Twas the few days before Christmas.....

There are so many things this time of year that draw our attention away from what is truly important.  Yes, we may watch It's a Wonderful Life and think how true it is that George Bailey really didn't get the point about how important he was to everyone around him.  It took an angel-in-training named Clarence to make him see the big picture.  I have been part of several holiday gatherings this year.  Lots of food.  Lots of talk.  Lots of laughing.  But sometimes I sense a certain frantic energy that claims our minds and leads us to think that if we don't have thus and so, the 25th of December will not be all it is expected to be.  And I am overcome with the desire just to get away to a quiet place, somewhere where my mind can finally unravel and be at peace.  After all, isn't that what we have come to love about this time of year?   Family, feasting, singing, candlelight, quiet snowfall, and a starry night when the angels brought the good news to the shepherds?   This Christmas Eve, which is soon approaching, as I light my very own candle in the hushed darkness of my church, I know that finally that Peace that I am looking for will come and visit me....and so I wait.   Waiting for the promise brought in hushed whispers from long ago.  Peace, peace for all. 

Blessings

I think that this time of year brings out the best in most of us.  Even the ones who fight that "feel good" rush you get when you see a Christmas wreath, or sing a carol, or even have someone wish you Merry Christmas, succumb to a smile, or at least a half-way grin.  Don't deny it!  I've seen it all.

Christmas blessings are meant to share all year long.  When the tinsel has lost its sparkle, when the last brown needle has fallen from the tree, Christmas can still be alive in us.  It is hard to feel that glow sometimes.  But I am going to try this year, as I do every year, to make it last a little longer than before.  I am going to smile more, laugh  with ease.  I am going to enjoy the company of friends and make new ones.  I am going to be more a listener than a talker.  I am going to pray more, believe with a deeper commitment, and do my best to make my little part of the world a better place in which to live.

My prayer for you:  God send you Christmas blessings now and all through the coming year.

Merry Christmas

 

Mr. Christmas

Marley was dead:to begin with.  There is no doubt whatever about that.
A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens
Now, you might be thinking, this is really not a very Christmasy quote that might be favored by someone who loved Christmas.  But my father adored Christmas.  It was his favorite time of year.  And he always began our pre-Christmas celebration by reading from his favorite Christmas book.  He had a long scarf that he loved to fling around his neck and pretend that he was Bob Cratchit.  His blue eyes would twinkle and we would all smile because, indeed Mr. Christmas was going to make it all happen...again.
Up with the tree.  Only on the night of December 21st.  Why do it on the first day of winter?  I have no idea.  But you knew it was going to happen.  And why argue?  The tree was always a fir and the stand might be old and rusty and needing a few bolts and screws, but Mr. Christmas had it done in a flash.  He moved at superhuman speed, at least to me.  Lights, what we call the old-fashioned kind now, ornaments, ropes of glittering garland, and lots and lots of tinsel.  Can't have a Christmas tree without tinsel, can you?
Gifts.  Many gifts.  We wrapped the ashtrays, special calendar books, picture frames that we had made in school.  We never went to the store and bought a gift for our parents..and especially not for Mr. Christmas.  He would have been disappointed.  Wrapping paper spent the better part of the year in a large suit box from Block and Kuhl department store, neatly folded with hardly a tear anywhere, in the bottom of the hall closet.  We always saved our Christmas paper from year to year.  And Mr. Christmas was a pro at wrapping.  He would find the yardstick and long sharp scissors.  We would stand around the dining room table and watch in amazement while he eyed the present, estimated the needed length to wrap it correctly, use the yardstick to make a perfectly straight line, cut, fold, and, presto , a perfectly wrapped package would appear.  Completed with ribbon(which had been smoothed out before) and a nametag...To Uncle Wallis, with love from Derek . And under the tree it would go.
Soda pop.  Yes, in those days we only got soda on very special occasions.  Mr. Christmas would jump in the 1936 Plymouth and hurry down to the market and pick up a carton of Coca Cola, 7-Up, and.....Green Rock Soda.  Only the best for Mr. Christmas.  And each bottle was treated like the finest wine.  We could choose one to drink, but only one per day.  Had to make them last, or so Mr. Christmas said.
And the food.  Christmas Dinner was a stately affair.  The best of everything.  And everyone dressed up in their best.  Mr. Christmas at the head of the table, carving the turkey.  My mother serving mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, sweet potatoes, real dressing that smelled of sage and onion.  Perfect little square of Christmas salad on tiny plates.  Relish tray full of pickles and olives and things we didn't see except at Christmas.  And pumpkin pie.  We always had pumpkin pie.  Why?  Because....it was Mr. Christmas' favorite.
After dinner we might go for a walk.  If it had snowed we'd run and get our sleds and go for a quick trip or two down a nearby hill.  (In flat-as-a-pancake central Illinois, hills were in short supply).
And Mr. Christmas?  He would sit in his chair near the sparkling tree, light up his pipe, hum to himself  and reflect on another perfect Christmas.  And maybe take a nap. A sweet reward for a very tired, but very happy Mr. Christmas.

Feasting

I have always loved Thanksgiving.  But, lately, it seems as if right after Labor Day, when the school supply shelves are emptied, we see Halloween décor....quickly followed by Christmas trees and Santa Claus.

Some people still celebrate Thanksgiving.  I know that many families gather, as mine did in the above picture, at home or at the homes of friends and family to pass around the turkey and ham and sweet potatoes.

I have spent Thanksgiving in many different places and remember some of them with fondness.

The first year that we had our farm in the Wilderness, Andy and I drove down from Illinois after work and arrived at our place in the middle of the night.  We had no cabin to stay in.  We had no tent to put up.  So we spread out our tarp on the frozen ground, laid our sleeping bag on top of it and crawled in.  Early that morning I awoke to snow filtering down on my head.  We were covered with about an inch of snow that had fallen in the night.  We jumped up, brushed off the snow and made a fire of sorts.  As I remember we had fried Spam and applesauce for dinner that day.

I really loved to go to my Aunt Taty's for Thanksgiving when I was small.  My cousins and I would help out in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and doing other chores that would help get the meal started.  The men would be in the living room talking about work or how their harvest went that fall.  Rolls were baking in the oven and the turkey would be browning up nicely.  Since we were suppose to be seen but not heard, we would run outside and see who could make it up and down the slide the fastest.  Finally we would be called in to the table.  After we said grace we would dive into all that glorious food.  And we always left room for my aunt's famous chocolate pie.  She made two or three of them because one piece was not enough.  After dinner we would visit and catch up on all the news.  Invariably, someone would sneak into the kitchen and help themselves to just a little more turkey and ham.  Such good food.

