swish
metallic
jungle
crumple
just a pose
Did love begin in that way?
When I was a little kid the whole family, cousins, third
cousins, all the Norwegian side of the clan, would pack into the little town
hall on Main Street, spread corn meal on the tile floor and have a party.
Floyd would be on the accordion, Laverne on the drums, and
Loretta would play the guitar and sing. My favorite was “The Flying Dutchman,”
in which three people would dance together, swinging each other around by
hooked elbows with a swish of skirts
and clomping of patent leather dress shoes. By the end of the night, the place
would be hot and humid as a jungle,
and smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke and hours-old sloppy joe hardening in
a slow cooker left on for way too long.
Grandma loved to dance. She’d be out on the floor swirling
and twirling to the polkas long after I had crumpled down in a corner. We knew the evening was about to end
when Laverne would tap a stick on the edge of
a drum with three sharp metallic
tinks. Then he and Floyd and Loretta would launch into “Let Me Call You
Sweetheart.” Grandma would skip over to Grandpa and ask him to dance, and he’d
shake his head no. But that was just a pose.
They would be out on the dance floor swaying cheek to cheek.
It made me wonder, Did love begin that
way? I never learned the answer. I grew up and
away from those kinds of dances. But Grandma and Grandpa proved that love grew
that way.
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