Ted Mack and Me

As long as I can remember, I never aspired to be famous. I was normally a shy and awkward introvert. I shied away from people and as a small child, hid behind my mom’s skirts whenever strangers were around.

However, once I got to know a person, I seemed to relax. I’m not saying that I latched onto a person and became overly friendly, but I was, as I said, more relaxed.

I enjoyed being around my family but was still somewhat quiet. My mom worried about that. My dad, however, didn’t take my moods seriously.

Mom also worried about my physical movements. Dad usually laughed at my klutziness. “You’re the only person I know who could trip over a bobby pin” he’d say regularly.

My problem wasn’t so much that I was a klutz; my problem was that I always moved faster than my feet allowed causing me to trip over my own feet. I’d bump into walls, furniture, people. I rarely watched where I was going only because I was trying to get there too quickly.

Why? Who knows! I haven’t changed as far as that’s concerned.

Mom tried everything she could imagine to slow me down. She’d take me for long walks in the park. She’d walk, I’d run. As I would turn to see where mom was, I’d crash into a person, a park bench, a tree – whatever was now behind me got my full attention as my body received another bruise.

Mom was at her wits end. Dad, as usual, laughed.

Mom took me to the doctor hoping he’d have an answer or an idea to make me more aware of my surroundings. He would tell mom to apply a liniment to begin the healing process of the bruise, but he had no idea how to slow my quick actions.

Wait! That’s not fair to Dr. Umhey. He did make a few suggestions, but they were all ideas mom already tried to no avail.

When I turned four years old, a friend of mom’s suggested she enroll me in dance class. “Maybe this is a way for her to burn off some of that energy” her friend said.

While mom and dad didn’t have much money, they figured it was worth a try.

Mom learned to sew and made me the prettiest pink tutu a four-year old could own. Every Saturday, we’d get on the bus and ride into Astoria, New York to the dance studio. There was a locker room for the older girls and one for the little kids where the mothers were able to help their daughters change from their street clothes to the dance clothes. I was so proud of my tutu. Dad took a photo of me the first time I wore it. My parents beamed at their little girl. They had such high hopes that I would soon learn to be graceful. They didn’t really care too much if I learned to dance; they just wanted me to slow down enough where walking across the room didn’t cause new bruises.

I was eager to dance. Yes, I had the rhythm. I learned the steps. Putting them together was a problem. I was more interested in the music than the steps but for mom’s sake, I thought I’d try.

The dance school posted a notice that we were accepted to dance on the Ted Mack Amateur Hour – whatever that was! I was not quite five years old and had no idea what an amateur was or who the heck Ted Mack was. Was he an uncle I never met yet? What was an amateur? At the age of four, I didn’t even know what an hour was!

Mom and Dad were enthusiastic. Their daughter would be on TV. I was going to be on TV. How? Were they going to sit me on the top along with the rabbit ears antenna?

I had no idea.

The date was set, and the arrangements were made. My parents were going to take my brother with us. That got me excited because he’d never seen me dance before. My brother and I were close friends as well as siblings. He was twenty-seven months older than I was and as toddlers, we did everything together. Everything except dance. I wanted to show off for him.

Then the unthinkable happened. He got sick. A strep throat prevented him from going with us. Naturally, one of my parents had to stay home with him and since my mom had to help me change my clothes, it would be dad’s responsibility to stay with my brother. At least, I was told they’d be able to watch me on TV.

Mom and I arrived at the studio and were pointed in the direction of the children’s locker room where the rest of my dance class were changing. Mom carefully adjusted my tutu so it looked perfect. She helped me with my matching pink socks and then tied the ribbons of my ballet slippers. She dabbed a small amount of rouge to my cheeks and an equally small amount of lipstick to my lips.

The announcement was made that my class would be next on stage.

The cameraman instructed us where to look at the camera. “Just watch the camera. When you see the little red light come on, the people at home will be able to see you.”

We waited patiently. Finally, the little red light came on. The music started. The class began to dance. And me? All I could think of was my brother being sick at home and watching me. I jumped up and down, waving like a lunatic, screaming, “Frankie. Frankie. Do you see me?” Did I dance at all? Yes, for a few minutes but I was more consumed with the thought of letting my brother know how much I missed him.

Mom was mortified. Dad said he and my brother laughed at my antics.

The music stopped and we all bowed, just as instructed. We gracefully tiptoed off the stage – well, the class did. I was still staring at the little red light and ended up bumping into the girl in front of me.

A few months later, my dance instructor called my mom and said they needed to talk. Mom dreaded the potential conversation because she had a gut feeling she knew what was about to happen.

Mom’s gut was right.

She was asked to take me home and not return.

Mom said the instructor was kind but insisted that I was too much of a distraction to the rest of the girls and wasn’t concentrating enough to learn the steps. She said she was sorry, but I wasn’t “dance material”.

Mom understood and dad grinned. I heard music and danced to the music in my own head. I had the beat, but the steps eluded me. I made them up as we went along.

Through the years, not much changed. I did slow down a bit. When I wasn’t dancing around the house, I was reading. However, I quickly learned to speed read.

Dad asked mom, “How on earth can she read so fast?” Mom just shrugged her shoulders and said that she hoped that one day, I would slow down.

I never did and here, seventy years later, I can still recall my date with Ted Mack. Although I’m sure, if he were still alive, if he thought at all of those amateure hours, he might wonder who the heck was that kid in the pink tutu.

Oh, and I never did learn to be graceful. I still move too fast for my good. I always seem to be in a hurry to go nowhere.

Bobby pins? Don’t use them but if I did, I’m sure I’d find a way to trip over them.