As
the
holiday
break
comes
to
a
close
,
think
about
how
you
spent
your
time
.
Did
you
see
a
,
attend
a
sports
event
,
take
a
hike
or
enjoy
other
favorite
?
Where
,
when
and
with
whom
did
you
first
do
those
things
?
What
about
now
?
What
role
did
members
play
in
shaping
the
and
pursuits
that
are
today
a
big
part
of
your
?
In
?
Dancing
Across
the
Generations
,
?
Roy
Hoffman
writes
about
,
a
passion
that
was
fostered
by
his
parents
and
older
sister
.
For
as
long
as
I
can
,
we
have
danced
.
My
parents
began
their
romance
at
a
dance
in
Mobile
,
Ala
.
,
and
raised
me
and
my
three
older
sisters
in
a
home
where
the
right
song
on
a
scratchy
Victrola
was
enough
to
set
off
a
two
-
step
or
rumba
.
It's
the
last
night
of
1986
,
and
the
band
at
the
Grand
Hotel
in
Point
Clear
,
Ala
.
,
across
the
bay
from
Mobile
,
is
playing
?
Fly
Me
to
the
Moon
.
?
I'm
33
,
and
dancing
with
my
mom
.
She
is
light
in
my
arms
,
following
,
with
patient
ease
,
my
clumsy
foxtrot
.
Alongside
us
,
as
the
clock
winds
toward
,
Dad
sends
my
Nancy
into
a
slow
turn
,
bringing
her
back
more
smoothly
than
I
ever
could
.
We
look
out
to
Mobile
Bay
,
a
slender
moon
in
the
New
Year's
Eve
.
The
night
is
chilly
,
but
in
here
the
dance
band
is
cooking
.
A
new
tune
begins
?
a
peppy
?
Bye
,
Bye
,
Blackbird
?
?
and
my
mother
and
I
start
in
.
I'm
rusty
,
not
sure
of
my
steps
,
but
eighth
-
grade
cotillion
training
from
1967
is
still
in
my
blood
.
My
mom
guides
me
in
an
easy
swing
,
leading
me
by
deftly
following
.
As
she
rocks
back
and
I
pull
her
close
again
she
is
beaming
,
exclaiming
,
?
You've
got
it
now
.
?
Then
my
father
is
tapping
me
on
the
,
cutting
back
in
.
Nancy
and
,
in
our
second
year
of
,
begin
a
Cajun
step
we
learned
in
New
Orleans
.
I
look
at
her
,
tall
and
,
moving
with
ease
,
then
over
at
my
parents
.
In
their
seventies
,
their
quick
step
turns
back
the
hands
of
the
clock
.
I
see
them
not
as
cute
,
but
stylish
,
the
embodiment
of
charm
.
The
dance
burnishes
their
aura
.
They
are
gone
now
,
but
not
their
dancing
.
*
*
*
It
was
my
big
sister
Becky
got
me
started
when
I
was
6
,
turning
our
room
into
?
American
Bandstand
.
?
While
Dick
Clark
introduced
acts
like
Jerry
Lee
Lewis
on
the
-
and
-
white
screen
,
she
welcomed
boyfriends
who
pulled
up
to
our
curb
in
freshly
waxed
Chevys
,
and
girlfriends
in
saddle
oxfords
.
On
her
record
player
in
a
zippered
case
,
I
can
still
see
the
45
-
r
.
p
.
m
.
recording
of
Elvis's
?
Hound
Dog
?
spinning
around
.
When
one
finished
,
another
clattered
onto
the
turntable
.
Becky
me
the
jitterbug
to
?
Be
-
Bop
-
a
-
Lula
.
?
When
heavenly
Johnny
Mathis
crooned
at
her
slumber
parties
I
learned
the
dance
,
how
the
woman
would
lean
her
head
on
the
shoulder
of
a
man
while
maintaining
a
proper
distance
.
As
a
first
grader
,
I
was
the
practice
partner
for
her
16
-
and
17
-
year
-
old
girlfriends
.
Then
the
big
boys
showed
up
to
escort
them
to
the
Murphy
High
hop
.
?
In
Mobile
,
when
my
daughter
was
a
,
we
sent
her
to
cotillion
,
but
she
and
her
chafed
at
what
she
calls
?
organized
dancing
.
?
The
joy
of
moving
as
you
wanted
?
the
tribal
heat
of
youth
,
not
the
directives
of
ballroom
?
was
what
was
liberating
,
expressive
.
For
me
,
though
,
it
doesn't
matter
whether
it's
Sinatra
or
the
Stones
on
my
sound
system
at
home
in
the
Alabama
woods
,
or
a
global
beat
at
a
Brooklyn
bar
.
My
parents'
gracefulness
still
rises
inside
,
and
I
take
my
wife's
,
feeling
her
pull
,
press
and
twirl
as
we
start
a
slow
swing
.
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