Are you like me and get excited every September, looking forward to the new school year, even though it may have been years since you’ve last seen the inside of a classroom? There’s just something about the days getting shorter, the nights getting crisper, and the bulbous yellow buses lumbering down the early morning dew-covered streets that makes my heart race with anticipation. Do you feel the same way?
And hopefully, you’ve been anticipating receiving this latest newsletter from me. LOL! This month, I have a few people to thank. Then, I will mention a few upcoming gigs you can attend. I’ll let you know how you may contact me for editorial or book coaching services—fiction or non-fiction. And finally, I’ll share the beginning of a short story I wrote, called “Flash Mob Ballet,” about an old lady dancer—like me!
SO YOU WANT TO WRITE A MEMOIR?
URI’s Osher Lifelong Learning Institute
Tuesday, August 13, 2024
I had a blast teaching another session of my memoir class for URI’s OLLI Program. Thank you to everyone who turned out and enjoyed the chocolate chip cookies. The class was filled to capacity and the participants asked fantastic questions—including, “When are you teaching another OLLI class?” Please stay tuned to future newsletters for additional information…
ARIA Picnic for Members and Family
Yawgoo Bakes and Barbeques
Slocum, RI
Sunday, August 18
Thanks to all of the writers who are members of the Association of Rhode Island Authors (ARIA) and attended the annual picnic held on Sunday, August 18, at Yawgoo Bakes in Slocum, RI. Yes, it rained but we still enjoyed good food, good fun, and good company with dozens of other authors and their families.
To find out more about ARIA, visit their website by clicking HERE.
LARCHMONT REMEMBERED
Westerly Library Library
Thursday, August 20, 2024
Once again, I had a wonderful time joining former Providence Journal columnist, Daniel Harrington for his presentation about the February 1907 Larchmont Disaster, when the ship collided with the schooner Knowlton in the frigid waters off the coast of Block Island. After Dan’s spellbinding presentation, I spoke briefly about one of the survivors, Sadie Golub, and how I used her as a character in my novel Frozen Voices.
To all the folks at the Westerly Library—staff and patrons alike: Thank you for spending your evening with Dan and me!
EXETER FALL FESTIVAL
Yawgoo Valley Ski Resort
Friday, September 21, 2024
10 AM to 3 PM
Please visit this year’s Exeter Fall Festival sponsored by the Friends of the Exeter Public Library and held at the Yawgoo Valley Sik Area on Saturday, September 21, from 10 AM to 3 PM. Outdoors, you will find dozens of tents of local businesses and artisans—including me. Indoors, Yawgoo Valley will be holding its annual used ski and snowboard sale. Join us for pumpkin painting, face painting, games, food trucks, vendors, entertainment, a K-9 demonstration, some raffles, music, and more! Proceeds benefit the library, and the event is held rain or shine.
THE BIG E
Eastern States Exposition
1305 Memorial Ave. West Springfield, MA 01089
September 13 to 29, 2024
I will be there on Thursday, September 26, 2024
10 AM to 9 PM
I am super-excited to be part of the Big E, the largest fair on the East Coast and the 7th largest in North America! If you come, you can enjoy hours of entertainment and attractions, terrific food, plus the best that New England—and beyond—has to offer. On Thursday, September 26, I will be in the Rhode Island State Pavilion selling my books and stained glass ornaments from 10 AM to 9 PM, so please stop by!
I currently have room in my schedule to take on one additional client/project. If you are in need of a book coach to help you write a book or an editor to help you prepare a book for publication, please visit my website by clicking HERE, and complete a Client Intake Form found on the SERVICES page. I will contact you promptly to discuss your project. I work with authors of both fiction and non-fiction and on projects at various stages of completeness, from concept to querying agents.
That’s all the news for this month. And now, here’s the beginning of “Flash Mob Ballet,” a short story I wrote about an older woman who still loves to dance—like me! I hope you enjoy it.
Thanks for reading!
Lynne
FLASH MOB BALLET
by Lynne Heinzmann
It had been over a year since I’d last danced. I’d had foot surgery the previous March. “Six-week recovery,” the surgeon had said. But then the stress of using crutches caused three discs in my spine to rupture, which led to back surgery in July. When I finally was up on my feet again in September, a bone in my foot cracked—stress fracture—leading to six more weeks in an orthopedic boot that caused further back injury. 2019 became the year that disappeared behind a calendar full of doctor’s appointments and physical therapy sessions.
Which was why the Facebook flash mob notice caught my eye. I had just told both my doctors that I was not willing to have any more surgery at this time, despite persistent pain in both my foot and my back. I didn’t want 2020 to disappear, too. Heck, I was only 55 years old. I wanted to skip and bend and stretch and move again. In short, I wanted to dance.
