The breeze wafts through the open window, brushing across her cheek with a cool kiss before drifting out the open door, ever out of reach. With a slight sigh, she turns to face the room, thankful for that brief moment of relief from the warmth of a small room filled with a crush of dancers, whirling to and fro as the caller crows out commands over the sound of the soaring fiddle. "Swing your partner! Dosey-do!" he might cry, and by some spell of understanding, the squares of four couples are quick to obey, keeping time with the music or rushing to correct their mistakes. Holding out her left hand, the young woman swings round with her corner-partner before returning to her main partner for a promenade. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and she looks forward to a cool drink of water after this energetic exercise. Glancing at her partner, she wonders for a moment what his name is and where he's from, but quickly dismisses the thought. It doesn't matter who these people are; all that matters is the dance, becoming a team with a group of strangers to create intricate patterns and spins and laughter. Oh, they are not all strange - there is her friend waiting by the wall, holding her niece up to "dance" on her lap as they watch the swirling room. There is the band, mostly familiar faces, looking rather bored as they repeat the same stanza over and over for the dancers to keep time to. Their fingers will be sore, she thinks, after picking away at the guitar, banjo, violin, and upright bass all evening. More friends dance in a second square, an unknown elderly couple makes a vivacious effort to keep up, some young girls struggle to separate right from left, and the young men look about nervously from beneath their eyebrows. One or two of the shy girls loiter in the doorway, a look of longing and stubborn acceptance mingling in their eyes as they watch the merriment. A set of parents rush to keep track of their young children, keeping them out from under the high-stepping boots. A group of new-comers laughs uproariously at their failing attempts to follow directions, slowly catching on to the square dance terms. The breeze flutters through again, this time rustling her skirt as she whirls around, holding hands in the great circle. Suddenly the small circle joins with the others, becoming one long line of people led by the caller, weaving into a swirl that crowds to the center then loops out again, a maze of people sashaying and laughing and pulling to keep up, until the caller jumps in to lead them out, unraveling the maze as all raise their hands with a shout. The fiddler locks eyes with the guitarist, giving a slight nod before ending the song with a flourish. There is applause, a mad rush for the water coolers, some chatter and introductions. The young woman smilingly observes the scene for a moment before stepping outside, seeking that teasing breath of air.
Such was the scene I enjoyed last evening, attending a "barn dance", with a live band, a caller to instruct the dances, and an old-fashioned school house with a long room perfect for dancing in. It was lively, rural, and a wonderful opportunity for people-watching, even while kicking up my heels and dancing!
"I'm beginning to learn that it is the sweet, simple things in life which are the real ones after all." ~Laura Ingalls Wilder