These days it seems as if Thanksgiving dinner is served either before, after, or during the football games that have taken over the day.  And if you really want to be smart, you bundle up and go out to the nearest mall to wait for the late night opening to get that "must have" item for Christmas.

This year I will celebrate Thanksgiving.  I may not have a feast.  I may not be with family.  But I will be truly thankful for what I have.  Thanksgiving lives on.  And I hope it lives on for you.  Happy Thanksgiving.

 

Sometimes in early mid-November....

Sometimes in early mid-November I see leaves blowing through the blue-blue sky.  Stripping the brown limbs bare, they are piled in windrows, willy-nilly across the road and pasture.

Sometimes in early mid-November I see the buck with antlers swaying as he ambles across the field.  He is so proud and wanting to look good for all the does who linger just outside my sight, down there in the woods, dark and deep and full of shadows.

Sometimes in early mid-November I watch the eagle pair flying nearer to me and then suddenly turning, banking in mid-flight and soaring high above the river.  Sunlight glints off their white heads and tail feathers as they disappear from sight.

Sometimes in early mid-November on frosty moonless nights, I wait to count the stars as they appear from east to west.  The smudge that is the Seven Sisters appears on the upper horizon.  Cassiopeia in her chair nearby.  And stretching from northeast to southwest the immense ribbon of the Milky Way.

Sometimes in early mid-November I gather wood and kindling and make a roaring fire in my wood stove.  I pull my rocking chair near enough to feel the heat and sit and read in comfortable solitude.

Sometimes in early mid-November I am reminded that all things need a time of rest.  The earth is settling in for a long nap.  And we too can find a space to think and reflect on what the year has brought us.

Sometimes in early mid-November. 

Speaking of cats.....

I am not a cat person per se.  But a cat owned me at one time.  And here she is, probably stalking a bird of some kind from the comfort of our back porch in New Hampshire. 

Spooky came to us when she was a kitten.  We didn't have a dog and my brothers decided they wanted a pet.  Someone had found this black kitten, called her Midnight, or some other generic name, and promptly passed her on to us.  My brothers and I decided that her name didn't fit her, so we called her Spooky.  However, as things go with kids, once we heard her mew in her plaintive high-pitched voice, we gave her a nickname---Moo Moo.  She didn't really sound like a calf but she certainly did not have a cat voice either.  And she loved milk.

One fall evening Moo Moo didn't come home.  We waited up for her until our bedtime.  My mom said that she would probably be waiting to be let in when we got up in the morning.  Sure enough, there she was.  But there was something horribly wrong with her.  She was stretched out on the porch step, crying loudly, because she couldn't move her back legs.  We scooped her up and took her to the vet.  He said that her pelvis had been broken, probably by a car that side-swiped her as she crossed the highway that ran in front of our house.  He said it would heal with time, but that she would probably never have kittens. 

And he had that wrong!

A few months later I went out on the back porch to feed Moo Moo. I was excited to see something moving around in her bed with her.  At first I thought they were baby mice.  On closer inspection I could see they were tiny little newborn kittens.  What a wonderful surprise that was.  As the kittens grew we canvased the neighborhood and found several friends and neighbors who wanted a kitten.  They were very pretty.  None of them were solid black like their mother.  Most of them were some variation of black and white.  And she was a mama cat to end all mama cats.  Before we called it quits on the kitten patrol she produced at least four or five litters of kittens.  The last ones were delivered in a closet at camp.  The head counselor appointed herself midwife and gave a running commentary on number, size and color, much to our delight.

Moo Moo traveled everywhere with us.  When we went east for the summer she would tuck herself under the driver's seat and stay there, in a state of suspended animation, for the duration of the trip.  She didn't come out until we arrived at our summer place, three days later.  Don't ask me why.  I guess she just decided she could go into hibernation and wait until she made it to a "civilized" place.

She was a good hunter.  Every morning during the summer she would present me with 8 to 10 chipmunk tails, all neatly lined up on the front stoop.  We finally tied a bell around her neck when we moved to Kenosha because one of the my mom's fellow teachers loved birds and kept a feeder in the backyard of the faculty residence.  It took just one pile of feathers and a contented looking cat, licking her chops, to convince us that she really needed to be curtailed in her hunting during the school year.

Moo Moo lived a long and full life.  When I left home for college she became my mom's constant companion.  Coming home for vacation or a visit was always a treat because Moo Moo never forgot me.

She finally passed away when she was close to nineteen years old...a remarkable age for a cat who was trundled around all over the country and had so many adventures.

Mom buried her under the lilac bush at her friend Donnie's house in our hometown.  It was her favorite place to rest in the heat of the summer day.

I can see her twitching her tail and thinking about going after that fat robin who was sitting innocently too close to her, there in the dappled sunshine.

I am a one cat person.  And that cat was Moo Moo.

 

Sing a song of autumn

Can you hear that melody?  It is rising from the hills and valleys, thick with morning mist, heavy in the early evening with sunlight like golden honey and the promise of coolness on the breeze.  I was loafing this afternoon on the west facing porch.  I had things to do.  I always have things to do.  But, somehow I could not move from my chair there on the porch.  I looked out over the hills that dipped and rose toward the west.  It is true.  The trees this year are not very colorful, but the weather is absolutely perfect for porch sitting and letting the mind empty itself of any thought of work or planning or care.  I am reminded of the fable of the ants and the grasshopper.  You know the one:  The grasshopper is playing his fiddle all summer long while the ants gather grain and food for the winter.  When winter comes the grasshopper is starving and sees the ants distributing their food among their fellows.  He asks for something to eat, but the ants scold him for not being prepared.  And the moral of the story?  Prepare for the future.

Ah.  Now that is a laudable sentiment.  And I am all for looking ahead.  But I can not resist taking some time during these golden days of autumn to let the season sing around me while I sit and do little or nothing.  It is a glorious season.  Days are warm and  breezy.  Mornings can bring frost and chill but as soon as the sun climbs toward noonday we pull off our sweatshirts and enjoy the feeling of sun on our faces.  It makes me drowsy and calls for a mid-day nap out there in the middle of the field, down under a tree where my arm serves as a pillow.  Afternoon slides into evening and chores wait until I've had my fill of sunset on the hills of Caney Mountain.  Night comes in small steps, darkening the sky until stars come out one by one, winking in the clear open air.  I can hear the deer bedding down for the night at the edge of the wood.  Crickets are chirping.  And a soft breeze blows a little cooler, whispering to me, winter is coming....winter is coming....better be prepared.

