Putting the Balls in Ballroom

The Holland America brochure extols the luxury of the penthouse suite that I am scheduled to travel in this July. It also describes the privileges that this class of accommodation bestows on me. Apparently I will be separated from the lower classes with my own fleet of servants, a bar/lounge that the riff-raff can't chat with me in, and a place at the captain's table. Obviously, I need to put some hoit in my toit before I take this journey up into the wilds of Alaska. It's time I learn how to dance. I can no longer get by with the alcohol-fueled improvisation that has served me well at weddings and nightclubs. No. It's time I learn the real deal. Stone sober dancing, otherwise known as "American Smooth and Latin Ballroom I." I sign up for lessons.

The dance instructor looks like a miniature gypsy. Her bright silver shoes are topped by a lemon yellow ruffled skirt, white blouse, and black shawl. A satin ribbon wraps around her head and trails down her back. Long jet black earrings hang to her shoulders. She's as cute as a button and makes me feel graceless in my jeans and brown loafers. She begins by telling us how we must start with the fundamentals. We need to stand properly, erect with knees slightly bent.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall and try to improve my posture. Tummy in, shoulders back, not too far back because now my tits stick out, just back enough to lift them a bit. I roll my hips forward slightly and drop my tush down bending my knees. If standing still is this much work, dancing is going to be impossible! I look at the other couples in the room. They seem to be standing without effort. My Partner grins back at me. He also finds standing easy.
"Very good!" the instructor tells us. My Partner and I swell with pride at our obviously superior standing ability! And now it's time to move.

The Gypsy demonstrates the basic footwork for the Tango. Two slow steps forward for My Partner, two slow steps backward for me, then one quick one back and another quick one to the side with a slow elegant close. Uh huh. Got it. Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick, Close. Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick, Close. Alrighty! This is GREAT! I'm dancing! In a straight line backwards. In a room with walls. TURN! TURN! How do we TURN???

Turning is not that difficult if the leader leads and the follower follows. So says The Gypsy. "Leading," she tells me, "is walking forward and directing your partner. Following, on the other hand, is walking backwards in a direction that you cannot see. Following is an exercise in trust." I inwardly cringe. The Gypsy doesn't realize how profound her statement is and how it cuts to the core of who I am. I am not a follower. And I certainly cannot trust someone else with the direction I must go. No. Sorry. My dance career has ended before it has begun. There will be no roses clenched in my teeth while the seductive rhythms of the Tango play. The impossibility of it all comes crashing down around me. I am doomed to the drunken gyrations of the riff raff. I console myself that at least that form of dance allows me to self determine.

The Gypsy has not noticed the personal crisis that she has caused. She claps her hands and moves on to points of contact and more advanced footwork. She tells me my job as the follower is to stay in My Partner's hand. I can only do this if I provide a strong frame for My Partner's points of contact. I must be unyielding and firm. A leader cannot lead a soft noodle. The follower must be strong. Strong! Unyielding and firm! Now THAT I can do! My dance career is reborn. The tooth-clenched rose becomes possible again. I smile at My Partner.

"I haven't seen you smile this genuinely in a very long time," My Partner says.

"I like dancing," I reply.

Running With The Pack

My dear friend Sabrina recently sent me pictures from a dog sledding expedition that she and her husband took in Canada. It reminded me of when I had the opportunity to fly behind some amazing canines at the top of the world. This was my reply to Sabrina:

Mushing has to be one of the most fun things I have ever done. I had the opportunity to do it in Vail, CO a few years ago. I expected that I would be pulled in a nice warm sled while the dogs and musher did all the work. That fantasy lasted for about 30 minutes. Then the sled owner told me it was my turn to run with the dogs. And he did mean run! I wasn't up on the runners much since it seemed like we were always going uphill. Up. Up. Up. How can you do an entire run uphill without ever coming down??? We ran along a ridge of the Rockies with the whole world beneath us. And I kept thinking, "Where is the oxygen up here?" Of course, I was much chubbier and less fit then, so what little oxygen there was didn't go very far.

