Memoirs of Mother Ginger

 

Now that Christmas is over, the tale can be told. I am the Mother Ginger. Or was in1975. The top half, at least.

For those unfamiliar with The Nutcracker, Mother Ginger is a ten-foot tall lady who, for reasons unbeknownst to me still, sidles out to reveal eight little girls under her skirts who issue forth and do a dance number. 

Back story: our high school drama club was pretty well known in Shreveport at the time, so when the Houston Ballet came to town, they got in touch. They needed three guys to move some large boxes, they said. So me and my buddies, John Sheridan and Bobby Brady, volunteered. No sweat. Besides, ballerinas! Maybe we could hit on them. (We were an all-boy school, and chances to get near girls were rare.)

But when we got there, we were asked to audition, which seemed strange. We were supposed to cross the room, smiling puckishly, waving a handkerchief. We found out then that we were playing powdered-wig footmen, who wheeled the big boxes holding Clara’s Christmas prezzies on stage—and playing the aforementioned Mother Ginger, top and bottom. Apparently the ballet pulled this razz wherever they went. None of this would require a single dance step, so we were game.

Some other Mother

Since I was the only actor among the group (John and Bobby were techies) I swept the auditions and became the face of M.G.—said face to be covered in clown makeup, bewigged with red pigtails, each arm laden with half a dozen helium balloons, powder puff in one hand, said waving hankie in the other. The makeup girl said that I was the most evil-looking Mother Ginger she had ever seen, and there was nothing she could do to make it better. 

(Maybe it had something to do with the dance belt I had to wear as one of the footmen. If you've never worn a dance belt, suffice it to say they are not designed to bring a smile to your face.)

Bobby, who was a big guy, was supposed to be the bottom half, carrying me on his shoulders. But Bobby came down with the flu at the last minute and had to bow out (that was his story). Which meant that John, twenty pounds lighter than me, stepped into the thankless role. 

His task was simple: sidle half-blind under a tent-size skirt to the center of the stage--surrounded by eight little girls(called polichinelles) who had sworn to trip him and send both of us sprawling—open his skirts to reveal them, park and wait for them to do their little dance, gather them under his skirts again and make it off stage with the little girls, now sorely tempted to carry out their threats. My job? Shake that hanky, look as charming as possible and not evil, and try not to sweat too much.

Well--the little girls were merciful, possibly fearing retribution from St. Nick. Mission accomplished. It was a one-night show. It would only take a couple of hours to get those dance belts off. But I still break into a sweat whenever I hear Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies. And no, we did not get to hit on any ballerinas. Apparently they were busy dancing or something. (Alright, I had no game, and John came out as gay a year later.)

So next time you see The Nutcracker, think kindly the Mother Ginger--or at least the bottom half.

In Boston even beans do it

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