I hear the song of autumn.  And carefully I tuck the gold and green and dazzling light into the special place I keep near my heart.  And some winter day when the snow is blowing and gray is all I see from east to west, some day when the sun doesn't shine, I will take this autumn song out and play it and remember this beautiful time of year.

Ghosts of October

Here is the bench that faces the hockey field.  Lake Michigan laps gently at the breakwater to the east.  Bare branches wave in the wind that blows from the north.  Shivering I bend my head down into my jacket and stroll over to the goal.

I can hear them now.  The ghostly players as they hit their sticks together for the face-off at center field.  Wings are ready to scoop the ball and send it flying, forward.  My heart beats a little faster.  I am there, legs padded against the certain contact with the hard and unforgiving ball.  Bending down I take my defensive stance.  A forward is pushing toward me, aiming for the goal.  I dart and put my stick in front of her, making her change her running step.  She looks at me with challenging eyes.  I meet her stare with my own.

And then I have it.  I hit the ball as hard as I can.  It zooms insanely past the forward line and is mastered by our own center.  And the action moves away from me.  Still breathing hard I watch as our forward line moves into offense.  And Goal!

I can hear the faint cheers on the sidelines.  And smiling I turn to walk toward the bench again.  The ghosts of October are alive and well.  And as I sit on the bench I can hear the game continue, sticks making contact, swift feet flashing by.  Lake Michigan ripples in the distance.  And even the cool wind can not make me leave the bench where I celebrate the ghosts of October. 

Lessons from my mother. Part 6.

Always aim high.  If you miss, you will still be among the stars.

Yes, that is my mother in the early 1930's, ready to throw the javelin.

She was always trying to do better.  Where she was at any certain time was not good enough.  She did not like the term status quo.  Part of that attitude came from her father.  Part from being raised in a big family where it was basically root hog or die.  I guess you get the idea.

Here are some lessons I have learned from my mother, the javelin thrower par excellence.

1.  If you can dream it, you can do it.  Going to college and no money available?  What do you do?  You take your savings, your one good dress, your few belongings, and move to Chicago during the Depression.  You find a family that needs someone to take care of their children.  You work for room and board.  You go to school. You work very hard.  And you graduate in the top of your class.

2.  Never settle for less than perfection.  Not really a winner here for me.  But after she made me tear out the seam that I had sewn in a skirt for the 19th time, I finally got the idea that it better be straight or it wasn't going to be any good at all.  As I have gotten older, I appreciate this striving for perfection more and more.
3.  There is never any sacrifice too great for your family.  She went to work while we were small.  Why?  So we would have enough money to go to college.  She gave up her home and friends and neighbors to move me into a situation where I could grow and have some chances I might not have anywhere else.  She had the uncanny ability to know when someone needed something.  Sometimes she could help.  Sometimes she couldn't.  But she was always there for us...through thick and thin.
4.  Always look for something bigger than you are.  Start a business.  Go on the road selling books, or toys, or silverware.  Never be satisfied with just getting by. 
5.  Live your life as if you were going to live forever.  Love what you are doing.  And always, always aim high.  When you get to your goal, keep on going.  Never stop.  Never ever stop.
And so I end this series of blogs about my mother.  She always loved us.  We loved her.  And I hope that one day people will say this of me too.  She aimed high.  She succeeded against great odds.  She loved and she was loved. 
I miss you Mom.  Thank you for the lessons you taught me. 

Lessons from my mother. Part 5

Make new friends, but keep the old.  One is silver and the other is gold.

This is a song I learned when I was young.  And how true it is.

My mother had many friends.  She was an outgoing, friendly person and people just naturally gravitated to her.  Never lacking for something say to a stranger, she would often be able to keep up a conversation with anyone for as long as they wanted to talk...or listen.

Her old friends, such as Maxine Lord, pictured above, were some of her best friends.  Mom and Maxine were about the same age.  Joe Lord and my dad were about the same age too.  Long before my mom came on the scene, Dad was friends with the Lord family.  I guess they had some adventures....just hints now and then came to my young ears.   After my dad passed away my mom really came to depend on Maxine to be her 'listening ear'.  I know that Joe and Maxine were such a help when Mom had to make decisions.  What would we have done without their support?  I came upon a letter Maxine wrote to my mom when she was in Florida.  I won't go into the content, but it was a wonderful thing.  I have kept it because it is so full of wonderful, caring advice.  Maxine was truly a friend of the gold variety.

Mom made friends where ever she went.  We would go to Florida to visit and each time there would be new people she had met that were included in any gathering we had.  She was a good cook, and she could make any occasion one to remember.  Sometimes things would not turn out as planned, but everyone had a good time.  And when she moved in with me she kept on making friends.  Many of them were people that Andy and I knew from church and the community.  But some were friends she made during her visits to the doctor, or people she had met in the grocery store.  They all became her friends.  These were of the silver variety, but they were friends nevertheless.

The lesson I learned from my mom is this.  Never lose track of old friends.  They are tried and true.  But be sure and keep your new friends.  They will be friends for life too.

Thank you Mom for teaching me about friendship.

Lessons from my mother. Part 4.

My mother never thought of herself as old.  And her goal was to spend as much time as possible with people who were younger than she was.  She was often heard saying this never-to-be forgotten sentence.  Why would I want to spend my time with people my age?  All they want to talk about is their aches and pains.  I have plenty of them...and I don't want to be reminded!

I'm not sure where the scene above took place.  Somewhere in the mountains of southwestern Virginia near Blacksburg where she was visiting my brother Derek and his family is all I know.  I think it must have been late summer or early fall.  You will notice the flowers in my mom's hair.  And you will notice that she is probably the only person there who had an AARP membership.

My mom always gravitated to young people.  Her greatest joy was teaching young girls and boys.  She loved to run with them, play baseball, kick the soccer ball around, hit a tennis ball so hard it was almost impossible to return.  And she loved to talk to them too.  Her favorite age group was kids at that difficult age of adolescence....around 12 to 15.  That was the group she always liked to teach and hang out with.  They are so interesting to be with. They haven't figured out who or what they are.  And they are looking at all the possibilities.  Not spoiled by failure.  Not touched by success...yet.  Ready to become adults...but not ready yet!  Fascinating.