The dogs, on the other hand, were very fit. They were a motley crew of mixed breeds for the most part, with one that was half greyhound. His legs were much longer than the other dogs and his coat wasn't nearly as thick. He was a racing dog more than a freighting dog, but he seemed to love hauling my chubbiness around. The wheel dog was a stout fellow named Einstein. Since I was completely unfamiliar with mushing, my weight was never on the correct runner when we were turning. That made Einstein's job very hard and he would look over his shoulder at me with a baleful doggie look.

The lead dog was a young male, about 2 years old. I don't recall his name but I recall his temperment. He was trouble. I'll just call him Nasty Dog. He constantly asserted his dominance with the other team dogs and he absolutely had it in for Einstein. He was a generally unpleasant animal. Aloof, aggressive, he bullied the team dogs and was compliant only to his owner. And his owner adored him. He kept him in the house rather than staked with the rest of the team at night.

At any rate, after we returned from our run the owner staked Nasty Dog and walked back to the truck to open the transport boxes. He told me to go ahead and smooch on the team dogs if I wanted to but to leave Nasty Dog alone. He didn't like people much. The first doggie I smooched was Einstein because I had given him such a tough day. He appreciated my attention but Nasty Dog protested with wild barking and snarls. I then moved on to the other team dogs much to Nasty's displeasure. He foamed at the mouth and pulled at the stake. I was about midway up the line, smooching on a matched set of litter mates, when Nasty Dog broke free. The team wheeled around with him as he charged for Einstein and I realized I was going to get cut in half by the tugline or fouled up with the dogs if I didn't do something. Either way, I knew I was going to get hurt. So I lunged at Nasty Dog, grabbed him by his harness, and threw my considerable weight into him. He was practically lifted off the ground as I shouted "NO!" into his snarling face. Now I was the one who was foaming at the mouth. "NO!" I shouted again as I gave him a shake.

And what a baby he became! He practically wet himself. He whined and wimpered as I put him back on his feet. He tucked his tail underneath his belly and dropped his head low. I held his harness tightly and scratched him in spite of myself. He seemed to like it. He even wagged his tail. His owner came running up to restake him. "Good job," he told me. "That would have been bad." "Thanks," I gasped. I watched as Nasty was lead back to his stake and wondered, "Where the hell is the oxygen up here?" Only an oxygen deprived brain would think to grab a snarling dog and snarl back!

Sweet Home Alabama

I have spent a lot of the last 4 months in the Deep South which is why I haven't posted much. Let's just say I've been preoocupied. First, I've been focused on setting up a household that I won't actually live in. That can be tricky. And second, I have been solving problems from The Not So Deep South when my plans go off track. Luckily, off track plans are something I expect. In the best Emergency Medicine Tradition, I anticipate the unexpected and I have a Plan B. Sometimes I even have a Plan C. It's easier to have those plans, however, when you know a little something about your surroundings. Between my research and my personal experiences, I can now say I know a little something about The Land of Rocket Scientists.

Alabama feels familiar to me these days. I don't worry about becoming lost anymore. Not that being lost is ever much of a worry. Wrong turns are an opportunity for adventure. And to be honest, it’s an opportunity that I get to enjoy often! Fortunately, getting lost makes me grin. And with a cell phone in hand I can take any number of people along on that adventure with me. Which just means more grinning. I can save my worries for more important things, like getting my aunt settled into a new assisted living arrangement; an arrangement that promises to help her find her way down Memory Lane.

