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Monday, January 16, 2006

Love of the Dance

Donning cowboy boots, black slim-fit jeans and matching snap-button shirts, my sister and I — awkward 14-year-olds — would often accompany my grandparents to a local dance hall for evenings of two-stepping and line dances. Before our excursions, my grandmother would sprinkle her basement floor with corn starch, pull out her binder full of line dances — each step counted out on bond paper — and turn on the music for us to practice.

More than 10 years later and a timezone away, my grandmother never fails to ask when I’m going dancing with her. As her mind unravels and becomes confused, her love of dancing remains. I have to think that, if I were in the same situation, it would be one of the last things to go for me, as well. Besides our insatiable love for all foods fattening and sweet, my grandmother and I also share an insatiable love for dancing.

Now I’m a 12-hour drive away from her house, making it impossible to step out for a night at the Moose Lodge in Harrison, Michigan. However, last night I pulled on the boots, buttoned up the retro-print shirt and went out for an evening of two-stepping at Lee’s Liquor Lounge in Minneapolis. The wood-paneled walls, the tiled floor, the amateur deejay, the sappy country songs… all of this could have been directly transported from the bars of my youth. Rather than leading my sister around the floor, though, last night I led a beautiful man, his right hand in my left and — as the night went on — his body close to mine. Sometimes, he led me, a role reversal which felt at first awkward — right foot first, not left — and then more and more natural. It’s a feeling of letting go, of relaxing and following wherever his hands subtly guide.

As we danced around the small floor, sometimes stepping on each other’s boots, sometimes accepting offers to dance from other people, I felt like my grandmother was there watching with a smile. I wanted her to be there. It was a reminder to me that, even when distance and years and failing minds and bodies separate us, the things we loved and shared are still loved and shared and carried on. By continuing to dance, I can pay homage to a grandmother who taught me to relish the sweet things in life, to turn up the music, slick up the floor and simply dance.

Posted by Aaron on January 16, 2006 3:36 PM