<div style="font-size:10pt;font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;color:black;"><p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"><b><u>Good story. <o:p></o:p></u></b></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"><b><u>There are two places where I think you
had a<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>typo. <o:p></o:p></u></b></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"><b><u>Pocket the rug is a phrase I never heard.
<o:p></o:p></u></b></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"><b><u>I enjoyed reading this little scenario. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></u></b></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"><b><u>I also <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>enjoyed your commentary.<o:p></o:p></u></b></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">Sally sub for August 21<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">THE DANCERS<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">By Sally Rosenthal<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">When I arrived home for Christmas one year in
my forties, I discovered that aliens had stolen my sedate, retired parents and
replaced them with clones – ones who could have passed for Bill and Kathleen
Bennett. Almost.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> That was the only explanation I could think
of why Big Band music greeted me rather than carols and a gray-haired couple <b><u>who</u></b>cut
the rug as they twirled around the living room. Stunned, I watched and
wondered if my mother had been too liberal with whiskey when spiking the
eggnog. I hoped the neighbors couldn’t see them and considered closing
the curtains.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">As the record came to an end, the couple slowed
and became the Mom and Dad I knew. Almost. This Mom and Dad,
however, <b><u>explainedthey</u></b> were practicing what they had learned
during recent dance lessons at a nearby college. Dance lessons? My
parents didn’t dance. This couple did, though. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">*****************************************************************************<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">Actually, the above scene never happened, but I
did have a hard time believing my parents when I learned about their dance
lessons. I came from a reserved family, one not given to frivolities such
as dancing. Indulging in more than one cup of the afore-mentioned holiday
eggnog was as far as any of the Bennetts went.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">Upon reflection, however, I realized that my
English mother had no doubt spent many of her war-time evenings dancing in
village halls or at parties held by American GIs. In addition to being
inexpensive entertainment, dances were a way to escape, even for a little
while, the harsh reality of living in a war-torn country. While not much
of a dancer in his early days, my father joined in parties with his fellow
paratroopers, and, at one such dance, met a young English woman named Kathleen
who was a born dancer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">I thought about those two young people who
became the gray-haired dancers as I found myself swaying to”All The Way To The
River” one recent Sunday morning. As I held onto my kitchen counter for
support, the bluesy rock rhythm of John Hiatt’s song reminded me that I was my
mother’s daughter; it took only the right music to awaken my inner dancer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">In truth, imagined dancing had been the only <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> Dancing I had ever been
able to do. Having survived a stroke in infancy, I did not walk with any
amount of ease or grace. Dancing was always out of the question, even
more 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 my
smart speaker to let the good times roll.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">That Sunday morning was one of those
times. When John Hiatt’s song ended, I listened as the exuberance of Mark
Knopfler’s guitar told me “What It Is.” Momentarily forsaking feminism, I
tapped my foot to the Rolling Stones’ “Beast Of Burden” and, as the arrogant
voice of Mick Jagger faded away, I apologized to Gloria Steinem by letting
Bonnie Raitt explain what women really want in her gutsy “Love Me Like A Man.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">“Take that, Mick!” I thought and moved on to
Shawn Colvin demanding that her soon to be ex-husband “Get Out Of This House.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal">In the mood for more John Hiatt, I let his
gritty voice remind me that I had “Real Fine Love” in my lifetime. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> I saved the best for last and climbed
“Salisbury Hill” with Peter Gabriel. Tossing my long white hair in
defiance of the impossible, I felt the beat pulse deep within me and dreamed of
dancing next time around. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="yiv0349453109msonormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br data-mce-bogus="1"></div>