My mom had a special rapport with teenagers and pre-teens that I only acquired late in my teaching career.  And babies.  She loved little ones too.  Any shape or size.  It wasn't that she didn't feel a  connection with her peers.  She had many close friends who were near her age and she liked to go around with them.  But if she could, she would find a group of children and listen to them talking and watch them play. 

She showed me something very important as she grew older.  You are only as decrepit as you think you are.  Your joints ache.  Your feet don't want to go as fast they once did.  You may not be able to dance all night with stopping.  But, golly, at least you can try.  You are young in your heart.  You are young in your mind.  Your body may be older, but never ever stop being interested in young people and children.  That was her secret.  And I want it to be my secret too.

Thank you Mom for showing me that you are never too old to be young again.

Lessons from my mother. Part 3.

Now they call it power napping.  My mom just called it "taking a little rest".  I don't know when Mother came up with this idea, but she practiced it all of her life.

When I was too young to drive and we would go somewhere in the car for the day, my mom would pull over to the side of the road, find a level spot...or a picnic table and spread out her blanket.  She would lay down and take a little snooze for about a half hour.  Then she would get up and we would resume our trip.  If we went to someone's house and the trip back home would be a long one, the same thing happened.  She would ask our host if she could lay down for awhile and rest before we got on our way.  And again, just about half an hour and she was good to go.

I found this same habit very useful as I started back to school for my Masters degree.  I would get up early on a summer morning, climb in the car and drive all the way to Springfield to class.  I usually was on my way back home around 2 in the afternoon.  By the time I got back to Gainesville, I would be so tired.  Going into the bedroom I'd lay down on the bed and close my eyes.  Usually just about 20 minutes would be enough.  I'd get up fresh and ready to fix dinner, do my homework, and get ready for the next day.

The key to power napping, as my mother taught me, is to do two things.  1.  Just lie down and close your eyes.  2. Do not stay there for any longer than 20 to 30 minutes.  If you sleep longer, you'll just be groggy.  Maybe it's a genetic thing.  Maybe it's a case of mind over matter.  I don't think I really fall asleep.  But I do drift off and then wake up easily.  And I am ready to go ahead and do whatever needs to be done.

My mom never had any trouble going to sleep at night.  She slept like the proverbial baby.  I also am blessed with good sleep and have never suffered from insomnia.  But I am glad I was shown early on what you should do when you are tired.  Just take a little snooze.  Here's to power napping!

 

 

Lessons from my mother: Part 2

I think my mother was born reading.  Books were so important to her.  She read to us all the time.  The best times  I remember were sitting in her lap in the evening and looking at the pictures while she read all sorts of stories to me.  There were always books or magazines or newspapers near her chair and bedside. 

This picture was taken inside our log house in the Wilderness.  Nina was just about 2 years old.  And look at that.  Mom has her, if not reading, at least looking at a newspaper.  I think my mother's love of reading was instilled in her by her father.  He had to stop his formal education when he was just a boy after his father was killed in a windstorm that hit their farm in Illinois.  He was a self-taught man who lacked formal schooling.  As a result, when he had a family and grew to be an important spokesman in his community, he always supported education and learning.  He served on the school board and often was a leader for all things educational.

My mother had a newspaper rack that sat on our kitchen table.  Every morning she would read the paper while she ate breakfast.  We were encouraged to read, even when we were eating.  Of course, we did talk to one another, but reading was encouraged anywhere we were.

She wrote very well too.  Most of all she loved to write poetry and she could come up with wonderful lines, that set the tone for almost any occasion.  I have them stored away with her things, but I am going to get them out and put them in a journal to keep with my other family joys.

My mother would read anything that was of interest to her.  She was not much for fiction or great books.  She usually would choose a non-fiction autobiography of a famous person.  She loved to read about history and anything current.

The amazing thing was that she continued to read even when her eyesight was failing.  I was able to get her books on tape through the state library.  We would go over the list and she usually chose current bestsellers that had to do with world events or politics.  She was really up to date with most things that were happening both here and abroad.

When she was in the hospital for the last time she had two or three books with her.  One of them was about the conflict in the Mideast.   She told me she wanted to know why it was that people in other areas of world didn't like us very much.  And she was serious about finding out why.

She would watch TV just to pass the time.   But she would rather read the newspaper and newsmagazines to get  current information.

My brother Derek loved to read.  His library was full to overflowing.  My brother Paul loved to read.  He spent a lot of his free time in libraries, just browsing the shelves to see what he could find.  I love to read.  My book collection has been whittled down to just two large book shelves.  Books fill my life with joy.  I can escape into history, learn about what is happening all over the world, or just sit and read and dream.

Thank you Mom for teaching me to love to read.

Lessons from my mom. Part 1

I have learned many lessons from my mom.  Here she is on her 95th birthday in September of 2005.  And she is truly looking forward to having a piece of that chocolate cake. 

My mother's philosophy.  When dessert is presented, eat it first.  That was her motto and she loved to follow it through.  I fixed breakfast for her for three years.  And, without fail, she would polish it off with three scoops of chocolate ice cream.  The only reason she didn't get the ice cream first is because I was the one serving and I thought that it was better for her to have her oatmeal, three soft boiled eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast and jelly and four cups of coffee BEFORE she tucked into the final course.

When her older sister passed away in Oklahoma my mother was sad.  She was the only one left of all her ten siblings.  But she did say this to me, "They tell me that Rosa passed away in the dining room at the Nursing Home.  I certainly hope that she had the good sense to eat her dessert first!"

I have been thinking about my mother and her many sayings lately.  Her 104th birthday would have been celebrated a few weeks ago, on the 19th.  She lived a full and exciting life.  A challenge is all she needed to get her motor roaring.  Life to her was a banquet.  Never pass up a chance to experience something new, or unique.

Perhaps this is a lesson for me these days.  When new things present themselves maybe I better go for the most alluring.  The sparkle.  The glitz.  The excitement.  You never know what might happen.  Go for it.

And always remember to eat your dessert first. 

After the dance is over.....

Yes folks, these are my dancing shoes.  Now, don't worry. They didn't get like this overnight.  I really needed to replace them over a year ago.  But you know how you put things off.  Anyway, this Hootin an Hollarin did them in.  A new pair is on its way, even as I speak.

These shoes and ones like them have traveled many a mile to dance after dance.  But, truly they are most at home here in Gainesville, on the Square, for three nights out of the year.  Hootin and Hollarin is when they like to shine.

