Story Frame 1: The Night Baryshnikov Opened the Door into Another World

I was born in a rural farming community in New Jersey, an hour by train from New York City where we lived in a very old stone house known as “Round Ends.” According to local lore, it had been built with rounded corners so the devil couldn’t get in. My father loved that and laughed each time he told the story.

Much as my mother also liked the old house, when I was five, she saw an advertisement in the New York Times for what was called a mid-century modern house, one with a glass walls. It called out to her. She ordered the plans and over the following year, “the New House” was built on the other side of the woods on our fifty acres of land.

Modern as it was, we still lived on a dirt road in farm country. My mother taught 3^rd grade at the local school and my father, a vice president for Eastern Airlines, worked in New York City.

Each December, my mother and I would take the train into the city to marvel at the huge department store Christmas-themed window displays, visit my father at his office, watch the skaters at Rockefeller Center, have lunch and then see a matinée performance of The Nutcracker. The Hoffmann fantasy about the little girl who befriends a nutcracker that comes to life on Christmas Eve never failed to thrill me. Tchaikovsky’s score has always been the soundtrack of the Christmas season for me. I cherished these memories.

Once I became a mother myself, I naturally wanted to do the same for my own daughter. By then, however, my world and circumstances had altered dramatically. My husband and I lived in the suburbs of Washington, DC with two small children. Both self-employed, we lived precariously, month to month. We had just lost the house of my dreams, a little mid-century modern glass-walled house in the woods that we’d renovated ourselves, similar to the one I’d lived in as a child but much smaller.

Always short on money, Steve and I took turns avoiding phone calls, dodging bill collectors and threatening notices in the mail, trying to earn more while trying to make the rent each month. Financially, there was no possible way for me to take my daughter to New York City to see The Nutcracker in person as my mother had done for me.

One dark December evening, when Zoë was six years old, I happened to notice our local PBS station was airing Mikhail Baryshnikov’s Nutcracker that night. If I can’t get her to New York City, I thought, we can at least watch it together from our sofa and I can make believe we are there.

What I didn’t realize at first, was that WNVT was showing this performance as part of their on-air pledge drive. And so, I was a bit thrown when it stopped midway and a young woman with long, dark curly hair appeared on the screen to ask for money.

Irritated, my first thought was to ignore it. That was just about the last thing I could afford to do. But then it occurred to me – here I was being offered the opportunity to see The Nutcracker with my daughter, after all. Surely, I could part with a few dollars in appreciation?

Slightly misty with memories and gratitude, I thought about it for a moment. Then I called the station and offered them $20 from our weekly food budget. A few less items from the store, I rationalized, and I would be able to cover it.

A pleasant voice on the other end of the line tried to talk me up to a $30 donation, promising their monthly guide as a part of the deal. I told her quite honestly that I didn’t even have the money I was offering. She took my debit card number, then asked if they could mention my name on the air in appreciation. Wondering why on earth they would bother over such a small amount, I said sure. I hung up and went back to Zoë and The Nutcracker.

The next pledge break came about twenty minutes later. Once again, the young woman’s face appeared on the screen.

“I’d like to thank everyone who’s called in to support the station tonight,” she said, rattling off a handful of names. She ended with, “And thanks to Kristin in Mount Vernon for her generous support!”

Speechless, I stared at the television screen. For most people, $20 was not a generous donation. But it was to me. My thoughts quickly spiraling out of control. Perhaps they’d made a mistake and thought I was donating $200. If so, they would try to charge my card for $200. I didn’t have that kind of money. It would bounce. There would be bank fees to pay. I’d have to spend an entire day, perhaps more, just to untangle this.

On and on they went, these nightmare thoughts. After what felt like hours, Clara’s dream world vanished, and she awakened at the foot of the Christmas tree. Once again, the smiling young woman was back on the screen.

“Thank you all so much for tonight’s pledges!” she said with a big smile. “Thanks to you, we’ve raised $265!”

Two hundred and sixty-five dollars. I stared at the screen in disbelief.

That was all?!

No longer concerned they’d charged the wrong amount to my debit card, I went to bed that night, puzzling over what I considered to be lackluster results.

The following morning, I picked up the phone and called the station.

Kristin Fellows is a published writer, world traveler, and a well-seasoned documentary film consultant. When not writing, Kristin can often be found listening to someone’s story or behind the lens of one of her cameras.

More about Kristin @ kristinfellowswriter.com