Saturday night, a new tradition was created on our side of the mountain. After supper several manly men cleared the picnic tables from the pavilion, and transformed the cement pad into a dance floor. Thanks to Mac computers, iTunes and nifty little speaker systems, we had music to beat the band.
Young and old, we polkaed, waltzed and two-stepped, but the highlight of the evening was learning the shaddish. (Wikipedia hasn’t answered the question about how to spell this one, so if any one out there knows the correct spelling, let me know.) In groups of three or four, we one-two-three-hop-one-two-three-hop-one-hop-two-hop-three-hop-four-hopped through several numbers until we collapsed, laughing and gasping for air.
Winded and goofier than all get out, we danced until the sun set and the mosquitos claimed the pavilion for their nighttime activities. The manly men put the picnic tables in their accustomed places, and the pavilion became the dining hall again. But from now on, my feet will do a little one-two-three hop under the tables at every meal.
And next year, on Saturday night, I plan to dance until our side of the mountain reverberates with laughter and gasps for air along with me and everyone else. The next dance can’t come too soon for me.