And shine they did for all three nights.  The music was perfect.  The weather couldn't have been better.  But, actually it is the friends old and new that I dance with that make it such a special time.  Some of these folks are old acquaintances and have danced with us for years.  Others are new people we have just met.  And some are ones who have been gone for a few years and then returned.  It doesn't matter.  When the music starts, we come alive...regardless of age or experience.  As an old time friend once said, "The music just goes all over you and you can't keep your feet still."

We love to see people who sit on the sidelines and watch.  In particular this year, I was glad to see our longtime friend Lena Brown, who has just celebrated her 90th birthday, sitting in the front row with her daughter Madeline.

Perfect weather.  Great music.  All in all, a wonderful time. 

And now that the dance is over....time to break in the new dance shoes and look forward to next year's Hootin an Hollarin.

 

                                                                             

I can't do that anymore!

Yes, that is me.  And Andy.  We were dancing at the Taney Center many a moon ago.  The tune was the Jesse Polka and we were doing our patented high kick, entertaining the crowd...and the band.  As far as I know, Andy and I were....and to this day....still are the only couple in Southwest Missouri to add this little flourish to this particular dance.  I can't remember when we came up with it.  But I do know that we were much younger...and less arthritic than we are now.

Hootin an Hollarin is coming up.  In fact, it is just around the corner.  We love to dance.  And we will be there, front and center when the band hits the first lick of Liberty or Soldier's Joy or maybe even Sally Goodin.  But when they play the Jesse Polka  we will be doing the Elder-modified version...that is, minus the leg kick. I can't do that anymore but Andy could probably still do it.   If any of you have seen  how my husband cuts up on the dance floor with his patented "Andy moves", you know what I mean.  I truly do not know where he learned the step that he does, flinging his leg out straight and winding up his arm in time to the music.  Many people have remarked on it...but I don't think anyone has tried it.

That's the great thing about dancing down here in the Ozarks.  Everyone has their own style.  I love to watch the dancers down on the Square at night.  Youngsters and teenagers, newly married couples and oldsters...the music sets them moving.  Age is not a factor.  We once danced with a man who was approaching ninety.  He had learned to square dance when he was a boy and had become quite a famous dancer here in the Ozarks.  When he would come to a dance he looked as if he could hardly get in the door.  His back was bent.  His legs were weak.  He would move slowly and carefully to his seat and put on his dance shoes. But when the fiddle music started he was the first one on the floor.  "Get up here you youngsters," he'd say.  "Times a wasten'  Are you goin' to dance with me...or not!"  We'd jump up and make a square. He would call the set, his voice not as strong as it was when he was young, but strong enough to follow....Chase the rabbit, chase the squirrel, chase that pretty girl round the world...and off we'd go.

He never said that he couldn't dance.  He never said he was too old to dance.  He never left the dancehall without thanking us for dancing with him. 

And so, as usual, I will be down on the Square all three nights this week.  I will not be sitting down much at all.  I may not be able to kick my leg up high in the air like I use to.  But just like my old friend, I'll be urging my friends to get up and join in the dancing.  After all, times a wasten'!

Then....and now

Do we look 51 years older?  The top picture was my graduating class of '63.  The bottom one was taken a few weeks ago when we got together in Santa Fe, New Mexico for a celebration.  Many of us couldn't make it back to Wisconsin last September for the official 50th year get together.  We began emailing each other in November and with a lot of work by a lot of people, it all came together.  The Kemper West Reunion.

We hugged, we cried, we laughed, we hiked and shopped.  We went to the opera, we visited museums, we talked about our families,  and took pictures.   And then we talked some more.

As one classmate put it so aptly, "I like the women that we have become."  We were classmates, roommates, best friends 51 years ago.  And then we were apart for half a century.  We married, had children, divorced, remarried, lost our spouses, had grandchildren, suffered through sickness, celebrated milestones....and still we recognized each other. 

What is it about us?  What makes us able to just pick up where we left off so long ago.  Maybe it is because we never forgot each other.  And it is a forever bond.

The best illustration that I have for it is this.  We were taking a hike in the mountains.  One of our friends had gone on ahead and I could see her outlined in shadow ahead of me.  Suddenly, I realized what I was looking at.  I grabbed the arm of the friend beside me and cried out, "Look, look.  There's Abbott!  And she looks just like she use to!"  The years fell away and I could see my distant friend as she had been...long ago.  It brought tears to my eyes.  How wonderful. 

Looking into people's eyes you can see their soul.  I know it.  I feel it.  And the bond between all of us is so strong that even the years can not take it away.

So cheers to the Kemper Hall Class of '63.  Then and now...always the same, but better.

....on the just, and on the unjust....

....and (God) sendeth the rain on the just and on the unjust....(Matthew 5:45)

I was standing in the kitchen just a minute or two ago, contemplating my cupboard and wondering  what we would have for supper tonight.  (This is an almost daily problem with me, the definite housewife WITHOUT a plan.)

Suddenly I was aware of a change outside.  Looking out the kitchen door I thought I saw rain.  Could it be rain?  We had a brief but intense little thunder storm with wind yesterday.  And this morning we had a sprinkle or two after which the sun came out and made it just plain muggy.

Going from window to door again I could see it was indeed raining.  Not a blowing rain but a nice steady shower.  Just what we need.

The last few weeks have been mainly rain-less, except for a few lucky folks in the neighborhood. (Almost 2 inches in some places I have been told.)  And we need rain.  We need moisture.  Ponds are drying up.  Gardens are dying.  Animals are suffering in the dry, unrelenting heat that only late August in the Ozarks can bring.

I took a snack, got my handy-dandy folding chair and went to sit out on the all-around porch.  The beauty of an all-around porch is that you can usually find a place out of the wind, sun, snow, or, as is in this case, rain to sit for a moment and enjoy the view.

It was a beautiful rain.  The rain that I remember from my childhood.  Soft smelling, spirit restoring rain.  The grass that was crunchy melted with the water's tender touch on brown-tipped blades.  Puddles formed at the bottom of the step and soaked into the parched dry ground.  If you closed your eyes you might have heard the earth sighing in relief.

I thought about all the people who were out on the lake and river celebrating this long holiday weekend.  They were getting wet.  They might have had to change their plans for a brief minute or two.  Hopefully, they weren't in any situation where they couldn't find cover if needed.  I have been rained on while floating the river.  It is not bad.  Then again, the things you want to keep dry get soaked.  But you are on the water.....and it is warm out.  You'll dry...and so will your gear.

