Let's Dance

Dancing served many purposes in my life. There. I said it in past tense and I'm still breathing. It was great exercise, a stress reliever, an expression of emotions and music, always fun, and sensual at times. I danced anywhere, with anyone – even waltzed down the fruit aisle in the grocery store once with an old friend.

I had planned to write about judicial elections today, but dancing got in the way. I think I'll put off the judges another day and dance tonight.

Pictures remember me dancing earlier than I actually recall doing so. In one, I don't have hair yet and I'm on my tiptoes, wearing chunky wooden beads around my neck. The grin on my face tells me I enjoyed dancing from the start.

I learned to dance on Daddy's feet, in the living room, to live music played by friends. Although fun, I secretly wished for a life-sized, dancing rag doll like the one my friend Sherry had. She attached her dancing doll to her hands and feet with elastic loops, and danced where she wanted, without following music or anyone's feet.

Mindful of my father's feelings, I kept that wish to myself. If I hadn't, together my parents would have designed and created the greatest rag doll ever for me, and I might not have realized until much later that my doll couldn't teach me rhythm or style, or how to follow my partner. I might still be dancing in circles like Sherry.

My first dances outside the house, with my feet on the floor, were at the VFW, the Democratic Club, weddings, church picnics, and my uncle's bar. I learned turns and dips, and to think I was pretty cute. Later, I went to teen club every week, line-danced with the girls and slow danced with the boys, and had my girlfriends over to practice during the week. Dancing remained a huge part of my life, through the first husband whose friends had dance parties every weekend, and the second husband who was a professional musician.

I danced most every day, five and six hours at a time some weekend nights. I never imagined there would be a family gathering without dancing, an important event in my life without dancing, or a day in my life when I wouldn't feel like dancing.

My grandmother asked one favor of me in my life. As the rest of us left to go out one night, she called me back to the bed she had been stuck in for eight years. "Dance one for me," she requested.

I did. I danced my heart out that night. I requested "Your Cheatin' Heart", one of her favorite songs. I danced it with my father, truly dancing it for his mother, whose legs and hips didn't work any more.

A few years later, exhausted and emaciated from disease and chemotherapy, my father lay stuck in a different bed. For a change, he had chosen delirium over pain and didn't recognize any of us. Wild-eyed and frightened, he picked at the sheets and broke our hearts. Finally, I sent my brother for a guitar, hoping music would soothe our father.

He played and we sang, "Your Cheatin' Heart". Daddy was too weak to sing, but he found a smile. When I asked if he wanted to dance, he raised an arm. I leaned across the bed and slid under.

The movement was so slight I'm not sure anyone across the room would have seen it. But I felt the warmth of his hand around mine, and the tiniest squeeze as he swayed our hands to the music. Mom cut in and my brother started the song over. By the time it ended, Daddy was sleeping with her in his arms.

That was my last dance with Daddy, but not my last special dance.

Thanks to Grandma's genes, my legs and hips don't work any more. For a while, I was still able, just knew I'd pay a price; a few hours of dancing cost an equal number of days in bed. I couldn't afford it often, but still enjoyed it when I could.

When my hips started dislocating, and the immune system shut down, I limited my dancing to a few minutes at a time, and only at home. Besides taking all my energy to dress and get somewhere, the worry of being in close contact with strangers and germs, or of falling in public dampened the fun. That's where the last special dance came in.

One friend saw through my smiles. Without involving others, I consciously, whole-heartedly, mourned the loss of each piece of my independence and old life - probably dancing more than any other activity. He bought a collection of dance music, picked me up one evening, and took me to his house to dance. I didn't have to dress, worry about falling or wearing out, or think about germs or consequences. He danced when I felt like dancing, rested with me when I tired, drove me home when I was ready, and brought dinner the next night.

I think his knowing what I needed meant as much as the dancing.

I went out this weekend and listened to my daughter sing. In my heart, I danced to her music, on my dad's feet, for Grandma, at Geoff's house. And I didn't fall down.

Now, back to the judicial race . . . and maybe I'll dance again tomorrow.