Dancing With Daddy

Tonight is a special night. We’ve packed up the station wagon and are going to Manastash for the last gavel of the winter. Mom and dad are all gussied up in their best clothes. Us kids can wear whatever we want. I opted to dress up tonight. And I thought maybe I’d be brave enough to dance in front of all those people tonight.

During the winter months farmer’s have a break from working their land, so what do they do with their time? They get together and talk about better ways to work their land. After a business meeting that takes longer than I think it should, we watch a variety show the host grange puts on. That usually consists of a few people who will play and sing some of their favorite songs, a skit or two, and some jokes. Then the whole lot of us head downstairs to eat the vast amounts of delicious food everyone has brought. I am sure this is where the term potluck came into being.

Once the guys finish eating dessert, they head upstairs and move all the chairs to the outer walls to make a huge dance floor. The band has arrived and is setting up on the stage. This band consists of the same four folks that come to every gavel. They have a guitar, banjo, accordion, and percussion. The percussion is a bunch of different household things. A washboard one song and spoons on the next. He has quite a few different “instruments” he plays throughout the night.

Once the music starts it is not long before all the adults are twirling around the dance floor. I love to watch each couple who all put their own twist on the basic two-step. I can’t understand how they all know what to do. It’s not like the dances at Cle Elum Roslyn High School where we try to look cool doing whatever dance our bodies can come up with. Dancing at the gavels is two people connected with their bodies synchronized by the music playing. It’s glorious.

My dad is a dancing fool. He can dance to anything. That wasn't always the case though. I read an old letter from Grandma when dad went to Korea to fight in the war. She wrote to him every day, sometimes twice, and he saved every letter. The letter from January, 1955 read, “I never hear ‘Home Sweet Home’ without thinking of you. Guess cause ever since I beat you into stumbling around the dance floor at 15, I’ve danced that one with you.” I asked Grandma about it one

day and she said he wasn't allowed to get his driver’s license until he learned to dance. He fought her tooth and nail. But when Grandma made up her mind, there’s nothing for it. Once he got started dancing though, he was hooked.

I come out of my daydreaming when I see dad’s hand in front of me which is the universal sign for “let’s dance.” Oh my gosh, this is it. I’m gonna make a fool of myself. But, I take his hand and he helps me up. “Dad, I don’t know what to do?” “All you gotta do is follow my lead honey,” dad explains. I look at his feet to see which direction they are gonna go. “Andee, look at me. When I push back on your hand, you step backwards. When I pull it towards me we go forwards. Does that make sense?” “Yes,” I eke out completely unsure of what he just said. Thank goodness it was a slow song. I stumbled a lot but dad kept encouraging me as we began to fall into step with each other.

I did pretty good until we came to a turn. Dad picks me up and whips me around, lifting me off my feet. I look at him so startled. He grins and gives a little chuckle. We get back in step and I am really starting to understand how to dance when the music ends. No problem because this band plays every song twice. We start back up again and I have the hang of it. So what does dad do but throw an extra move in there. I step on his feet, he giggles, and we go back to the basic steps he just taught me. By the time the song ends, the second time around, I am on cloud nine. Everyone claps for the band, which is traditional and polite. As we walk back to the chairs, hand in hand, I tell him, “That was a ton of fun dad.” “Don’t I know it,” dad says sweeping mom back into his arms and onto the dance floor.