The scripture that reads...and sends the rain on the just and the unjust...popped into my head.  Some people wanted rain today.  Some people did not want rain today.

As for me, it gave me a welcome break from decision-making.  And after my little rest I went back in the kitchen and started the spaghetti sauce cooking. 

Nothing like a rain shower to revive your spirits...whether you consider yourself among the just.....or the unjust.

 

The Trip. Part 6. "Avast"

While Andy and I were on our trip east we had the chance to take a short sail on a ship with a fascinating history.  It was a three-mast square rigger, built in Delaware in 1997.  And it is called the Kalmar Nyckel.   The original ship was built in 1637 and made four trips to the area where the state of Delaware is now located.  The Swedish crew called their new home New Sweden and made plans to colonize the area.

As some of you know I was raised in a small town in western Illinois called Galva.  I was raised by Swedes although I have no Swedish roots in my ancestry.  Over eighty percent of my hometown and the nearby village of Bishop Hill have Swedish origins, having been settled by immigrants from Gavle, Sweden around the 1840's.  Galva was named for Gavle, a seaport on the east side of Sweden, bordering the Baltic Sea.

And amazingly, Kalmar Sweden is just down the coast to the south of Gavle.

I was glad to hear that two of the volunteer crew members on our sail were from Kalmar.  I wanted to speak with them, but, needless to say, they were busy working while I watched.

The Kalmar Nyckel is a floating classroom giving people young and old a taste of what it was like to travel on a tall ship long ago when our forefathers were just beginning to explore the New World.  The present day ship is manned mainly by volunteers who spend their vacations sailing up the east coast from Delaware to Cape Cod during the summer, stopping along the way to give people like me an experience like no other.

First of all, we learned what the word avast means.  It does not mean There are some loathsome pirates that I need to kill!  It means Hold onto to the rope that you have in your hand and don't let it go.  There were only two other people beside Andy and me on this particular sail, so we were recruited immediately when the sails needed to be raised.  The chant to time our pulling was 2,6, Heave!!!.  And heave we did.  Somehow the sails were raised and ready to catch the wind. All was well.

We sailed out for about an hour and then turned back to port.  I spent time visiting with several of the crew members who didn't have anything to do at that time.  Some were teachers.  Others were re-enactors who loved to travel from city to city and dress up like people from long ago.  A ship that sailed up and down the coast was a perfect fit for them.

When I sat by myself and looked out over the vast expanse of sea in front of me, I thought about those Swedes from long ago.  The pioneer seamen who left their homes and set out for foreign shores to seek out riches for their country.  Or in the case of my own town, searching for religious freedom.  How brave they were.

When we came back to port I climbed up the gangplank and, looking back, could see the smiling faces of the crew.  I waved to them, thanking them for a new experience.  Sometimes you have to get on board a ship to truly appreciate what you have always taken for granted.  Though I will never have to sail away to find my fortune or a new home, I'm thankful for those who did. 

 

 

The Trip. Part 5. Big City

Some observations while on a visit to the Big City.

1.  New Yorkers are actually very friendly people.  You just have to smile and act like you have no idea what you are doing there and they take pity on you.

2.  When you are walking in New York you can travel much faster if you go at a trot when you see the green walk sign ahead.

3.  You are less likely to be run down by the cab or car who has ignored the red light if you look BOTH ways before crossing the street...even if the street is going one-way(go figure...)

4.  When taking a picture of a tall building, head to the inside of the sidewalk, take a wide stance and shoot.  Those who tarry will be run over.

5.  Policemen actually know where the nearest McDonalds is.

6.  At all costs...avoid Times Square.

7.  Never talk to a person who is dressed up like Papa Smurf and is standing outside an ersatz Irish Pub.

8.  Always check out the nearest place that is likely to have a public bathroom before you drink too much coffee.

9.  Cab drivers are a source of lots of information.  And most of the time it is correct.

10.  When a security guard tells you that you need to keep moving....keep moving.

11.  And, last but not least, make sure that you know for sure that the train that takes you home will still be running after 9 PM. 

The Trip. Part 4. The Mother Tongue

As some of you probably know, this is a picture of Grand Central Station in New York City.  Doesn't look very busy, does it?  But about half an hour after I took this at 7AM in the morning, it was packed with people running everywhere like ants.

Riding on the train that morning I had a wonderful experience.  A man and his little girl who I guessed was about age 5 or 6 sat in the seat across the aisle from us. They had a large suitcase with them so I assumed they were going somewhere on a trip.  He was speaking in Spanish to his daughter and she was giggling and laughing and having a great time.  Suddenly, she burst into song.  I have never heard a child sing in Spanish with such glee and fervor.  Her father smiled and nodded his head in rhythm to the tune.  Such joy.  Singing for her father in The Mother Tongue.

That very same day as we were coming home a woman who was seated in front of me told the conductor that she would need a ticket for a child who would be getting on the train a few stops ahead.  When the train stopped and the door opened in popped a darling little blond.  Her mother was waiting and immediately put her in the seat facing away from me.  She opened a box of fruit and fed her some melon and strawberries, all the while murmuring in Russian to her.  Smiling the little girl would answer in her high bright voice.  I could see the mother's face over the seat and when her daughter was done with the snack she put it away.  She began to recite a little rhyme and the girl repeated it.  Music to the ears.  And then she drew a letter in Cyrillic for the little girl to see.  Sounding out the word that began with the letter she made up another rhyme.  I was fascinated.  The Mother Tongue.

We traveled north to Cape Cod to camp a few days later.  While I was cleaning up in the bathhouse one night a mother and two girls came in.  They were speaking in French.  I was hidden behind the wall so I stopped what I was doing and listened.  I speak no French, but I could tell that they were pleading with their mother for a favor.  Sweet little voices, begging their parent for something they wanted badly.  She laughed and replied in the affirmative.  As they left, talking in rapid fire phrases, I knew that they had gotten their way.  Ahhhh.....The Mother Tongue.

As I was walking back to camp I mused over the experiences of the last day or two.  Children talking to their parents.  Parents talking to their children.  I couldn't understand a word they said.  But I know it was the universal language of love.  The Mother Tongue.   

