Learning Country

My sister said, "Let's go dancing.""Not a chance." "I don't know how. I don't know how to dance." "They give beginner's lessons at The Yellow Rose.” "They'll have a live band to keep you on your toes." I gave in to her begging and gathered up my *****. Those at the Rose were probably already drunk. So I said, "What the heck; how hard's it gonna be? Those guys are too busy to watch the likes of me." In most of my endeavors, it's always been my fate, there's some hidden truth that I didn't anticipate. Every song had a different dance, no two were the same. I stood with eyes popping, thinking this was insane. "What kind of style is this?" I muttered, watching the dancing. They were clapping and yelling,, twirling and prancing; with thumbs hooked in pockets and fancy boots on their feet, they shuffled, hitched and swayed to a crazy country beat. Not dancing with one another, they formed a perfect line, turning and bumping hips and stomping in double time. They even did a Cha Cha,, a Charleston step or two, Cheater's Waltz and Black Velvet, twining through. Sister said, "Come on, let's go!" Well, it's do or die, maybe I'll flop, maybe not. I'll never know, unless I try. I wound up teaching beginners at West Side Senior Center, and at local "Silver Games," became a gold medal winner! I performed with the gang at nearby nursing homes, in matching western costumes and sequins in our combs.