Not every child is meant for team sports.  

My daughter played soccer at ages 7 and 8. From Celeste’s time on the team she learned how to braid weeds, how to avoid drawing the coach’s attention so as to not be put in the game, and how mandarin oranges should not be consumed shortly before spinning with friends on the field.  (Several teammates and an innocent bystander learned that lesson as well.) Still, I wanted her to experience being part of a team, and when a friend’s son became involved with children’s theater, I asked if she’d like to try it as well.  

Unless around people she knows fairly well, Celeste is generally quiet and reserved, so I honestly didn’t expect she’d get bit by the bug, but she was. Completely and totally hooked from the start.     

And later this week, after five times in chorus-type parts, she has her first speaking role as an old widow in the Children’s Theatre production of Robin Hood.  She memorized her dozen or so lines almost immediately, but wouldn’t let go of her script until the night they officially went “off book.” (Her love of theater terminology can be trying at times. Me: “Have you seen my purse?” Her: “It’s over there, stage right. [exasperated sigh] Oh, please. That’s stage left.) 

Like most of the parents whose children participate in these plays, I’m not hoping her time with this group will encourage her to choose acting as a profession. Not every child who plays football or soccer or golf is doing so because they believe they’ll turn pro someday. It’s the same with the kids on the stage, except with theater, those who are taller or stronger or faster don’t have the advantage the way they do in sports, and with theater, the skills these children are learning will serve them well no matter what they do later in life.  

When Celeste was younger and just learning to read, we’d practice by reading stories out loud. Like most kids her age, she was choppy and halting, until she started reading the dialogue parts of stories using different voices. The sillier she read those lines, the smoother her reading became. Acting takes it one step further. The kids aren’t only learning how to just deliver their lines, but to notice what’s behind those words, what motivates that character to be doing and saying such things. I’m convinced that, in turn, helps develop sensitivity and understanding of the feelings of others.  

Memorization skills also improve tremendously. Along with their lines, the children need to remember where they’re supposed to be on stage, what kind of movements to make, how to recognize the line immediately preceding their own. There’s timing to master, rehearsals to attend, and commitments to fulfill. They’re part of a team and if they don’t hold up their end, the entire production could suffer. It’s a good kind of peer pressure. They can’t let down their friends. 

Even the most shy, reserved child will become less shy as their skills improve and their comfort level increases. They learn to interact with different people of a variety of ages and backgrounds. With sports, teams are generally made up of a small range of ages. Not so with children’s theatre, where casts can be filled with kids from ages 6 to 18. 

I’m not an actress myself. I could only muster the courage to be onstage if my costume made me completely unrecognizable. My fear of public speaking has been stifling for me, so watching Celeste become accustomed to being on stage is such a relief, as it seems unlikely now that she’ll develop the same inhibitions as me.  Acting is such a natural thing for children. They love to pretend. It gives them an opportunity to be someone else-someone brave or with magical powers or who robs from the rich to give to the poor. It encourages imagination and creativity.  

Far more than braiding weeds.  

For more information on the Children’s Theatre of Charleston, visit CTOC.org or call 541-7222.

In my kitchen window is an African violet my mom grew for me from a single leaf.  She took the leaf from her own African violet, which she had grown from a leaf.  

If it had been me who’d found the snapped-off leaf in the back of my car, I probably would’ve tossed it in the trash or left it to crisp in the trunk.  But not Mom.  She has this curiosity about her, this Let’s see what happens thing going.  She gave that dying leaf a chance, and it showed her what it could do.  That plant is now one of the most beautiful African violets I’ve ever seen, with dark purple blooms on one side and ruffly two-color blooms on the other.

I’ve never been the most conscientious person with plants.  In fact, my reputation as a plant-torturer preceded me so profoundly that when I’d walk though a greenhouse, schefflera would shudder, trumpet vine trees would tremble, and prayer plants would start their Hail Marys.  But even though Mom was aware of my history with plants, she still entrusted me with this special violet.

Let’s see what happens.

My mom has been doing that sort of thing all my life, planting-and actually growing-what most people would just throw away.  She took the lopped off top of a pineapple and grew it into a plant, kept the seed from avocados and grew them as well. 

I know that African violet in my kitchen window isn’t Mom, but in a way, it is.  I look at it and see her.  And because I’ve been determined to keep that violet alive, my other plants are now thriving. (Probably because they’re now being watered more often than once or twice every quarter.)

A few months ago, my friend Sue and I were talking about gardens, and she offered to give me some slips of her plants.  Slips was a term I hadn’t heard before.

“My mom called them slips,” Sue said.  “And she said you should never say ‘thank you’ for a plant because that was bad luck.  The plant would die.  Instead you should say, ‘I appreciate it.’”

Thinking I might have inherited some of Mom’s gift, I’ve been trying my hand at planting a few things myself, just to see what would happen.  Thinking a grape arbor would be nice, I planted a raisin. Nothing.  I tried sesame seeds.  Same result.

Luckily, I have some green-thumbed friends and neighbors who have given me slips, and there’s something about those plant slips I find extra appealing.  Not just because I’m a tightwad who loves getting a freebie, but because those plants will always be connected to the person who gave them to me.

Several years ago, when I was a single mother with an out-of-control, yet very dull, yard, one of my former neighbors, Trish, offered to help.  She spent hours thinning out plants from her yard and her sister’s, then even more hours helping me replant them in my yard.  A year or so later, Trish moved away, but the now lush, mature plantings continue to be a nice reminder of her.

