, Specials, huh?”  Pick a college…Rhode Island? “Go Rams! Harrick blew that gig.”  Any t-shirt. 

New guy is that, a new guy. He has nothing. No coffee, no book, no newspaper, no laptop, no crossword, no hangover—he came unprepared and thus will get sucked into the conversation around him concerning school uniforms, cookie sales and the outfit that looks like it cost $125 but in reality was bought on sale for $19.50 and her husband could not believe it (at which point I want to interject, “yes he can believe it because no wife has ever bought anything that was not on sale. Anything. Ever.”  But that is for another Post.)  He was too slow grabbing the Golf Magazine and even slower to become immersed in the regular “How To Break 70” column.

I am distracted and feel the slow suction of the conversation pulling me in as it begins to involve softball, gymnastics and soccer.  But I refrain.  I let myself get sucked in once when the conversation was about pie crusts—my latest challenge—only to se it quickly swing to an older daughter’s beginning her first period.  It affects me to this day.  Never again I thought, stay on the outside, don’t get caught in the whirlpool.  New Guy let go of the Golf Magazine branch and was involved in Ralph’s versus Vons.  In a few minutes he would learn where to get a good deal on training bras—he looks like a cat back stage at the Westminster Dog Show.  I’m betting next time I see him he is prepared, book, paper, magazine, hangover, something.

I look around and many of these women have been labeled.  They drive minivans and SUVs, they volunteer with the PTA or Girl Scouts, run bake sales and sell See’s for fundraisers, make lunches, carpool students and otherwise are like the Sun keeping all the planets of the family in their orbits and moving according to plan.  To the Politicos and Madison Avenue they are “Soccer Moms”.  We do not hear as much about the Soccer Mom demographic anymore, but in times past they were a target, a bloc, a coveted prize. 

My cohorts and I aren’t.  We aren’t coveted or labeled as a bloc to be targeted, but we should be.   We are Ballet Dads.  While our wives are shuttling another child to another activity, or volunteering at a Rummage Sale, or painting the cafeteria or some other project, we bring our daughters to ballet on Saturday morning.  While my brother is spitting on the infield grass and hitting grounders to my nephew and his teammates as a Little League Dad, I’m listening to some French piano concerto coming out of the studio next to me for the fifteenth time this morning—the repetitive monotony of which will be ingrained so it will be the melody that puts me to sleep tonight. 

Franklin Scholar, Hangover Dude, Hip-Hop, New Guy, myself and others are Dads with daughters and we struggle.  Personally I am glad I have two daughters, I love my hugs and kisses and everything being Dada brings.  But still I struggle as I know my fellow Ballet Dads do.  We do not know the difference between a tutu and leotard, that they are slippers and not shoes, also we really don’t care.  Looking at the girls you can tell which ones are with the Ballet Dads, their buns aren’t quite tight and loose hair flies, they may have some syrup on the edge of their mouths and once in a while a shoe (slipper?) or belt is missing.  We are Dads, we try but sometimes with daughters we just don’t get it.  We call the costumes for the performance “uniforms” and the performance photo for the girls in the scene the “team picture” and the changing room the locker room.  We’re Dads, but we are here in a semi-alien environment doing our best to encourage and support our daughters, and a few sons.  “Ohhh Daddd,” is our calling card.

While we are not a unified and labeled demographic, and we can vary in age by up to twenty or so years, and run the gamut from Asian to Black to White to Hispanic to WhoKnowsWhatDifferenceDoesItMake, we all love our kids—we are Ballet Dads and proud.  Girls are different than boys and Dads are different than Moms—and Ballet Dads know and feel the differences. And love it.

Class is over, time to gather up the papers, magazines, puzzles, shoes, coffee cups and clear out as Blackberry Guy ambles towards my seat, daughter in tow, somehow making it through the transition crowd as the 10:00 classes end and the 11:00 begin without looking up from his handheld, checking messages and scores (a very valuable Ballet Dad, a few weeks ago he was giving updates on college games), two Ballet Dads passing in transition.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Sooners huh?”
“Yeah…”

Useful links:

Long Beach Ballet

Wikipedia page on Soccer Mom

The Official Oklahoma Sooner website

The Official Barry Manilow website

Numbers to Home

This is what the Honda Odyssey looked like every evening when we stopped for the evening and every morning before we hit the road.  This picture was taken at 9:15 Saturday morning.  It contains bags for Leslie and I for our fifteen day trip, Jenna for her four weeks at camp and one week on the road home and Blaire for her two weeks at camp and the week to drive home.

