Word: magical
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...remember the tree. When you're five years old, a tree that has real pine needles and grows to be 30 feet tall before your eyes is magic, a window onto another world. That tree guarded the world of The Nutcracker, and in my fifth Christmas season, my parent gave me a passport into this land--a ticket to New York's Metropolitan ballet company production of the classic. For five years I returned, savoring every step of the experience from the glint of the gilded chandeliers to the hush of a carpet against Mary-Janed feet...
...when I turned 12, the magic failed. Peter Tchaikovsky's score failed to captivate--I found musical intoxication impossible without a beat--and sitting in the audience, I felt more like a babysitter than a dance afficianado. Eight years passed since I had last seen the curtain rise on a snowy night in Nuremburg and watched a petticoated-child journey through the land of the Sugar Plum Fairy. And suddenly, this Christmas I found myself listening to Tchaikovsky's tale and thinking of how long it had been since dolls and tutus. I wanted to prove to myself that magic...
...rain was sharp and relentless, and I almost decided not to go. Magic cannot return when your shoes are soaked. I had left the Mary Janes and holiday dress at home, in the photo album. I came in jeans and a casual sweater, but on my ears, I wore pearl earings; some habits are hard to break. I thought it would be different; in fact, I hoped it would be different. The culture of the holiday classic seemed somehow associated with graham crackers, Chutes and Ladders, and the trappings of childhood you don't retain. The little girl...
...room grew larger, and with it the tree and my eyes. The mad doctor returned and covered the nutcracker with his cape. Boom, flash, I jumped inadvertently in my seat, and with the swirl of Drosselmeyer's cape, the nutcracker was real. And so was the magic; it was back. The battle with the mice started: squeak, bang, squeak, bang, and was over, sooner than I had thought. The mouse king writhed in simulated agony, pumped his feet down to the ground, waved at the audience, and the good guys...
...audience becomes Clara and every little boy entertains princely notions. A journey through a winter dream world lies at the heart of every Christmas season--white wonder and warm beyond. The plot was laid and the rest was a travel log, a sight-seeing tour through the land of magic. Adulthood has no place here; common-sense is unnecessary baggage...