February 1st had been designated as National Ballet Teachers’ Day—Who comes up with these designations, anyway?—so my friend, Theresa, a fellow ballet teacher, had choreographed a simple jazzy ballet number to “Hot Lunch,” the song from the movie Fame. Her flash mob plan was to have all the ballet teachers from the area meet at the Providence Place Mall Food Court at noon on Saturday, February 1st. “Let’s show them all what a bunch of old ladies can do!” Theresa wrote in her mid-January post.
The next morning, I waited until after my husband left for work before I downloaded the video of Theresa’s “Hot Lunch” choreography onto my phone. Chris loved me and tried his best to protect me from further injury. “I’ll go grocery shopping. You just put your feet up.” “Do you really think you could manage a hike in the woods? Let’s wait until you heal some more.” “Don’t worry. I’ll take the dog for a walk.” I knew Chris would not approve of my flash mob plans.
I had two weeks to progress from invalid to dancer and had no idea if I was up to the physical challenge. That first day, it took me ten minutes alone to find my ballet shoes, which were zippered inside my dance bag and tucked into the back of my closet. Chris had probably hidden them there in case I wasn’t able to return to dance again, so I wouldn’t be reminded of losing that joyful part of my life.
I pulled on my ballet slippers over socks while wearing my usual daily outfit of yoga pants and a sweatshirt. No need to put on the full leotard-and-tights ballet getup until I knew if I’d be able to dance at all. My only nod to flash mob practice was that I’d donned a sports bra instead of my usual padded underwire one, figuring I might as well be comfortable.
I stepped into the dance studio that was attached to my living room and let the French doors swing wide open, stirring the accumulated dust into little eddies swirling across the floor. The room felt damp and chilly and smelled faintly of baby powder and old sweat. I hadn’t taught a ballet class in that room for years—opting to teach at the local Y instead—and hadn’t worked out in there since the day before my foot surgery last spring. The room had sat empty for nearly a year, as a silent, closed-door reminder of what I couldn’t do.
The early morning sunlight slanted through the row of tall windows that lined the south wall of the studio. In its golden glow, the twirling dust sparkled like fairies, inviting me to dance with them. I dropped my phone into the cradle and powered up my speaker system. “Let’s get started,” I said to no one.
I cued up some basic ballet warm-up music but then hesitated, my left hand resting lightly on the wooden barre secured to the wall, my feet ballet’s first position. As long as I didn’t try to dance, returning to it was still a possibility. But if I tried, and found out my body was no longer capable of doing it, I’d have to make peace with the fact that ballet would no longer be part of my life. I’d been dancing since the age of three, so its loss would leave a huge, painful hole.
I smiled wryly. “I could always take up knitting,” I said, repeating the advice once offered by a ballet company director—obviously not a fan of my technique.
Punching a button on my phone, I restarted the warm-up music and a slow piano tune filled the room. “Here goes nothing.” My stomach felt queasy and my hands were cold.
The first exercise on the playlist was pliés, one of the most basic steps of ballet. I began with my heels together, toes turned out, and body pulled erect. Using my thigh muscles, I bent my knees and pressed them outward, over my toes. Out and in, out and in, several times; first in small bends with my heels on the floor, then in deeper bends, lowering my derriere to ankle level before returning to an upright position. Once I’d done the pliés in first position, I moved on to second, then fourth, then fifth, and then turned and repeated the exercise with my right hand on the barre.
After pliés, I paused the music to take stock of my body. My foot was a little sore and my back ached a bit, but not much more than was usual these days. “I might as well keep going,” I decided aloud.
But during the next exercise, tendus, my bad foot was too stiff to point correctly, and when I tried to relévé—rise onto the balls of my feet—a sharp pain shot all the way from my toes to my knee. I flunked down on the hardwood floor, tears of frustration and disappointment immediately filling my eyes.
As the tendu music played on, Fred, our beagle puppy, trotted into the studio and snuggled himself into my lap. Somehow, he seemed to know when I most needed his company and sympathy.
Stroking his velvet ears, I said, “I danced for fifty-two years. That’s a good long run, right?”
Fred licked my face and wagged his tail. When I didn’t respond, he ran out of the room and returned, carrying a rubber ball.
I wiped my cheeks with my fingers. “I’m not really in the mood to play right now, buddy.”
He dropped the blue ball into my lap and wagged his brown and white tail, prancing back and forth in front of me.
“Oh, whatever.” I picked up the toy and tossed it across the room, accidentally hitting a framed photograph that hung on the wall between two windows. A few years ago, Chris had surprised me by having a dozen photos of me dancing through the years enlarged, framed, and displayed throughout the studio and now I’d hit one of the photos with the ball. I watched in dismay as it slow-motion tumbled to the floor, the glass splintering into dangerous shards and scattering across the room.
(To be continued next month)