It's All In The Dance

I recently picked up an oval shaped distressed looking picture frame in our house to look at the black and white photo inside and I was once again transported in time to an elegant 1950's evening affair. This photo is one that has been since the day I saw it and probably always will be, one of my favorites ever. A distinguished looking, almost white haired gentleman is dancing with a classy brunette with a bright smile, he probably in his 50's and she in her 40's, with a saxaphone player playing on the stage just behind them and an outline of the Eiffel Tower delicately made out of party streamers adorning the back part of the stage wall. They are in the moment and taking in the dance.

This picture, a momentary snapshot of my paternal grandparents dancing at the Elks Lodge in Middletown, OH, is one of my life treasures. I am especially drawn to this photo because I remember the same exact ballroom from my childhood, although at that time it was decorated for Christmas and Santa and his elves had taken over for the saxaphone player, tickling our little toddler minds with thoughts of toys for the holidays. For all I know, the saxaphone player WAS Santa, twenty years later, and his once brown hair had turned white.

I was heartbroken years later when I drove Dave to downtown Middletown to show him the Elks Lodge. It was nowhere to be found. An entire building...gone. I'd grown up going to this club of activity with my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. We never entered through the front door. The alley and the side door were the way to get in. It was like entering a speakeasy during prohibition. The door was metal and you had to have a card to enter. I kept waiting for some little guy in a Keystone Cop hat to stick his head out the top of the door window and ask us for the password. My own little version of entering OZ.

We attended fish frys that could be found by following the fishy, oily smell down the circular metal staircase to the lo-ceiling basement where my grandmother was often standing behind the counter, handing out fish to the loyal Friday night masses (okay, so it was probably only a hundred or so people but that's my memory and I'm sticking to it.)

The walls were covered in old, brothel looking swirly red wallpaper with raised sections of velvet on it and I used to love to run my fingers around the shapes on the walls. It was a big thrill to leave the main room, go through the doors to the front hallway and use the ladies bathroom by ourselves. I still remember it. The room was dimly lit in a pinkish/yellowish light and the mirror was right in front of you when you walked in and the stalls sat to the right. A nice little sitting room first welcomed you into this female sanctuary.

In the front hallway the walls were lined with bronze like plaques with member names that covered the entire space of the wall. It was like looking at the Vietnam Wall. All were honored leaders in this club. My grandpa's friend Sherm used to give us quarters everytime we saw him there and drinking a 'Shirley Temple' was the highlight of the stay. A babysitter of Hayden's recently told me how she loved Shirley Temples. I hadn't heard of that drink in years. Sprite and a splash of Grenadine please!

This past weekend, while visitng New York for a family reunion, I watched Hayden run after his Grandpa on the farm. When he saw Grandma Cathy he'd scream "KIKI WAIT!" and his eyes lit up everytime he got attention from Grandma and GrampaDean especially while riding him around on the John Deere tractor and walking in the yard. He became especially brave with the Belgian horses. Considering that he held onto my legs like glue when we first arrived, he was quite liberal with his petting towards the end as we watched him climb the stall fence to get to the horses on his own. On our way back from NY we stopped in Cincinnati to stay with my family. Hayden would only let Papaw read to him in the morning and Mamaw was the bomb when we stopped by her work to say goodbye. I wonder what his memories of this will be.

I'm struck everyday how important and treasured some of these little, tiny nanoseconds of time are in the entire scheme of life. For me, it's not usually the big, momentus occasions, but rather the small, snapshot moments that occur in the midst of larger activity that end up staying in my memory longterm. The smile in the photo of my grandmother's face when she was dancing with my grandfather in the ballroom, the velvet wallpaper, Sherm's quarters, the alley entry, Shirley Temples, dimly lit ladies rooms....

Each time I pull a memory up from that card file in my brain, I remember that just like my grandparent's photo from yesteryear, it isn't usually the big soiree or the saxaphone player that gets priority in my file. It's the dance. It's all in the dance.