[Critique Group 1] Leonard's comments on Sally's sub

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

Good story. 



There are two places where I think youhad a  typo. 



Pocket the rug is a phrase I never heard.



I enjoyed reading this little scenario.  



I also  enjoyed your commentary.




 


Sally sub for August 21




 


 



THE DANCERS



By Sally Rosenthal



 



 



When I arrived home for Christmas one year inmy forties, I discovered that aliens had stolen my sedate, retired parents andreplaced them with clones – ones who could have passed for Bill and KathleenBennett.  Almost.



  



 That was the only explanation I could thinkof why Big Band music greeted me rather than carols and a gray-haired couple whocutthe rug as they twirled around the living room.  Stunned, I watched andwondered if my mother had been too liberal with whiskey when spiking theeggnog.  I hoped the neighbors couldn’t see them and considered closingthe curtains.



 



As the record came to an end, the couple slowedand became the Mom and Dad I knew.  Almost.  This Mom and Dad,however, explainedthey were practicing what they had learnedduring recent dance lessons at a nearby college.  Dance lessons?  Myparents didn’t dance.  This couple did, though. 



*****************************************************************************



   



Actually, the above scene never happened, but Idid have a hard time believing my parents when I learned about their dancelessons.  I came from a reserved family, one not given to frivolities suchas dancing.  Indulging in more than one cup of the afore-mentioned holidayeggnog was as far as any of the Bennetts went.



 



Upon reflection, however, I realized that myEnglish mother had no doubt spent many of her war-time evenings dancing invillage halls or at parties held by American GIs.  In addition to beinginexpensive entertainment, dances were a way to escape, even for a littlewhile, the harsh reality of living in a war-torn country.  While not muchof a dancer in his early days, my father joined in parties with his fellowparatroopers, and, at one such dance, met a young English woman named Kathleenwho was a born dancer.



 



I thought about those two young people whobecame the gray-haired dancers as I found myself swaying to”All The Way To TheRiver” one recent Sunday morning.  As I held onto my kitchen counter forsupport, the bluesy rock rhythm of John Hiatt’s song reminded me that I was mymother’s daughter; it took only the right music to awaken my inner dancer.



 



In truth, imagined dancing had been the only 



    Dancing I had ever beenable to do.  Having survived a stroke in infancy, I did not walk with anyamount of ease or grace.  Dancing was always out of the question, evenmore so now that I was blind and nearing my seventies.  Sometimes, though,I threw caution slightly to the wind and swayed or tapped my foot and asked mysmart speaker to let the good times roll.



 



That Sunday morning was one of thosetimes.  When John Hiatt’s song ended, I listened as the exuberance of MarkKnopfler’s guitar told me “What It Is.”  Momentarily forsaking feminism, Itapped my foot to the Rolling Stones’ “Beast Of Burden” and, as the arrogantvoice of Mick Jagger faded away, I apologized to Gloria Steinem by lettingBonnie Raitt explain what women really want in her gutsy “Love Me Like A Man.”



“Take that, Mick!” I thought and moved on toShawn Colvin demanding that her soon to be ex-husband “Get Out Of This House.”



In the mood for more John Hiatt, I let hisgritty voice remind me that I had “Real Fine Love” in my lifetime.  



 I saved the best for last and climbed“Salisbury Hill” with Peter Gabriel.  Tossing my long white hair indefiance of the impossible, I felt the beat pulse deep within me and dreamed ofdancing next time around. 



 




 


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