In my family, March means one thing and one thing only: Little Rock Marathon. I wanted to regale you with one of my race day tales, but let’s face it, I’m a mid-pack runner with one or two funny stories about port-a-potties whose lessons can be summed up thus: 1) always lock the door and 2) that bucket mounted on the wall is not there to hold your water belt. After that, there really isn’t much left—so I decided to tell you about a day I spent with marathon training celebrity Hobbit Singleton.
Way before she was everyone’s Mama Hobbit she was my mom. We lived in Benton. In 1983, just going to the County Line for beer was a chore. Driving all the way to Little Rock was for special, birthday-bash type occasions that I can count on one hand: The Zoo, The Rep, Pinky Punky (Ok, so on that last one the intended main event was a movie at Breckenridge, but I was an 8-year-old who thought P.P. was a store for women who needed something to wear to the Oscars.).
That spring I was awarded a spot on the B-Team of Debbie’s Dancers and Gymnastics. The fact that this promotion was based on attendance rather than actual skill didn’t bother me in the least. The most important thing was that I was finally going to have a leotard with matching bloomers. Unfortunately, I was also going to have to compete.
Two high-school-aged sisters agreed to help me with a routine, which is how we came to be headed to Little Rock this particular Saturday. I was ecstatic—until we arrived and I realized that the whole visit was going to consist of watching one sister pretend to be me while the other transcribed the moves of the first onto a legal pad. Ten minutes later the scribe handed me a wad of yellow pages and said, “Memorize this.” Then she took me by the hand and ushered me back to the car.
As we buckled our seat belts my mom said, “Do you mind one more errand? I just need to pick up my tapes at the dance studio.””
I groaned. My mom taught aerobics part-time, and every few months they got new routines, i.e. tape recordings of the latest top-40 songs, like “Maneater” or “Puttin’ on the Ritz” with a woman calling instructions over the lyrics.
Now, a dance studio errand had potential. I imagined a place all marbled and mirrored, with ballerinas lining the walls—like the Conservatory in “Flashdance.” I begged not to be left in the car. While my mom chatted with the receptionist, I peeked inside the classroom. It was disappointing —not much different than the one I went to, except with bigger mirrors. Worst of all, there wasn’t a dancer in sight. From the doorway, I could see the room was filled with people lying on tall tables. There was a skeleton hanging in the front of the room. Posters with pictures of bones and muscles hung on the wall. I thought I noticed something else, too, but we left before I could be sure.
Outside, I shouted, “Were those people NAKED?”
My mom started to giggle. Then, suddenly completely straight-faced she said, “Yes, I think they were. How would you like to get some ice cream?”
I couldn’t recall anything else. Was that really how it had ended, or had my 8-year-old brain twisted the narrative?
I call my mother. She doesn’t remember any of it. When I get to the part about the naked people, she interrupts—“Did I suggest ice cream? If I know me, that’s exactly what I said. Ice cream was always my go-to for uncomfortable situations.”
She sounds defeated, as if the only stories we carry from childhood are the ones that illustrate how our parents have scarred us for life. I think, though, that my brain has held tight to this memory for an entirely different reason. That afternoon is the first time I remember noticing how beautiful my mother is when she laughs.
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Jennifer Singleton Miller is the daughter of Little Rock Marathon Training Coaches Tom and Hobbit Singleton. Bookworm (and scaredy-cat) that she was, she never got any better at gymnastics; however, she still maintains an undying, almost fanatical love for matching undergarments. She and her husband Darren have a 6-year-old daughter with whom they practice “distraction by ice cream” whenever possible.