Dancing with the Seniors

One of the things Graton and I wanted to do before we left CA was attend one of my Dad's dances. My father is professional pianist who has been currently doing a lot of work with this band:


They play music from the generation I was supposed to have been born in: 1920s-1940s. I grew up on this music, and love it. As much as I enjoyed private concerts at home growing up, I haven't had near enough opportunity to see my Dad perform in public.

Although the glitzy era of fancy parties at the homes of Hollywood Producers, where big name celebrities such as Cary Grant were known to attend is now bygone, my father still keeps a busy schedule of gigs at local senior centers, womens clubs, YMCAs, WWII veteran reunions, and other civic events (in addition to his day job as a city attorney).

A few weeks ago, Graton and I drove up to attend a dance at a local senior center. My sweet mother watched the kids, and we were looking forward to the night to relax and enjoy.

The first thing we noticed as we walked in the door, is that we were outaged. Big time. By about 30-60 years. The other thing that I was surprised at was how glammed up these seniors were. They weren't little old ladies hunched over in house dresses with canes and walkers. They were modern versions of themselves in their heyday. Women in lovely, glittering (sometimes even revealing dresses) with high heels and men in nice shirts and slacks who appeared for their 60-85 years to be in the pink of health. It wasn't hard to imagine how they must have looked as youth in the Big Band era.

Graton and I tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Although we'd each taken social dancing classes at BYU in our single days and used to enjoy country dancing together during our courtship, the classes were 15 years behind us, and our memories were pretty foggy. And as we watched the seniors twirl effortlessly on the floor, we weren't anxious to reveal ourselves to be clutzy country cousins.

For the first part of the dance we were able to spectate incognito, camoflauged in folding chairs close to the stage. But soon a tall, strapping African American man and is lovely partner danced our way. "One, two, tango, together, " he instructed and not wanting to offend, we got up, and attempted to "one, two, tango, together."




To say we looked just like this couple, may have been a teensy, weensy, exaggeration. (After all she is a brunette, and I'm decidedly blonde.) But we did have a good time, and found the steps came easier than we had anticipated.

After making our big debut, sweet seniors suddenly came out of the woodwork, offering advice on life and dancing. A common theme was that they were so happy to see young people dancing, and that if we kept it up, we'd stay young forever. They attributed their youthful glow and vibrant energy to a full dancing calendar.

One woman called me aside to tsk-tsk over my choice of footwear. "Are you trying to break those in for something?" she asked of my cute little black shoes with pretty bows that I had bought the night before at Ross just for this occasion. Her friend frowned disapprovingly as well, and before I knew it, this kind lady, let me exchange my "ankle breakers" for her extra pair of pretty, strappy, dancing shoes. "I wouldn't want to see you carried out of here in an ambulance" she explained. She had a point.

"The ankle-breakers"

My feet now properly clad, Graton and I continued our attempts to dance, thanks to our vague memories of our past dance classes and live dance instruction from our fellow hoofers. All the attention, began to make me feel a bit like a celebrity Especially, as I witnessed a woman whispering to her neighbor and pointing to us, then smiling and waiving as I caught her eye. As we twirled across the room, smiles, nods of encouragement, and genuine delight in our progress glistened in the eyes of our spectators/surrogate grandparents.

One thing that impressed Graton and I is that the seniors did NOT dance like they had taken American Social Dance 180 at BYU. Their Latin dancing didn't even resemble my intermediate Latin Dance 284. In fact, we started to feel a bit silly with our big, showy, dance school movements.

The seniors danced effortlessly, as if they were just swaying to the music, small steps, small gestures, as naturally as taking a stroll on a Sunday afternoon. Some of the couples danced together with the easy rhythm of two people who had been doing so all their lives. I found myself admiring these seniors who ignored their aches and pains and personal tragedies, and lost themselves in the magic of music, the comfort of community, and levity of laughter.

As the clock struck midnight, it was time to return the borrowed shoes to my fairy godmother. At 60, she was one of the youngest in the room. She told me the story of how she and her husband started taking dance lessons as empty nesters so as not to be embarrassed at company parties. She has a myriad of health problems, and has at times been wheelchair bound, but attributes her good residual health to her dancing. She encouraged us to take some dance classes at a local community college (and invest in some decent shoes). After all, she remarked, there are senior centers everywhere.

Even in D.C.



Shameless plug: To listen to samples of my Dad's fabulous music (and even purchase a CD), check out his website at www.jaycmunns.com