The Magic Tree House was a busy place yesterday. Being Valentine’s Day is excitement enough, certainly. There are Cars and Hello Kitty cards to exchange, and candy to consume, and parties to enjoy. I love LOVE, so it only makes sense that I would get a kick out of a holiday devoted to the emotion.
Beyond all of the stuff that the rest of the free world does on this fourteenth day of February, we first graders also tackled a play for adoring parents and grandparents. I wrote about this topic one year ago, so I will not belabor the point, but this little gem has been brought out and dusted off every Valentine’s Day for nearly forty years.
The retiring first grade teacher that I was hired to replace handed me the ancient script just before she left and told me to, “do what I want with it.” Really, truthfully, I wanted to can the whole thing and find something newer and fresher to replace it with.
But as chronicled a year ago, it was brought to my attention that this short, quaint play had been performed for generations in this community and it would be a travesty to let it die and blow away. I had to admit that it certainly would be a shame. I could not and would not be the one to sacrifice it on the alter of making my own mark.
And so last year’s class hastily threw together an acceptable version of it and I was completely happy that we had not let one year go by without this treasured predictability gracing the first grade classroom. This year I eagerly anticipated Valentine’s arrival and with it our class play. I had embraced the play, the tradition, and the excitement that my darlings had at the thought of putting on a play for an audience.
We started rehearing about two weeks ago and I was confident that they were ready to pull the thing off. I dug out the costumes that the former teacher had compiled over the years, issued invitations, cleared extra guests for lunch with the cook, ratcheted up rehearsals the last few days, and looked forward to watching my little darlings shine.
We had a bit of a sticky wicket where the cast was concerned. The play calls for more girl parts than there are girls. Such is the common lot of teachers in small schools everywhere; change the script or recruit from other classes? I toyed with several options. I finally decided to step in and play the part of the “fairy from the deep woods” myself. Last year we were so desperate for bodies to fill characters that I actually cast one of my rough rancher boys as the queen. Before you accuse me of messing with his manhood, I will hasten to add that he volunteered for the job and pulled it off in hilarious perfection. I will always love him for that.
The plot goes like this: While the Princess is napping, the Robber sneaks in and steals her heart – a large, red paper heart hung on a string around her neck. When the Princess awakens, she is irritable and not at all like herself. The Doctor is summoned, who takes a listen with his stethoscope and diagnoses her as heart-less (“Jumpin’ Jiminy Apple Tart, someone stole the Princess’ heart!!”). Amid gasps of disbelief by the Royal Court and the Townspeople, the King (whose ancient paper crown must be as old as a certain overgrown fairy), demands that the thief be found and his daughter’s heart returned. The Doctor listens for a heartbeat in each of the townspeople (good thing there are only nine of them!), and pronounces The Robber the guilty dude. More gasps, a quick arrest by the sheriff, a returned heart to the still-sleeping princess.
Now the services of the fairy (me) are required to awaken her from her deep sleep. Good thing I still had my poufy, sparkly Glenda the Good Witch dress from Halloween (my poor daughter! It must be a trial to attend the same school as her free-spirited, quasi-hippie mother). I wave a wand over the Princess, say the magic words, and she now stirs from her slumber. The Robber is freed from his chains, the Princess is her old, happy self again, and the cast stands in a straight line, then turns over the red, paper hearts hanging around their necks to reveal the message, “Be Our Valentine!” We were a little short there too, so we talked one of the second graders into standing in as letters “N” and “E.” I stood at the end of the line as the “!” and performed my duties acceptably, I thought.
Before our first performance of the day, I heard one of my first graders say seriously, “This is the most important day of our lives.” OK. Maybe I had placed a little too much emphasis on this thing. Next year I maybe should back off a bit. I don’t want them to require therapy over the darn thing…
The children performed beautifully, and most importantly, had a really good time doing it. I love to see kids in their zone. They did not appear at all nervous, just smiles by the mile.
When I took over this classroom, I had the building supervisor remove the coat hooks from the recessed area inside the classroom so that I could use that space for a theater area. I am so happy I was forward thinking. I had inherited this amazing, hand painted backdrop with the room. It features a gray castle, obviously painted by childish hands. The jaw-dropper is, the artists are kids that are blind. I love that cloth for many reasons, but the message to me is, “Do not ever tell me you can’t do something. You are capable of more than you think you are.”
At the beginning of the show for the elementary students, I asked for a show of hands from the audience indicating they themselves had been in this play. Nearly every student shot a hand into the air. Smiles creased faces as their memories flooded their minds. Last year’s cross-dressing “queen” sportingly stood and took his bow amid peals of laughter, boosting his “cool” factor.
I did the same thing when the junior high students came to watch. Junior high kids are so incredibly cool, you know. Just ask them. They took their seats and waited with super cool expressions on their super cool faces. But the moment I asked that question, the kid in them lurched to the forefront of their features. I asked which part they had played, and all could remember their break-through role as the Doctor or the Princess or the Robber. Nods and laughter filled the room now.
And I was once again reminded that it is a beautiful thing to be a part of something bigger than myself. To have taken the baton at a comfortable jog and then run with it was obviously a good call. I could have insisted on starting fresh and laying the Stolen Heart script in mothballs, but in the end, what would it have accomplished? It would merely showcase the insecurities of a new teacher to make a splash.
Instead, I have allowed my first graders to join that prestigious group of Stolen Heart alumni who will laugh at class reunions about their own participation in that local rite of passage.
As I looked at the sea of hands raised in front of me, I was warmed by the knowledge that I too have taken my place in this most precious of traditions. Some of the older generation even thanked me from the audience for keeping it alive and nodded their appreciation.
And so, as the oldest first grader you ever saw waived her wand and spoke her fairy lines, I can now claim my spot in local history. I am not from this place, and yet I now belong.
In future years when the local banter turns to laughter over the The Stolen Heart, I can say with a smile, “I was the fairy…”
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