How I Learned to Dance

It was 1956 and I was in the 6th grade.

The cafeteria at my school probably looked a lot like yours, a big rectangular room with many folding tables and chairs. Two open archways permitted entry into the food serving area, a sort of hallway with a large steamy kitchen in the back. Two tray-sliding lines converged at the middle where two cash registers rang up the tally. One line of students snaked in from the classroom hallway while the other actually formed inside the seating area. Huge windows looked out onto a parking lot with a drive-through/waiting area for the buses. The entire cafeteria was probably a metal building attached to the main school at some later period in time because if I looked up, I could see the steel beams supporting the roof. The actual school was one of those old two-story red brick monstrosities with names like Woodrow Wilson or Booker T. Washington although mine was named after the town, Harrington.

The food servers, who may have been preparers as well, always had red, sweaty faces, black hairnets, and names like Hazel. To me they were scary, trying to shove food at me and telling me what I should eat. I don't remember a lot of the cuisine, but I could always count on fish on Fridays. I don't ever remember eating it.

Just like at your school certain groups always sat together. This particular day while eating lunch someone in my group had a eureka moment.

"This would be a great place to dance if the tables were shoved back." My friend, Nancy, looked around for approval.

"I've got a portable record player I could bring in," someone else said.

Then, several of us chimed in with names of 45's we could bring. It was the beginning of the Elvis era and rock 'n roll. Hound Dog, Heartbreak Hotel, Blueberry Hill, and Long Tall Sally were making history.

All that was left to do was get permission. Somehow, I was unanimously elected for the job. I went straight to the top, Principal Feagin.

Now, Principal Feagin was not that fond of any of us, and he had a good reason. I had heard through the grapevine some practical joker in my class recently had called a funeral home in the middle of the night with the news that Mr. Feagin had died and would they please send a hearse to pick up the body. The next day someone, whose name shall remain anonymous, wished they were dead, and it wasn' t Principal Feagin.

Before the bell rang ending our lunch period, I went to the office to speak to Mrs. Burgess, Mr. Feagin's secretary. I figured I would need an appointment for something so important.

She looked up as I opened the door. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to make an appointment to see Principal Feagin," The words stumbled out rapidly as I was beginning to lose my nerve.

"And what do you need to see the Principal about?" She seemed to stare right through me as her dimples deepened and her eyes twinkled.

"Some friends and I would like to play some music in the cafeteria during the last half of our lunch period." And then I had my own eureka moment. "You know music is supposed to aid digestion." I'm not sure where that came from, but I thought it would be hard to argue against. We could sneak the dancing in on our own.

"Well, it just so happens the Principal is free right now. Come on, we'll go ask."

I gulped and followed her through to an office I, luckily, had never seen before. Mr. Feagin looked up as Mrs. Burgess opened the door. I had seen our principal throughout the school lots of times, but had never spoken directly to him. In the hallways he was this tall, thin, bald man with glasses who always wore a suit. And over the loud speaker in the morning, he never sounded like he had gotten up on the right side of the bed. This day was no different except he was sitting behind his desk and looked a little shorter. His left eyebrow raised when my tongue decided not to work. I couldn't tell whether it was a scowl or his natural demeanor.

Somehow I must have gotten the words out but for the life of me I cannot remember one syllable of that conversation. The next thing I knew Mrs. Burgess was ushering me out and congratulating me on my fine speech.

To everyone's surprise, Principal Feagin did give us his permission, and the very next day at lunch time, with each others' help, we all learned to dance to Elvis's "Blue Suede Shoes" and "You Ain't Nothin' But a Hounddog".

And now, almost 63 years later, here I am, reminiscing about the jitterbug, the twist, the stroll, the cha-cha-cha, and even old Principal Feagin.

Trash or Treasure?

Do you keep old birthday and holiday cards and letters you’ve received in the past, hang onto them as memorabilia? Or do you throw them away once you’ve read them and maybe answered with a card or letter of your own? I’ve always kept many of mine that I have received through the years, especially ones that make me smile or press my happy button. In fact, I put them in big baskets that I call my happy baskets. It used to be one basket, but that one overran itself some time ago. Some cards I’ve thought about framing because they are so beautiful, but I’ve never followed through, yet. The short, or sometimes long, messages inside keep me from sending them to the trash. I have a few that are over forty years old. I wish I had ones I received growing up, but back then I didn’t realize that they might be important to me later on.

And I keep the ones that mark special dates like wedding, birth and graduation announcements. Every once in a while I enjoy going back through them, reading and remembering. Of course, there are some funny audio birthday cards. I remember one to my husband on Father’s Day of a man on a mower with actual sounds of the mower when you opened it up, and another of a man snoring...you can guess what that sounds like. Sadly, some of those have lost their audio and stay mute when I open them. I’m not sure why that is. That makes me smile, too. Could there be a tiny little battery inside?

I like to keep all those from each person or family together, oldest to newest if I can, and as I look through them, I can see a record of the past unfolding. As I read, I remember things to go along with their written words, and memories of other times come back to me like a movie reel rolling. What are even dearer to me are the signatures of those who have passed on, a little piece of immortality.

I even keep those holiday cards with newsletters from family and friends, mainly because they always include photos and record a history of the writer’s past year’s escapades, although they usually only tell the good stuff. I heard once they were called brag letters so I could never bring myself to write one. I could never think of anything to brag about anyway. Once I thought of making something up, but I quickly came to my senses when I realized how easily my lies would be found out. I never was good at poker, and my children couldn’t keep a secret if their lives depended on it. But the newsletters are still keepers.

I like the real letters best, though, especially ones from my relatives when they would write with particular news. Some aren’t dated, and I play a game with myself trying to pick the year before I look at the dated stamp on the envelope. Sometimes I’m surprised by how far off I am. And letters from friends are so handy when you need to remember what someone’s son or daughter does for a living. I can never remember that stuff.

Now, it’s an unusual day for me to get a letter or card through the snail mail, and I miss that. Personal mail makes me feel special, to know that someone took time from their day to pick out a card or write a letter, find a stamp, address an envelope and put that into a mailbox. And postcards, now I really feel special if someone sends me a postcard. That means they interrupted their fun to do all that addressing and stamp-finding. Postcards I never throw away. There’s something about having a physical thing in hand. It means so much more to me than an electronic message, or even a phone call.