The Trip. Part 3. Kentucky Dam....and more

Kentucky Dam, near Land Between the Lakes, was our first campsite.  It was the week of July 4th and, as you can imagine, the place was packed.  We had spent too long in Paducah seeing the National Quilt Museum and touring the RiverWalk and we were late checking in.  The sun was still shining but evening was coming on when we finally found the campground.  Hot and muggy and just worn down to a nub, we jumped into our suits and went for a swim down in the lake.  Lots of families were there with teenagers and toddlers alike splashing and playing games of keep away and dunk-your-cousin.  The beach closed at 7 so our swim was just  a short, refreshing dip. 

Back at camp, we showered, fixed supper and put up our tent.  Night was falling by then and we took a short hike through the campground to see what was happening. Since it was near a holiday the place was very crowded.  Friends and family had adjoining places in the camp and everyone had dinner grilling or a fire blazing ready to roast hot dogs and make some mores.  Perfect memory making time.

Walking back in the dark I noticed one family group gathered around a campfire and talking.  You could tell by the cadence of their voices that stories were being shared and everyone was involved.   Each face was bathed in mellow firelight.  Their smiles proved that this was a time of closeness for them.  In this family circle one little boy stood out.  He had his tablet on and his face was bathed, not in yellow, but in cool, gray-blue.  His eyes were fastened not on his family, but on the images that moved around on that little electronic screen. As I walked back to my  tent I thought, "What a shame.  That boy is missing out on something that he will never be able to experience again."  And I shivered, thinking, that perhaps we are seeing the end of family times and sharing as we once knew it.  What a loss that would be.  Hopefully that boy will put down his tablet or phone and join in the stories and sharing before it is too late.

 

The Trip. Part 2. Corvettes!

On a prior trip through Kentucky, we passed on the outskirts of Bowling Green.  Andy spied the sign that said National Corvette Museum.  We debated whether to take the time to go see it that day and decided to head on home.  Fast forward to this year's trip on the same road.  This time we did stop in to see the famous cars and where they are made.  And we were glad we did.

We went to the Museum first.  A kind woman met us at the door as we were going in.  "Are you going to see the cars?  Do you want a free ticket?"  Sure.  She had won about ten of them in a charity drawing and was giving them away.  How could we pass up such a good deal?

I am not much of a sports car person.  The place was full of Corvette enthusiasts so I went along for the ride.  When we were admitted to the hall we had to sign a waiver if we were going to visit the 'sinkhole' area.  Sinkhole area?  And then I remembered. The Museum had suffered a loss a few years ago when several rare and beautiful cars disappeared down a sinkhole that opened up in the main area where about 20 were displayed.  And we could actually go in and see it from behind a barricade?  We could, and we did.  It was a sobering sight.  They had brought up the damaged cars and they were displayed in a room next to the sinkhole area.  Still covered with dirt and damaged beyond repair they sat behind glass.  It felt like the visitation at a funeral home  as we passed by the wreckage.

After a quick lunch we lined up to tour the Corvette factory across the road.  We sat.  And sat.  We were entertained by the same movie for over an hour.  It seems that a lot of  Corvette fans want to see their favorite car being made.

The tour took about an hour and I enjoyed every minute of it.  Part of the fun was the fact that two young boys, aged 10 and 11, were on the tour with their parents.  They knew their stuff.  Every time the tour guide asked if someone had a question, they would pipe up.  They kept him on his toes...and we all learned a lot.

Another treat for me was meeting a couple who were watching their Corvette being assembled.  When you order one from the factory you can visit the plant and watch them put your car together...for a fee.  They were so excited.  Almost like being in the delivery room when your grandchild is born.

I came away from my afternoon learning about Corvettes and with a new appreciation for what it takes to make a beautiful automobile.

I may never be a Corvette owner, but I have seen the care that is put into creating them.  And I'm sure there are many fans out there who appreciate the fine work that is done in Bowling Green.

 

 

The Trip: Part 1. Cumberland Falls, KY

East, west, home is best.  And so the saying goes.  I have traveled over three thousand miles in the last month and I have seen a lot of places.

The first one I want to share with you is this amazing place called Cumberland Falls.  It is located on the Cumberland River in southeastern Kentucky.

We camped here for two nights.  The Falls themselves are breathtaking.  The water falls for hundreds of feet down to the river and the spray makes a constant rainbow over the river.  Where ever you look, there is the rainbow.  On nights when there is a full moon, the light causes what they call a "moonbow"...an other-worldly effect caused by spray and the rays of the full moon.  We weren't there to witness this but the brochure we picked up gave the dates when you could.

We took a rubber raft trip up to and close to the falls.  We could feel the wind and mist as we neared the place where cascading water and river met.  It was exhilarating and exciting to be this close.

Cumberland Falls has always been an attraction to any visitor.  Native Americans tell stories about the Falls.  And early settlers wrote about it in their journals.  Travelers in the last century were able to stay at the Moonbow Inn that sat perched on the bluff above the river.

After our river trip we took a hike to see Eagle Falls located on the western side of the river.  It was a hard climb up and down the rocky trail.  It took us over two hours to get to the spot where we could hear the water gushing out.  In our way was a huge blockade of flood debris which we carefully climbed over.  We were rewarded by a beautiful smaller falls that cascaded down into a pool. 

After resting we started our trip back.  Of course, we decided to take the alternate route.  After quite a climb we found ourselves in a dim and dark wood.  I just knew we were lost.  But then we came upon a sign that said, simply, 'Parking lot'.  Parking lot?  What did that mean?  As we clambered on  we saw more signs that had the same message and realized that park employees had put them there to encourage us and show hikers that, indeed, they were on the right trail...back to the parking lot.

We rewarded ourselves with a refreshing swim in the beautiful pool at the campground when we finally made it back.  And that night we slept in our little tent, under the star- studded Kentucky sky...lulled to sleep by the sounds of the distant Falls.

I have more stories to share.  So stay tuned for Part 2.

 

New Baby

Introducing August Edward Spencer.  Born at 6:45 PM, July 15th, 2014 at Mt. Sinai Hospital, NYC.  7 lbs. 12 oz.  19".  Mother and baby doing well.  He will be called Gus.

