the last dance

Sometime around 1996 or 1997 I started going to the monthly English Country Dance in Noe Valley in San Francisco. At the time it was within walking distance of my apartment in Hayes Valley.  Since it was so convenient, I was a regular at the dance, and since I was a regular they asked me to be the house manager when the old one left.  The responsibilities were pretty minimal and I worked to see they stayed that way. 

But 1997 was about four lifetimes ago.  I moved to Berkeley, got married, reproduced.   The nice thing about being the house manager was that I had an obligation to be there every month, so I could always say "Gee, I'd love to go to your neighbor's brother's nephew's three-and-a-half birthday party, and thanks for inviting me, but you see I have to go to this dance thing..."  So every month I've been down there.

When Frank was a tiny baby, we would stash him asleep in the daycare nursery down the hall.  When he was slightly larger we could occupy him in the nursery, which was full of toys and balls and blocks and stuff, a kid's paradise, really, almost as good as being locked in a toy store.  One of us would hang there with him while the other danced.  Then Mom and him would drive home at about 8:30 while I stayed the rest of the evening and got home on the train.

Then, when he was about six I think, I decided he needed to get out there on the floor.  It matched up perfectly with three of his weak spots that really needed work: interacting with strangers, listening to instructions, and moving around physically getting exercise. 

Knowing what a powerful incentive lies behind materialistic gain, I bribed him. Starting out small.  "If you can do one dance, I'll buy you a toy" and printed out a real certificate.  Kicking and screaming, but he survived ten minutes on the dance floor.  Later it was two dances, then three.  Now we're up to four dances, done well (that means smiling and making eye contact), over two or three months are worth one toy.  And he's doing it. 

And he's enjoying it.  And I think he's gotten some self-confidence out of it.  And I don't think I've fatally alienated all the other folks at the dance.

Plus I've started him on his first job.  He gets paid five bucks to help me lay out the fliers at the beginning of the dance and to fill out the money form for the BACDS the next morning, with the take from the fez.

I'm pretty proud of the whole thing, myself.

But all good things must come to an end.  The church is renovating, and closing the hall for a couple years, so it's time to say goodbye to that hall

It's a grade-school kiddie gym.  Like twenty feet by forty feet.  Definitely old and funky, some character, some just tawdriness, and a frighteningly patchwork electrical system. But it's got a stage for the band, and the acoustics are just fantastic.  No mikes necessary, and when you're dancing it sometimes feels like your head is inside the fiddle.

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And the rent was good and the neighborhood was good and parking always worked for me.  And there was a kitchen and extra space and wacky old architecture that would never pass code nowadays and the world is poorer and less interesting for it.

Oh, well.  We'll see what comes next.