Dance Class

Moms and dads have ways, unintentional though they might be, of torturing their children. Most of those acts involve activities that parents are sure will benefit their little ones in later life. Most often the activities are ones that the adults missed out on when they were youngsters. My mother decided that her sons would be able participate in social events when they became young men, and as a result, my brothers Dal and Jim and I were forced to take dancing lessons as boys.

A woman in the community held a dance class for younger children in the community center on Wednesday nights. The first night that Jim and I attended, we wore our school clothes, jeans and shirts. The instructor met us at the door and informed us that our dress was inappropriate for the occasion. That didn’t bode well for Ball Camp boys wore dress clothes for church and funerals. We were a bit relieved to see at least a couple of friends already seated in the center. Evidently, our mothers had been talking and decided that their young men needed to be more refined; they wanted us to be proficient in at least one activity that didn’t require a ball. Our buddies had received the memo about proper attire, and they ragged us for a while.

The lessons began, and I was sure I’d fall on my face. Taking the right step at the right time was hard enough; doing so while facing a partner was darn near impossible. Girls always pick up dance steps quicker than boys, so they snickered at us boys in our awkwardness.

Boys sent on one side of the room; the girls were on the other side. On cue, males were to cross the room and ask girls to dance. A couple of the girls were favorites, and every one of us went for them. In fact, we left our chairs in a dead run, a sin to the instructor. More than once, I was sent back to my chair to wait until the rest of the boys chose a partner. Then I could take the one little girl who was chosen last. She was worse at dancing than any boy, and she lacked social skills. A three minute dance with her lasted an eternity.

During that dance class, we learned all the great dances: the waltz, fox trot, cha-cha, and bob. Over and over again, we practiced. None of us dared look into the girls’ eyes for fear that we’d stomp their toes. Girls’ hands were covered in sweat as boys held them during the dances. Our arms were around their waists, but we never got too close. If all of us worked hard and performed especially well, our instructor allowed us one song to which we could twist, the craze of that time period.

Maybe the worst part of dance class was the timing. Wednesday evenings were destroyed by these lessons. We had to come home from school and complete any homework for the next day. That meant no time for football or basketball games with the neighborhood guys. Those friends made sure to give us plenty of grief about the evening’s events. Supper was early, and then we had to dress properly; in other words, we would spend three hours completely uncomfortable.

The biggest sacrifice that we made concerned television programming. That year “The Beverly Hillbillies” first aired. The show was entertaining, and the biggest draw was Ellie Mae. During those weeks of dance lessons, we missed her beside the “cement pond” or in her cut-off denim shorts. In those days, VCR’s and DVD’s weren’t available to copy shows for later viewing. It was almost criminal to us kids.

Obviously, we survived the dance lessons. They actually came in handy later in life. I felt comfortable slowing dancing with girls at sock hops. In college, I managed to survive with ease a ball room dancing course. I wasn’t great, but I got an “A” out of the class. I’ve never been too afraid to hit the dance floor with my wife at parties. Still, I’m glad there wasn’t an advanced class offered. I learned enough to get along and not enough to make me want to compete on “Dancing with the Stars.” I also managed to eventually see Ellie Mae on plenty of episodes.