"Home"

 

 

This is the edge of town.  What town?  Bakers Summit, deep in the mountains of southern Pennsylvania.  My grandfather and his brother left this area when they were young men.  To my knowledge they never came back.  My grandfather went to Kansas first to work as a hired man.  Then he moved to central Illinois, met my grandmother and settled down, working as a carpenter and then in the local foundry.  His brother married a local girl also and farmed the rich, fertile Illinois land. 
You may wonder why I made a detour in my trip back from the East coast a few days ago....a short distance to visit a place I had never seen before.
My great-grandfather was Jeremiah Myers.  He was married to Catherine Holsinger.  I know very little about them, only what my dad told me and what I have found in searching the records in that area.
A few years ago I came very close to making a visit to Bakers Summit.  We were  traveling the same road...back to Missouri.  But I looked at the busy interstate ahead of me, saw the tract houses that had been built there and thought that I couldn't bear to see my grandfather's hometown made over into a suburb of Altoona, or worse yet, fallen down and shabby, full of empty stores and windows.  A ghost town..memories crowding the lanes and corners where my ancestors lived and died.
We drove through the little town....it is just one street with houses and an old school, several places that could have been stores.  I was so happy to see new paint, no broken windows, flowers in roadside gardens, a peaceful scene set in an idyllic place.
Down a country road I had Andy pull over and park.  Wonders of wonders I saw the sign on the church.  Holsinger Church of the Brethren.  The door was open and I could hear the congregation singing....For the beauty of the earth, for the glory of the skies....my heart sang right along with them.  This was my family's home church.  I walked through the graveyard but I knew I wouldn't find my people here.  There were Myers and Holsingers.  Probably distant cousins.  My great-grandparents are buried somewhere out in the country...away from the little village.  But I walked among the stones and read the faded names...each one probably knew my family, my grandfather, his brother.  I wonder, did they ever wonder what happened to them?
I may never get a chance to  visit this place again.  But I am glad that I took the time to stop just this once.
Home is home.  And where you are from still draws you back.  Connecting with family places and scenes makes life seem right somehow. 
With a smile on my face and joy in my heart, I climbed into the car, ready to go on now that I had visited 'home'.

Somedays I sit and think.....

As age creeps up on me like a stealthy thief, I find myself sitting more.  And some days I sit and think.  And some days I just sit.

 What a wonderful time I have just being at rest with my thoughts.  I don't think of myself as a profound person.  I pretty much take life one day at a time.  That is what seems best to me, right now.  I have a roof over my head.  Food to eat.  Some money in the bank.  A car and a truck to drive.  Friends.  Family.

Solitude is a marvelous thing.

On a good day I can bring forward those happy memories that I choose to remember.  The bad creeps in from time to time, but I have learned to ignore it and it generally leaves me alone. 

When I was younger I often wondered what my grandmother did all day, sitting and rocking and smiling to herself from time to time.

Now I know.  Not that I am ready to sit and rock from sunup to sundown.  But, every now and then I like to sit.  Sometimes thinking.  Sometimes not. 

  

Cold Water

Come down to the river.  Aren't we blessed with abundant cool water in our hottest of days?  There is nothing like jumping, or walking, or creeping into the fast flowing streams that dot our area here in the Real Ozarks.  We are so lucky to have  clean, running, cooling water.  But it IS cold.  Some of the rivers are warmer.  Other rivers are warmer in some places.  But for a refreshing dip on a smoldering hot summer day....the river, the creek, the pond is the place to be.

I love the feeling of icy freshness that I feel on my arms and legs and feet when I dip down into the water, until it comes up to my chin.  And wonder of wonders, I can see my feet down below.  Such a wonderful treat...clear, cold water to revive my spirit. 

Take your choice.  The Bryant with its tree lined banks and glassy pools,  The Norfork with its rocky rapids and meandering ways. Go to Warren.  Go to Bertha.  Go to Patrick.  Go to Dawt, or Hodgson, or any place where road or path meets the icy stream of cold, clear water.  Your skin will soon develop a frozen rind that only thaws when you take your towel and sit in the sun for a minute or two.  And then.....you'll take that dive again.  Into the cold water.

July

Steamy July has arrived on my hilltop home.  And with it the smells and sounds of summer come rolling up the valley in a cloud of green leaves, swaying grass, and bird song at break of day.

My morning walk is earlier now.  Cool breezes make the climb up and down the hill easier.  Shadows shield the climbing vines growing daily as they cover last fall's leaves with velvet tendrils.  A sunbeam spotlights the fresh face of a black-eyed  Susan, nodding her head in the early morning light.

I hear the call of the morning meadow lark.  Nesting now and feeding their young they are busy catching food, keeping a wary eye out for danger with every move they make.

In the distance a tractor begins the day with a loud and steady rumble.  Now is the season for work and very little play.  The days are long and full of things to do.  Bring in the bounty of the garden.  Tastes of homegrown food, fresh to the table whet my appetite for more and more and more of Nature's bounty.

How wonderful you are July.

And here in the blessed cool before the heat of the new day, I smile, looking forward to another summer day.     

Sleeping with the windows open...

 

Hot days are turning into cooler nights.  I love to open my windows and doors and feel the gentle breeze blow all through my little house when the sun goes down.  Fresh air.  It beats that stale closed-up feeling that air conditioning brings.  Don't get me wrong.  I am all for comfort on the hottest of days.  But when the sun goes down, I crave the feel of real night air on my sunburned face.  I love taking my shower, getting into my night clothes and sitting out on the porch, seeing the lights blink on all over the country.  The stars shine down.  In the distance I can hear the screech owl calling.  My road leads down toward the woods. I can  imagine all the scurrying that the nighttime creatures do as they look for food and frolic.  I don't take many walks after dark but I  stand out on the grass and marvel at how different the night feels from day.  The inky blackness doesn't frighten me. 

Coming in, I turn down the covers, get into bed, turn out the light, say my prayers and close my eyes.  I have never had trouble going to sleep.  A simple mind?  Perhaps so.  But now in this season of sunshot days and velvet nights, I drift off to sleep with the windows open.  Such bliss.  Such comfort.  Such peace. 

I will dance for you.....

I will dance for you.  Tomorrow night when the fiddler rosins up his bow and the guitar strums its first few deep beats, I will be holding you in my mind.  I will see your face, still young, as you smile and shuffle your feet, ready to find the rhythm of the tune that will set us all moving.  I will feel your hand in mine, turning me around and around and then letting me go as I move through the figure of the square.  And then meeting me again, you will swing me and twirl me and send me on to dance with another.  Listening to the caller, we lose our sense of time and space.  And all you and I can do is follow with our arms stretched out, forming the circle, breaking into a line, dancing, dancing into the night.
You won't be there tomorrow night.  You are gone.  Somewhere high above us you are looking down.  Smiling. Shuffling your feet in time to the music.  Reaching out and joining us in spirit.
And I will close my eyes and smile and sing you a little song that lives in my heart.  Because I am dancing for you, my friend.  I am dancing for you.