Dancing Fool

I think I now qualify as obsessive-compulsive about historic dance.

Whew, I said it. How do I know? Come, take my hand...

It’s not enough to go to the Arizona Renaissance Festival anymore to watch the shows or the jousting. Like Disneyland's Jungle Cruise, it seems the productions never change, even though they're fun to watch. I’ve got to dress up in the kilt, go in character, and hope I can get a little bit of dancing in.

It didn’t take long. I wasn’t there 15 minutes before I absorbed the Scottish Highland sounds of Tartanic and showtime came around. The group sought out this girl who knew Irish dancing, but she wasn't there. They spotted your humble servant instead in the full kilt and invited me up.

“Me?”

“Yes you!”

This sounds familiar.

So for the next 10 minutes or so, on an empty stomach and legs needing a warm-up after the drive from Tucson, I did my best poor rendition of a Highland Fling, hopping and twirling and spinning my kilt up every so often (I wore shorts underneath, not my tartan boxers, to everybody’s relief). It wore me down quickly, and my fling degenerated into a sort of skipping jig. By the time the dance ended and I made my bows, I needed air desperately.

“Christopher, the dancing manic!” they announced.

Tartanic’s drummer directed me towards a man with a cup of beer.

“You’re not falling down on our watch!”

I took a sip -- a very small sip.

“I don’t drink beer,” I explained, too winded to attempt a Scottish brogue. “I don’t drink anything [alcoholic] anymore!”

I bought a bottle of Aquafina and walked off my fatigue. But that urge to caper regenerated, and I noticed the Danseries were back.

I danced with one of their ladies last year, who at that time graciously invited me to learn a few steps from the Renaissance after I showed more than a passing interest. This time -- buoyed by two years of dancing at historic balls -- I was unquestionably hooked, and this same lady was there once again to invite me to join them.

“What dances do you know?” one of their leaders asked, to which I explained I knew much more 18th Century English Country Dance than 16th or 17th Century Renaissance numbers.

“But if you show me a dance, I can follow it,” I added, my words landing somewhere between a brag and a beg. The flute player mentioned the “Playford Book,” -- which I instantly knew as the English Country Dancing Master by John Playford, the text used for centuries.

The group matched me with a kind and generous lady for a partner, and we did a few circle dances -- no sets, no couple dances -- Gathering Peascods and Jenny Pluck Pears, if I’m not mistaken. As I indicated, I picked the dances up quickly, ending with a bow and a "Huzzah!" This time, the lady said it before I did, quite unusual indeed.

Whatever impression I made, it was enough to earn me a spot in their tent in fellowship, while I explained how I came to love this style of dancing and all the balls I attend as part of We Make History, which at least one person had heard of before.

Some of my dancing companions attended Eastern Arizona College, where they have a folk dancing course. If I only had the interest in history during my college years at Mizzou...

I had the honor of dancing for the Lord Mayor’s ladies, and as a bonus, I had the honorable task of leading a stately procession to their ramada, lady on my right in a graceful promenade, inside hands held high. The significance gave me pause: I am much the stranger to them, dressed in a kilt instead of Elizabethan garb, and they not only let me dance with them, they let me lead the way to the floor.

So I danced again for the ladies, doing those circle dances again -- without a caller, mind you -- and quickly learning a new dance which involved some prancing steps like a horse footing the ground. I forget its name.

Then came a number in which a gentleman and ladies would stand in two lines, and a gentleman would pass a rose to a lady, stepping out of line to cavort about each other. Then the lady would pass a rose to another gentlemen, who would then cavort with her, and so forth.

“If you’re chosen, just do what the men do,” a lady told me. I was chosen last -- no surprise and no disappointment -- but even though I didn’t do the steps I think I needed to do, I gather I had enough rhythm and grace to fool the layperson, leaving my lady well pleased. So were the Lord Mayor’s ladies, who later would compliment me.

Confession complete. Send me to the shrink. But it uplifts me, and I pray it uplifts my partners. I won't apologize for that.

No, I have no pictures to show you. This memory is best left to my mind, heart, and feet.