The Other Door
What was behind door #1…or 2 or 3? "Let's Make a Deal," was all about the prizes, as host Monty Hall bantered with his guests, encouraging enthusiastic contestants to choose. Possibilities were a red Pontiac, a seven-piece, yellow Hotpoint kitchen or a puppy and a year's supply of dog food. The anticipation was mesmerizing.
My parents were very strict about how much television we could watch. Rarely on school nights. Friday nights, however, were always available. After dinner and Sabbath candles and roast chicken or pot roast. "Bonanza" or "The Donna Reed Show" or " Leave it to Beaver." Or the game shows…the doors and the spinning wheels. My favorites were, "Let's Dance," and "The Roaring Twenties."
Of a theme they were, as they sustained my dreams of romance and endless glitter. My father was a wonderful dancer. He taught me the Cha Cha and from television I learned to Charleston. He was tall and elegant and I was able to reconcile his silence and busy doctoring schedule with his love of movement. I learned the Fox Trot from him. At weddings or Bar Mitzvahs or Sunday nights at the country club.
When Mom and Dad left us at home to indulge in Swanson's TV dinners -fried chicken and peas and mashed potatoes -or tins of Jiffy Pop, I watched carefully to see what dance steps I could rehearse after lights supposedly out. Lillie, who stayed with us through TV dinners, gathered us in her tiny room to watch television. My brother, the blessed boy among the three of us, got to sit on her lap. Kathryn and I on the worn carpet and I mesmerized by the gyrating strangers.
Could dancing really be a way to sustain life? I imagined myself as a dance contestant, able to unlock all the daydreaming parts of me. My theme song was something about a quiet, reserved girl with freckles and blond, hairy arms. Tired of being the big sister, the good one. Hoping to find behind door #1 or 2 or 3, the nimble, handsome stranger with whom she could move in perfect sync. To take the steps from her father in order to sustain her dreams.
I unlocked my fantasy life on Friday nights with TV dinners and television augmented by dances with my father. Behind each door, presented with great fanfare by a tall, statuesque blond, was a prize, a gift, a future for the lucky contestant. Waiting for the tally on “Let's Dance” was equally exciting. Who would win?
I didn't know what the future would bring as we ate fried chicken from divided aluminum. Suddenly I am writing about sitting on the floor of Lillie's room and imagining myself dancing with handsome strangers, or finding gifts behind heavy curtains. I am not sure how to reconcile these memories with the life I have now, but they must be serving some purpose on this sunny, Sunday. Perhaps to remember my father and the root of my agility and grace.