One advantage of driving is you can over pack, and pack for comfort. For instance, to make it easier to sleep in many beds over a long journey, Leslie and I pack our pillows from home.  Since I have sleep apnea  I travel with a C-Pap machine; since we are packing pillows it is easy to add the small device to the pillow bag.

You notice the cooler, what you don't see is the box containing our mini(van) bar.  For as long as man has traveled he has knocked off the dust of the road with an adult beverage at the end of a day's travel.  Leslie and I belong to species homo sapiens and thus enjoy knocking the road dust off at the end of the day.  With beers costing up to $7-8 and cocktails up to $10-12 we save money by traveling with a couple of bottles of booze and several cans of mixers.  On the trip with us was Black Eagle bourbon and Mount Gay rum, for refreshing cocktails the former is usually paired with ginger ale and the latter with Fresca.

The bag with the orange handles you can see is the game bag for the kids, that along with the portable DVD player that runs off the van's DC current and we can go thousands of miles with two kids.

Traveling from Williams, Arizona we left the high desert and dropped to the Colorado River and California border. The Mojave Desert greeted us with 108 degree heat and desolate landscape.  As we neared Barstow a fierce desert thunderstorm tore across out path, very high winds from the south switched to coming from the north in less than a quarter mile--concerning me that we could be in some trouble from micro-tornado.  Rain cut visibility to about 100 yards or less.  The temperature dropped over thirty degrees. And within five minutes we were out of the storm.

After Barstow the kids really started counting down the miles and the time.  Jenna, who left the Smith Compound on Lime Avenue in the morning darkness Monday July 9th seemed the most anxious to get home.

Finally at 4:15 we pulled up to the house.

Our odometer rested at 32,001.  Those with good memory will recall our starting odometer read 27,003 on the morning of Saturday July 28th when Leslie and I departed on the Great American Road Trip.  With no tickets, flats, or any issues whatsoever from the Odyssey Leslie and I traveled 4,998 miles.

In our fifteen days we covered 14 states (California, Nevada, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona).  The girls traveled through eight states (Minnesota through Arizona in list above plus California).  We crossed entire states from border to border either north-south or east-west eight times (Montana, North Dakota, Iowa, Missouri, Oklahoma, New Mexico and Arizona). We stuck pretty much to our originally intended route with the exception of when we left Reno we stayed with highway 395, cutting back into California before heading into Oregon.

Speaking of the 395...if we were to get a ticket on this trip that highway through California and Reno would have been the most logical opportunity given the number of California and Nevada Highway Patrol we saw.  We saw more cops on the 395 Saturday and Sunday at the start of the trip than we did on the rest of the trip combined.

Our trip covered three times zones, Pacific, Mountain and Central; though the Odyssey clock remained on Home time.  Instead of Greenwich Mean Time we had Lime Avenue Mean Time.

We had 15 lunches and 14 breakfasts and dinners; of these only two were eaten in the car from a fast food joint (Wednesday from a DQ in Texas as we busted over 700 miles from Tulsa to Albuquerque and today in Needles from Jack as Jenna stressed the importance of getting home as soon as possible).

Jenna was gone for a total of 33 days, Blaire for 19 days, Leslie and I for 15 days and Harrison for no days--though he did kill a possum evidently around 3:00 a.m. the night of the earthquakes in Southern California much to the chagrin of super-house/dog-sitter Niece Jacqueline.

One number that is hard to judge without a scale is how much this ways.

Laundry!  A combined total of 82 days worth of laundry for the four of us.  The over and under is 8 loads.

I mentioned in yesterday's post our homecoming is bittersweet. We saw a lot of beautiful country, met a lot of wonderful people, caught up with some life long friends, and did it as a family creating memories we all will retain as long as we retain our memories.

As great as the trip was this is what it is all about at some point.

Coming home!

On the trip there was talk about next year, what route we should take, what we should see.  Colorado, Vegas and Bryce are on the list of possibilities.  Looking at the map if we can drop down to the I-80 in Nebraska to the I-76 through Denver then east to the I-15.....

Bittersweet

When last you left our intrepid band of travelers we were in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  We left Albuquerque for an easy day of 360 miles through the mesas of the Land of Enchantment and entered Arizona's eastern desert climbing up to 7000 feet and the pine country in the Flagstaff region arriving in Williams late in the afternoon.

Williams is an interesting town.  Labeled the "Gateway to the Grand Canyon" and on the original Route 66, Williams is a tourist town taking advantage of its two big draws: the Grand Canyon and Route 66 nostalgia.  Williams was the last town on the original 66 that was by-passed by I-40, that happened in 1984. We had a mediocre meal, but great pie, at one of the local diners then spent the evening walking Route 66 and popping into souvenir shops--it was a beautiful evening for strolling, mid-70's.