This past year, I’ve found myself getting more interested in gardening.  Our new house has a heavily shaded yard with an abundance of ivy.  Finding the right plants is a challenge for a person who is green everywhere but her thumb.

Someday, though, I hope to have a garden filled with reminders of friends, neighbors, and Mom. 

And maybe a raisin plant, too.

I decided to take a week off from the column. Needed a little break. Wish I had my act together enough to stay ahead of the game, but that seldom happens.

Celeste got the part of an old widow in Robin Hood (Children’s Theatre), and she has about a dozen lines. It’s her first speaking part. She’s been in five or six other shows, but always as part of the chorus or part of a crowd. If she would perform onstage the way she does at home, she’d steal every scene that she’s in, but I expect she’ll do it just like they tell her to. She can do all these different voices, pick up accents and speech impediments and mannerisms so fast and accurate it sometimes boggles my mind, yet she still has enough shy in her that she’ll only do those things with family and friends.

 Another new development is our foster dog, Roo. We’ve had her for a month now, and she was a bit more damaged than we originally realized. She was rescued from the shelter, which had rescued her from dog hoarders who had 53 dogs in a single-wide trailer. Because the people had been in trouble for hoarding before, they didn’t let the dogs outside because they didn’t want the neighbors to know how many they had again. So Roo basically came to us with a fear of outdoors. Ever try to housebreak a dog who is afraid of outside?

 But Roo is so eager to please that she’s learned pretty fast. She still has a little trouble knowing how to ask to go out, but she’s getting it. She had never been around men until she was taken away from the hoarders, so she has a lot of trouble not being afraid of men. We’ve been taking her to the dog park and Petsmart to expose her to men other than Geoff.

I have no clue what kind of dog she is. She’s only about 10 lbs, so she’s smaller than she looks in the picture. She has the markings of a german shepherd, but circles around her eyes like a raccoon. Funny thing is she doesn’t shed at all. That’s a terrier/poodle trait, but I don’t see either of those breeds in her. She’s about 3 years old and hadn’t been spayed until we got her, but she’s remarkably healthy.

It’s been fun getting to know her and watching her heal and conquer her fears. She’s such a happy morning dog, and she harrasses Murry and Chewie (who are NOT easy to get up in the morning) until she gets both of them playing.

We’ve already found her one new home, but that didn’t work out, and it set Roo back quite a bit when we got her back. She was back to hiding under the bed and being afraid of being put on a leash. Since she’s doing so well with us and our other animals, I expect we’ll probably end up keeping her. It feels cruel to get her to trust, then hand her off to someone else and make her start all over again.

I’ve come to accept that I live a strange life. Mom says it’s God’s way of making sure I never run out of column material. 

I offer the following as case in point. 

Last week, I was skimming the online postings on Craigslist when I saw a post from someone looking for baskets. The post seemed heaven-sent. My latest attempt at organization had (as usual) resulted in little more than stuff being relocated from one part of the house to another. But this time, when the dust from my round-up had settled, I found a once-scattered assortment of baskets had been corralled together. 

We needed space. They needed to go. And here, thanks to the posting, was my simple solution. 

I sent an email to the woman who placed the ad, offering to give her the baskets, and we emailed back and forth several times to figure out where to meet. She’d only recently moved to Charleston from Ohio and wasn’t familiar with too many places, but we finally settled on one we could both find-the Moose Lodge parking lot just past Daniel Boone Park. Since we got off work at the same time, we agreed to head to the lot immediately after work.

She described her car (an older model blue) and said she had a bunch of Mardi Gras beads hanging from her rearview mirror. And since she’d said she moved here from Ohio, I figured I could spot her by watching for the car driving slow in the fast lane, lurching into the parking lot and then taking up two parking spaces.

But when I pulled into the lot, I spotted her car right away, parked a bit off by itself, windows rolled down. Ohio plates. Mardi Gras beads on the mirror. I waved to the woman sitting behind the wheel, and she smiled and waved back. Before either of us could say much, her cell phone rang and she answered the call.

Being in a bit of a hurry, I opened my car and began moving the baskets from my car to hers while she talked on the phone. I had quite a few baskets, so it took several trips, and I was feeling a little annoyed with her for not pausing her call long enough to at least offer to help. 

Still, it was no big deal. I wanted rid of the baskets and they were going to someone who could use them. I returned to my car and waved goodbye. She waved back. I headed for home, thinking no more about it.

Until the next day. When I got an email from the woman.

“I waited at the Moose lot for 25 minutes, but you never showed up. What happened?” 

I immediately emailed her back.  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

She wasn’t kidding.

And she apparently wasn’t the only former Ohio person parked in the Moose lot in an older model blue car with Mardi Gras beads.

Yes, I had not only loaded the baskets in the wrong car, but the woman sitting right there in that wrong car had let me.

Who can’t interrupt a phone call long enough to stop a total stranger from filling their car with baskets?

I keep picturing that woman, back home in Ohio, telling her family about how West Virginians are friendly and generous, although perhaps a bit weird.  

Since this incident, I’ve learned the Charleston Job Corp, located close to the Moose Lodge, is training people (many of whom have come here from out of state, seeking jobs) to work at the Tri-State Racetrack & Gaming Center, which has the whole Mardi Gras theme going on, thus the beads everywhere.