MARCH 23, 2024 – Last December I thought it would make a fun Christmas present to give my wife three tickets for a performance of the classic ballet, Giselle, starring Daniil Simkin and Skylar Brandt, at Northrop Auditorium 15 minutes from our house. My thought was that Beth and I could take our eight-year-old granddaughter, who has always loved to run her own ballet moves across the “stage” of our living room.
The big event was this evening, and unfortunately, my nagging cough prevented me from attending. Instead, I served as the chauffeur. I regretted that I couldn’t join Beth and Illiana for the performance, but I derived just as much delight in knowing that those two were spending precious time together. Wending around the university campus toward Northrop, I made a wrong turn and got on the wrong side of the auditorium. It was just as well: on my way out I discovered a massive traffic jam on the side where I’d intended to drop them off. Instead, I pulled into an unobstructed drive on the west side of the building, where grandmother and granddaughter slipped out of the vehicle and walked freely down a broad sidewalk to another that led straight to the front steps of the Classical Revival landmark of the main University of Minnesota campus.
As they proceeded away from me, I watched them and smiled. Wearing concert black, Beth held Illiana’s hand. Except for her shoes, Illiana wore “concert festive”: a pink ankle-length “princess dress,” one of many that Beth the shopper has acquired from Good Will to fill Illiana’s corner of “make-believe” props in our basement. Over the dress she wore a colorful quiltlike winter jacket, and her hair looked stylish thanks to Grandma’s deft work just before we’d left the house. Not yet self-conscious in reaction to peer pressure, Illiana is her own person—with her own imagination.
For the previous four hours she’d kept us company at our house. It was a low-keyed afternoon for Beth and me. Beth was tired out from an earlier walk and repaired upstairs for a nap. I was still in rest mode and spent much of the afternoon seated comfortably in the sitting room while Illiana unleashed her non-stop creativity.
Using a large cardboard box as her principal prop, Illiana transformed it into a house in the woods with a spacious patio surrounded by all kinds of “friends” and amenities. I did my best to stay engaged. When asked what animal I wanted to be, I said, “a fox,” and when Illiana asked what name I wanted, I said, “Fidelio.” This whimsical answer prompted me to summon Beethoven in accompaniment.
After a light supper, I drove Beth and Illiana to the ballet. From her backseat Illiana told a story; made it up as she went along. At the height of its complexity, Beth asked Illiana to repeat the story, whereupon the eight-year-old laughed and said, “No way.”
Two-and-a-half-hours later, I returned to Northrop and found a waiting spot immediately in front of the main exit. While I waited, I smiled with amusement at the latest photos of Illiana’s Connecticut cousin, who for the first time, rolled over today. The little tyke is cuter than a button, and reminds me how perfect life is, even when it isn’t. Soon Beth and Illiana appeared. It had been a long performance for an eight-year-old, but she’d weathered it well. She’s another reminder of how precious life is—and how amusingly quirky she is. “I’m tired,” she said. “I feel like an uncooked jellyfish that’s been left out for two and a half weeks.” This made us laugh as much as anything could.
As we merged with the sports traffic coming out of nearby Williams Arena, Illiana noticed the crowds of young people. “I think they must be going to study group,” she said. Beth suggested that more likely they’d been attending the sporting event and were now going out for pizza. “No,” Illiana insisted. “I think they’re on their way to join their study groups.”
Beth asked her where she’d heard about study groups but didn’t get a clear explanation. I embraced Illiana’s innocent outlook and obliged her when she suddenly shifted gears and asked me to tell a story—“fiction or non-fiction,” she said, “it doesn’t matter.” I did, and then for the rest of the ride, she played word games with Beth.
I may have missed the ballet, but I didn’t miss out on the sunshine beamed all around me today by one of my favorite people in all the world—with another playing catch-up.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