I stand among dozens of boxes in a sunny room. Once again I need to figure out how to fit a lifetime of possessions in an ever shrinking space. Just a few months ago I moved these things down from NY. Just like then, I have to juggle “need” with “want.” Agnes doesn’t need a china cabinet filled with glassware, but she wants it. Her treasures matter to her, so I figure out a way to fit it all into a single space that must act as living room, dining room, and bedroom. Fine china, crystal, figurines, collectibles, picture frames. Each is carefully unwrapped and placed inside the cabinet. What doesn’t fit is displayed on dresser and table tops. I move toward the entertainment center. Two small but impossibly heavy boxes sit at my feet. They are marked “records.” I cut through the tape and the musty smell of old cardboard wafts up towards me. I reach in and pull out Agnes’ albums. This is the soundtrack of her life. It spans 50+ years.

My first handful of records include Frank Sinatra, Tommy Dorsey, Herb Alpert and the Tiujuana Brass, and Elvis. I slide them onto the shelf and reach for a second handful. More jazz and R&B. Miles Davis, Diana Ross, Aretha Franklin, George Benson, Jeff Beck. So far she’s pretty hip for an 81 year old. I place the albums on her shelf and reach into the box again. The British invade. The Beatles, Paul McCartney after the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, The Who. I am 8 years old again. We are at Squantz Pond. Agnes is wearing high heels and a lace dress to a picnic. She tells me that Paul is the best looking but that John is a genius. I don’t know who she’s talking about but I smile and nod. I rarely know what Aunt Agnes is talking about. I grab some pink lemonade and run off to throw a baseball around. Years later I know what she's talking about and I agree. Paul was adorable, John was a genius.

Jimi Hendrix. Janis Joplin, Led Zepplin, The Edgar Winter Group, Aerosmith, Patti Smith, The Grateful Dead. I am fourteen and we are playing Scrabble. Aunt Agnes reaches for her highball and tells me that she has tried pot. She doesn’t see what all the fuss is about. It doesn’t do much for her. She puts her tiles down. Triple word score. She’s killing me at this game. I slide the albums onto her shelf. Words don’t come easily to her now but music still makes her smile.

AC/DC, INXS, Joe Jackson, The Talking Heads, The Cars, Van Halen, Madonna, The Charlie Daniels Band, R.E.M. I’m home from college and I meet Agnes in NYC’s Chinatown. We eat Dim Sum and she tells me all about Europe. I tell her that I’m getting married and she beams. I promise her I will be back to shop for wedding veils with her in the garment district. She offers to alter my mother’s wedding gown for me. She has sewn dresses for me my whole life. She’s so excited about the prospect of working on the gown that I accept the offer. I slide the sound of the 80s onto the shelf and reach again into the boxes.

Pavoratti, Maria Callas, Domingo, The Three Tenors. She sweeps into the lobby of The Met in a full length white fox fur. Underneath she is wearing a pair of farmer overalls. The contrast is startling in a place filled with gray-haired people in their best dress. “Do you have your opera glasses?” she asks. I admit to not owning any. She thought that may be the case and has an extra set with her. We settle into our seats and I’m relieved to see subtitles projected above the stage. She tells me that City Opera has been stealing patrons away for years with subtitles. Finally the Met stopped being elitist and gave in to public demand. The house lights dim. I slip the opera collection onto the shelves alongside big band, jazz, Motown, and rock.

During the 90s vinyl gave way to CDs. Aunt Agnes was in her seventies by then and didn’t make the technological transition. Although she owns a CD player, she has only a few albums in that format. She still uses her turntable faithfully. And of course, there’s the radio. When I turned the radio on in her apartment in NY it was set to urban hip hop. I listened for awhile as I packed boxes and then found a classic rock station. I’m not as progressive as Agnes.

She holds my hand as we walk into her new apartment. La Traviata plays on the stereo while Agnes explores her new home. She looks in the closets and the dresser drawers. She stands in front of the china cabinet and assesses her glassware. I tell her that I've managed to keep almost everything although her winter clothes are stored off site. Her furs, however, are hanging in her closet. Her opera glasses are on the top shelf of her wardrobe. "Will this work for you?" I ask. I hold my breath. There is no Plan B if this doesn't work for her. There are no options but I hate to bring that to her attention. "Oh, it's darling." she replies. She’s happy among her things and I am relieved.