An Anne Frank Moment

Tonight the husband and I went on a date. And neither of us broke a bone. It was a great night, made possible by super babysitters Gpatts and her sidekick Leaf. Kram and his wife Ashat sponsored our night at the Texas Roadhouse and then to the Pioneer Theater play, “The Diary of Anne Frank.” The food was ok. The play was amazing. The company was even better. I love Anne Frank. I love hearing her thoughts and listening to her feelings. Watching the dramatic reenactment of their time in hiding was profound. When the play was over it was difficult to applaud, even though the acting was superb. Anne makes me want to be a better person. She reminds me what I love so much about life, and why I enjoy writing about living. Her story also reminds me about all the things in life I don’t understand. That list is tragically long. Number 1229 on my “don’t understand” list is why I did not know who Anne Frank was until I was a senior in High School. Even though my 7th grade History Fair project on World War II won first prize, I had never read nor heard about Anne and her family’s time hiding in the annex. And, the moment that I realized that I was supposed to know all about her was rather humiliating. The husband (aka Wonderboy who stole my heart in high school) played the violin in an orchestra that toured Europe the summer before our senior year—quite sophisticated, I know. I’m still impressed that I convinced him to fall for me, the girl that spent her summers weighing trucks at her father’s feed mill. When he returned from Europe he brought me a ring and many stories. One such story was about visiting an annex in Holland where Anne Frank lived. I tried to pretend that I knew who Miss Frank was because we were with Wonderboy’s family, but inside I was really wondering who this Anne girl was, why he was exploring her attic and whether or not I should be jealous. Wonderboy’s mom read my confused expression and called my bluff, “You don’t know who Anne Frank is, do you?” I tried to mumble through an “I can’t quite remember…tell me who she is again” explanation, but I just looked even more stupid. His sweet mom just laughed, blamed my junior high years in the small town Laman, and shrugged it off as an “Anne Frank” moment. For years I worked hard to recover from that moment, but I’ll never live it down. To this day the phrase, “it was an ‘Anne Frank’ moment,” can still be used to define inexplicable lapses in my knowledge or memory. Heaven knows there are more to come.