OCR Text |
Show We only thought we could dance grassroots Copyright 1985 Becky Grass Johnson By BECKI GRASS JOHNSON They say that love is blind. It's true too, except that in my case, it was also deaf, dumb and uncoordinated. un-coordinated. I met Hubby at a college dance in June of '74. It was a typical campus dance with some crepe paper here and there, a few balloons, punch and cookies. I was actually a little bored and was heading for the refreshment table a third time when I spied Hubby from the corner of my eye. As he made his way across the dance floor, he gave me that John Travolta look. Somehow, I knew that my life was never going to be the same. In those days, kids didn't really dance. We just thought we did. (From what I've watched on American Bandstand lately, things haven't changed all that much.) The louder the music, the better. It didn't matter if we could understand un-derstand the words or if the tune was catchy, all we needed was a good beat and an electric guitar. As far as dancing was concerned, it really wasn't necessary to have a dance partner at all. Everyone was so busy shaking and bopping around the floor that half the time you couldn't tell who was dancing with whom. It made for a deafening good time. "Hi!" Hubby yelled. "What?" I shouted. "Want to dance?" he yelled again. I thought he said something about punch and I pointed to the refreshments in the corner. Hubby thought I was being coy, so he took my hand and led me to the dance floor. Everyone around us was rocking out to the Doobie Brothers. The walls vibrated, speakers jumped and the floor hnnk It was ereat. burg, not Pittsburgh. Then at the close of summer came the acid test to our relationship. It was time to grow up. It was a chance to evaluate our commitment to each other. We decided we would attend a real dance. By a "real dance" I mean the kind where you wear formal attire, pin flowers on each other and eat at a place fancier than Bud's Burgers.: Once you get to the dance you have ' to act like you're together the whole evening and dancing becomes a contact sport. We headed for the dance floor as the band began playing a beautiful waltz. We were perfectly poised. As I gracefully placed my hand on his shoulder and he slipped his arm about my waist, our first real dance began. I stepped on his toes and he ran my nylons. He claimed I was leading. I insisted that somebody had to. He zigged when I zagged and vice versa. We weren't much better on the foxtrot. I trotted more like a horse than a fox, and it bugged me to hear hubby trying to coach me by whispering, "slow, slow, quick-quick" quick-quick" in my ear. The swing was an improvement and we were just starting to have fun until we tried to get fancy. Hubby spun me around, swung me under his arm and I whirled into a stack of folding chairs against the wall. We sat the next few dances out. We nibbled cookies, spilled punch on each other and secretly wished someone would put on a good Three Dog Night record. Then the band suddenly started playing the Beer Barrel Polka. We watched as everyone abandoned the refreshment refresh-ment table to get in on the dance. Couples began whirling clockwise around the floor, laughing as they went. ' 'How hard can this be? ' ' we asked ourselves. After all, the polka is only a skippety-skip kind of dance step. It was too much to resist. We began whirling to the music. Things were looking up. Both of us were actually moving to the same beat. Hubby was leading. The music gradually grew faster and faster. Our confidence swelled and along with everyone else, we too, danced faster and faster. It was about our fourth time around the floor when I had a blow-out on one of my shoes, and we skippety-skipped past the band, through a group of innocent bystanders and down a flight of stairs. It was memorable. Hubby limped only slightly as he carried me to the car. It was the most romantic night I had ever known. As he wrapped both my ankles with elastic bandages before taking me home, I knew that our love for one another was also bound. Okay, so our dancing hasn't changed much over the years. We're not exactly Fred and Ginger on the dance floor. I accuse Hubby of wearing shoes with intent to kill Hubby insists I'm dancing to a radio station I've picked up over the fillings in my teeth. When we get home we count blisters and compare swollen toes. We know we can't dance, but we've never let that stop us. F Occasionally I find myse,f daydreaming of a warm summer night and a handsome young man with a John Travolta look on his face. Kiss sanity good-bye ! Slick back your hair and grab your steel-toed shoes. We're goin' dancing dan-cing tonight! by BECKI GRASS JOHNSON "What's your name?" Hubby screamed. "No, I'm still a Freshman," I yelled back. "How about you?" "My name is Craig." "Greg?" I shouted. "Yeah, the decorations are great." "Where you from?" "Computer Science major. What's yours?" "No, but I have an aunt who lives there." We spent the entire dance chatting back and forth as we got to know each other. But all too soon the' music ended, and with my ears stiHn ringing, he escorted me back to my chair. From across the room, his friend motioned that it was time to leave and like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, it had ended all too soon. "Thanks for the dance, Greg," I sighed. He left with my phone number pencilled onto a napkin. It was wonderful! That summer we went to all the local dances. I eventually found out that his name was really Craig and he found out that I was from Rex- |