This morning we were up and at the Williams train depot by 9:00 to first catch a kitchy-perfectly over acted "western" show and then board the Grand Canyon Railroad for our 2:15 trip to the south rim of the Canyon. The train ride is a lot of fun, beautiful scenery as you climb about 1500 feet and wind through first the scrub brush high desert and then the pines and forests.  The railroad was established in 1919 and after being closed in the late 1960's a couple from Scottsdale purchased and revived the railroad in 1989.  Every car has a tour guide of sorts who goes through the history of the area, facts on the Grand Canyon during the ride.  Jenna and I played War as everyone watched the scenery through the windows.

At 11:45 we arrived at the depot at the Grand Canyon, walked up to the rim and were just speechless.  Leslie took a lot of pictures with her new Canon she purchased just before the trip, and after all most everyone said, "it doesn't do it justice...."  And it is true, no matter how good the photographer or the picture, until you are standing on the edge of the canyon, looking down one mile and across ten to fifteen and  just as far or further in either direction, you cannot comprehend the scope and beauty of the Grand Canyon.

As a bonus to our trip we saw three California Condors soaring over us, a magnificent bird in flight that is quite ugly when you get a close look (which we did when one perched on a rock outcropping about fifty feet away from the stone barrier on the rim), watching the birds with their enormous wingspan (up to twelve feet) soaring for miles without flapping their wings is mesmerizing.

Every ten feet down the path along the rim would open up a bit of a different view of the canyon.  Standing on the edge, even with a stone barrier and a gradual slope before the drop off, one feels somewhat acrophobic.  Looking through the binoculars at the floor and far canyons I felt eerily pulled towards the canyon--not a comfortable feeling for me.

After a break for lunch and walking around for three and a half hours in the 85 degree heat and high altitude we were a bit bushed and eagerly boarded the train at 3:15 for the ride back to Williams.  The guide had some jokes, there was a fake train robbery and Jenna and I finished our card game of War (victory to Dad) and relaxed to the steady rhythm and clickety-clack of the train.  At one point I reflected I did not have to make the hour drive down the hill but could sit back and relax on the train.

I highly recommend two things. First, if you have never visited the Grand Canyon, or if your kids have not, then do so.  It is a one day drive from Southern California--445 miles and 7 hours between Williams and Long Beach.  Second, take the train trip from Williams, it is fun, no hassle with driving, parking, etc.

Last evening as we were strolling, I looked at Leslie and said, "one more day... I am looking forward to home but really want to continue the journey."

So it is with bittersweet emotions that we go to bed on the penultimate night of our Great American road trip.  Leslie and I had a great week driving to Minnesota and spending all that time together without the kids.  Leslie and I then have had a great week driving back from Minnesota with Blaire and Jenna and spending all this time together with the kids.

Even with crummy Blackberry camera you can take a great photo of the Grand Canyon

Condor soaring above us and the canyon

Blaire has a new motto---hard to argue!

It's Big!

The West is big, really big.  Huge, immense, grand, pick your adjective and it fits the American West.  We saw it driving the valley of the Eastern Sierras, the vast hills of Eastern Oregon, the huge canyons of Idaho and Western Montana and the plains of Montana and North Dakota.

Today's drive once again brought home the incredible amount of space, land this nation has.  Leaving Tulsa we went through the Osage hills of northeastern Oklahoma into the central part of the state where wildfires have devastated Creek County with hundreds of homes being destroyed and then past Oklahoma City we entered the Plains.  The vast, open, see the curve of the earth on the horizon Plains of western Oklahoma and the Texas Panhandle.  In the area around Amarillo, Texas town silos are like city skyscapers as they tower over the flat landscape, visible ten, twenty, thirty miles away.

Leaving Texas and driving through eastern New Mexico one begins to climb in altitude and the landscape becomes more green, trees and scrub brush are more prevalent and ranches the norm.  But again the vast size of the region leaves an impression of how lonely the frontiersmen, trappers and cowboys must have felt with no sign of other humans or any break in the landscape from horizon to horizon.  The advantage of the New Mexico traveler is the mountains that break from the prairie and climb to 10,000 feet.

Although our drive today was 650 miles and about 10 hours our drive was a geography lesson of the west as we left hill country for prairies for hill country for mountains.  It's big, real big, our American West.

When we arrived at our Best Western destination this evening the girls took a dip in the pool to cool off while Mom and Dad imbibed with cocktails from our car-bar by the pool. Afterwards we walked about a half mile to Old Town Albuquerque for dinner at Monica's El Portal.  I love chili verde and in Southern California it is almost always made with pork.

