The Dance of Youth

As a boy, almost a teen, growing up in my small town of West Bridgewater, Massachusetts; the late fifties into the sixties provided an atmosphere for the leap to becoming a bona fide grown-up individual. The next step to the ramp that allowed us to jump toward adulthood, came in a unique form, a tried-and-true method called “Ballroom Dancing”. On a Friday night, for a mere fifty cents, one could have their parents drop them off on School Street in Brockton, Massachusetts. As many before us had done, learning to dance at The Nancy Bradford School of Dancing, was tradition. For me and my brother, Chris, it was a chance to spend time with our friends, and to begin to get a feel for our first actual contact with, dare I say, GIRLS. Other than chasing them and stealing their hats, hanging with girls just wasn’t done, we boys were obviously way beyond that. At 76, I have come to know, it was definitely the fear of the unknown.

Those ahead of us, in school, had overcome this fear and many seemed to be quite happy to be seen with a girl, even sharing their class rings as a sign for others to claim an Everly Brothers refrain “Hey, bird dog, get away from my chick, hey, bird dog you’re on the wrong trail.”

At these classes a sports coat and tie for the boys and dresses for the girls were mandatory. To learn to dance was to make contact with a new girl each week. At class, with our instructor, Nancy Bradford, molded us into perfect little ladies and gentlemen, holding a soft hand and placing the other hand on her waist, we did 1–2–3, 1–2–3 and toe heal toe heal, and learned to Cha-Cha-Cha even off to the side occasionally. I gained some insight to a new kind of teamwork. Also, it was cool to know how to Waltz and Foxtrot. Mama and Papa taught us to be respectful to women, but Nancy Bradford taught both boys and girls how to get along as people not combatants, be confident, respect each other, have fun and more than anything else “NO PUMPING.” My right arm always ended up getting pulled down, as it tried to keep time with the music, but Thank God Nancy broke me of the habit. In the years since, on as many occasions I have had to dance, no one has ever accused me of “PUMPING” again.

A giant steppingstone for sure, as we grew just a bit older and holding her hand turned to arms around her entirely, hers around your neck. There would be no combat this evening, pumping, I guess, was optional. Hey, we had come this far, it would be another few years before we/I acquired the knowledge to kiss and hold and to be kissed and be held, for me, I was out of high school before all the puzzle pieces would come together.

At the end of each Dancing School year, all of Nancy Bradford’s assorted dance classes congregated into a finale called a recital. It was a big deal, and gave one the opportunity to see others who obviously worked harder than we Waltz wizards did, do their best. It really was a big deal, and each boy had to ask a girl to the recital and buy her a corsage. With shivering bravery, I asked Marcia who lived several houses down from me and my 361 Spring Street address, and my folks bought me a nice new woolen sportscoat sort of an understated dark tweed-ish plaid-ish (is there such a thing?), which was a great catch, since the recital was in July in near 100-degree weather.

None-the-less, I bathed and shaved my heavy beard (four or five very light whiskers), donned a new, loose in the neck white shirt, pulled up a pair of Cub Scout Banquet blue color pants and a Papa prepared tie. Last, I put on the sports coat and off I went in the back seat of our 1953 green Oldsmobile 88, with Mama and Papa as coachmen. In 10-seconds we arrived at Marcia’s house and out I got, leaving the back door open for my first date, I walked down her driveway and stepped up to the screen door on the top step, knocked and waited for Miss Marcia to make her appearance. I had walked to the top step and really should have been down a step, but as Marcia began to step outside, I moved way to the left (a good move if we were dancing), but we weren’t dancing and I fell backwards right on my behind, deep into her mom’s flowers. I could hear Iris and other plants snap and crack and bend and break “oh the humanity”. Trying to get up, was awkward, plus, Marcia and her parents were there. Finally getting to my feet I apologized to Marcia’s mom and with my dates arm on mine, we made the long walk to my waiting coach, and we trundled to the recital and then home again, this time I stood at the bottom of her steps and like a gentleman said I had a great night, turned and got back in the car, where the coachmen, who had been holding back their laughter all night long, blanketed me with their take on my trip to the garden. Where others would have been humiliated, I learned that overcoming adversity makes one stronger. I also learned to never wear a woolen sports coat in summer in July in New England when it’s 100-degrees.

I often think of the little vignettes in my life that happen so quickly, they almost seem unworthy to remember, but as I near middle age, they have become the gorilla glue making life most worthy and complete and I thank God for every moment.