February 2011 Newsletter

 

 

 

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Front Porch Monthly A Front Porch Republic Newsletter

A Winter Memory

There are things we remember because they are significant, and things that become significant because we remember.

It was the sort of grey, cloudy day that passes for winter in Southern California.  I was seven years old, out for a rare day alone with a busy grandmother, full of the self-importance of a child who feels grown-up.

Grandma gave our tickets to a man in a black suit. He handed back the stubs and another man with a little flashlight showed us to our seats.  Grandma took the inside seat so that if a tall person sat in front of us, I could lean into the aisle and see the stage.

The theatre was dark, but not so very much darker than the cloudy afternoon outside and it only took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the gentle dimness.  Eyes wide, I drank in every detail.  Knowing what I know now about the ugliness of Los Angeles area auditoriums, I realize my memory is too kind, but I’d never been in a place like this, and was young enough to be thoroughly impressed with red plush chairs and gilded footlights.

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