In Albuquerque chili verde is a chili sauce, very spicy, that is more of a sauce than a dish.  I had the chili verde chicken soup with rice. Served with the meals are sopapillas, a variety of tortilla dough that is fried and puffs up.  One of the best Mexican meals I have had, anywhere.

Today's picture is of the beer I enjoyed with my meal, a local brew that was excellent.

Tomorrow we have a relatively short trip into Northern Arizona past Flagstaff to Williams where we will bunk for two nights and make an excursion to the Grand Canyon on Friday.

Seeing Tulsa

What I feared would be a boring day for the girls as their Old Man dragged them around Tulsa saying, "I remember when....we used to....this is where..." all day was instead a day filled with some of the sights of people and they enjoyed it.  Phew!

After a bit of a late breakfast (to come clean, late for me the early riser, probably not so late for those on vacation--breakfast was 9:30 local) at a local diner with Judy Wright and her grandson--Judy being my Dad's cousin's wife, think of her as an aunt since we are talking Tulsa relations, we headed to the Philbrook Museum.  The Philbrook's original building was the home of Waite and Genevieve Phillips, as in Phillips Petroleum.  The 72 room mansion and 23 acres was donated during the Depression to the city of Tulsa as an art museum and center. When we were kids in the '60's my brother, sister and I would go to art classes held in the attic of the mansion.

Today Philbrook is a fabulous museum with Italian art from the 15th Century to modern Native American art.  The tremendous garden has several interesting sculptures and beautiful landscaping.  We arrived before the thermometer hit 90 degrees and the kids did a scavenger hunt finding rubbing-stones at different sites (they were given directions and blank pieces of paper and a crayon, at each rubbing stone they would put the paper on the stone and rub the crayon to get a relief of the picture on the stone).  They enjoyed finding the stones and we enjoyed the walk through the grounds.

Koi pond reflecting gazebo in Philbrook gardens Photo courtesy of Philbrook.org

We then explored the galleries and the kids engaged in another scavenger hunt. The air conditioning of the museum was quite a relief after experiencing the Tulsa summer.

Following the visit to Philbrook we took a driving tour of Tulsa showing the girls where their Opa, my dad, grew up, and very importantly we went to Goldie's.  Goldie's is a mandatory stop for the Smith family on any trip to Tulsa to get what we consider the best burger in the states.  Goldie's is now a franchise operation with several locations, we however go to the original, though much expanded from the original, site at 51st and Lewis.  Also mandatory is enjoying the Goldie's pickle bar.  Like many iconic places, like Dodger Stadium, Goldie's was founded in 1962--sharing the year with a certain someone writing this blog.  Daughter Blaire loves cheeseburgers so I have been waiting quite some time to bring her to our family hamburger mecca.

Blaire becomes another generation of Smith's to
enjoy the Goldie Special with cheese

After lunch we headed north of Tulsa to the Tulsa Air and Space Museum where Glenn Wright, Judy's husband and Dad's cousin and sort of like our uncle in Tulsa relations, is the Executive Director and very much the driving force in getting the museum built and continued operation over the years.  With an F-14 and other planes in the main building, great side exhibits focused on Tulsa's aviation history, from the story of the Tulsamerican, the last B-24 bomber built at the Boeing plant in Tulsa that was shot down during World War II to the bright orange Bell helicopter Glenn once landed in a vacant lot half a block away from where we are now staying, the museum is a terrific site for local and national aviation history.

Meandering back to our digs for a quick change we then enjoyed an leisurely dinner with our hosts Ann and Mickey Wilson, her son Steve Lake and family and Glen and Judy Wright.  A perfect ending to a wonderful day showing off my hometown to my daughters.

How did it go?  Blaire told me, "Tulsa is cool...not the temperature but you know cool." And Jenna told Leslie she did not want to leave, Leslie asked if it was because she didn't want to get in the car for a long trip and she said, no she just liked it and wanted to stay.  Dad's happy the trip went well and the girls did not get tired of the history lessons and trips down memory lanes.

Tomorrow we have a long haul, 650 miles west on I-40, through OKC (home to the Thunder for you Laker fans), Amarillo, Tucumcari and into the Best Western in Albuquerque for a stop over before we head to our final stop before home.

A familiar sign for our family as Dad worked for DX when
lived in Tulsa, when they merged with Sunoco we moved  from
Oklahoma to Philadelphia

It hit 104 degrees in Tulsa today, the restaurant with
West facing doors put napkins on the door handles so you
could open the doors without burning your hands!