The trip to Williamsburg, Virginia last March was supposed to be a magically submersive experience for Princess Sherri and your servant. Her Majesty would be enjoying her first big-time, big-league colonial ball -- The George Washington Ball -- in a historic town. This would be "Cinderella" without any wicked stepsisters. Naturally, I felt the pressure to deliver for my Princess. She had never been to Colonial Williamsburg, much less to a fancy ball of the magnitude I had invited her too. This was prom times ten, perhaps times 100.
A mix of your servant's favourite music
and moves, set to stories and observations.
We made it to the ball. But we didn't have our luggage or our historic clothing, due to a maelstrom of weather-related flight cancellations and airline incompetence. Some 72 hours after the mess began, and 12 hours after we finally got our hands on the bag, we were on the flight home. I furiously typed out my grievances in a draft letter to American Airlines, accompanied by Andy Gibb's "Time Is Time" playing through my smartphone, a random yet powerful juxtaposition of disco and disgust as I put failure upon failure into words:
Multiple, MULTIPLE times, after our flight from DFW to Norfolk was canceled, and we had to re-book into Charlotte, we were failed by your customer service representatives. This began with two of them telling us, in separate calls, that we didn't need to do anything more to get our checked baggage put on the flight to Charlotte -- it would be done so automatically. It never was, and it remained in DFW to sit overnight until it was flown finally into Norfolk. Meanwhile in Charlotte, we were pointed back and forth between different carousels. Your customer service people were clueless as to where our luggage was until we finally had to call your toll-free number. Then, over the course of a weekend, I made no fewer than six phone calls to your baggage hotline asking when our bags were going to be delivered. Each time I got a person who lacked answers. They couldn't tell me anything. They couldn't even contact the delivery company in Norfolk (Butler Delivery), saying they got voicemail. I was told the delivery driver would call when our baggage was on the way. They never did. One of your representatives even said someone from the delivery company would call "within 20 minutes." They never did. I got an email saying the baggage would be delivered by 4:45am Sunday morning -- 24 hours after our arrival. It never did. One of your reps even admitted to me that email should've never gone out, because it was automatically generated when the baggage arrived in Norfolk, even though it hadn't been assigned to a driver. Turned out, it never was, even though your reps told us it would be, and I have the paperwork to prove it. I finally had to claim the luggage by driving 40 miles from Williamsburg to Norfolk on a Sunday night, just hours before our vacation was to end -- doing the job you failed to do despite promises you would do it. Our vacation was severely tarnished because of your incompetence. Stop apologizing. Start compensating us for your failures.
Princess Sherri made her own phone calls and wrote letters of her own. I stirred in a little social media shame on Facebook. American comped us $100 travel vouchers, and an airline worker friend of mine advised me to just call her in the future, saying that the mega-carriers weren't geared to properly serve their customers.
Yet in the worst of all of this, we learned who our friends were. Two wonderful people who lead a 18th Century dance team, among other pursuits, lent us period attire for the evening so we could cavort in something besides what we had been wearing for the past 24 hours.
We also learned several lessons. Never buy those basic economy fares if you can't take a carry-on with you, and stuff everything you can into it -- especially the historic garb.
In the ashes of the long weekend, I resolved to get a do-over, and I would not wait a year for it. I invited Princess Sherri to accompany me to another ball in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. This time, it all worked, all beautifully. Another trip to Williamsburg awaits us. We will have our second chance soon.
Last month, I told you how a Facebook "friend" went on a purge, unfriending anybody who was not congruent with her political leanings. I told you how I had written back to her, saying I was still her friend and apologizing for any harm or hurt feelings on your servant's part. I didn't hear back from her.
Today, I sent this person a private message wishing her a Happy Birthday (albeit one day late) as I could not post on her page anymore -- as I do to send birthday wishes to all my facebook friends, with a virtual courtly bow thrown in. Here's how that message exchange went:
My Dearest Lady [Redacted],
A Belated HAPPY BIRTHDAY to you! I still wonder why you have unfriended me -- and it has left your servant more than a bit sad. I apologize if I have hurt or offended you. I love all my Dancing Friends, and I would be horrified to know I have hurt someone. I am still your friend, no matter what.
May GOD Bless You, My Lady!
With a Bow To You From Afar,
Laird Christopher
Her reply came within minutes, hastily typed:
Every time I post about the HORRIBLE NIGHTMARE of the Trump administration, i blame voters like you. YOu and all those who refused to vote for Hilary Clinton (who I didn't "like" either) are responsible for our nation sliding into the abyss. Please don't contact me again.
The iciness of the response floored me.
I quickly wrote back, in sadness:
Dearest Lady [Redacted], I am sorry you feel that way. I would have hoped we could be friends in spite of our differences (which may not be that different at all.) I will respect your wishes... with regrets. --YHS, CF
This is a lady I have danced with, a lady who put politics aside in the historic ballroom, and a person whom I thought had the temperament and enlightenment to carry some of that good nature forward into the present. "More fool me," as Phil Collins once sang. Apparently her good nature is only reserved for people who share her same beliefs, and I didn't know that until she discovered I didn't share all of them.
The bitterness and hate directed at others over the last election cycle continues to depress me. This person would rather be spiteful towards me for the way I voted rather than be grateful for the birthday wishes, which she didn't even acknowledge.
Last week, during Bible study with my church friends, one of them told me he hardly trusts anybody anymore because he has been let down by so many people.
"But wait a minute," I piped up, "Isn't that against GOD's nature? I mean, HE says we're to encourage each other day after day (Hebrews 10:24) and like iron sharpens iron man sharpens man (Proverbs 27:17)."
"You're right, Christopher," he nodded. "You're right."
As I said in the previous post, I don't give up on my Facebook friends because GOD doesn't give up on us. If Facebook is going to call connected people "friends," I am going to treat people like friends. That term needs to mean what it says. And remember, this person was not some obtuse collection of bits on a screen attached to a profile person. This person was a lady I had met in real life and had shared in fellowship. I gather I will see her again in Williamsburg next year. She has always treated me kindly on the dance floor.
And one year ago, when I posted on Facebook about leading a historic ball for a Christian school here in Tucson, she left me this comment:
You have done a wonderful thing! Just know you touched many lives and some will remember it forever!
I know some of you in Facebookland have gone down your friends list doing an ideological purge. You have unfriended anybody who is either too liberal or too conservative for you -- or not liberal or conservative enough. You did this to people you called your friends.
I hope you're satisfied. I hope you've sanitized your feeds to your liking, especially now that one major contentious political standoff has ended, and you won't have to move the finger a wee bit more to scroll through those friends so inconveniently incongruent to your ideology.
Facebook says it is working on a way to filter out fake news. I think it needs to work on filtering fake friendships -- no, not those scam artists who are cloning or falsifying accounts, but those people who say they are friends until the moment they decide they can't separate your humanity from your party affiliation. A lot of people have found themselves unfriended over the past year as politics turned volcanic. Some of these people deserved it for being crude, callous creatures to their so-called "friends." Some people just got caught in the crossfire.
A certain lady decided she was going to purge her facebook rolls of all Republicans, and I found myself unfriended. I don't even consider myself Republican. Officially, I'm not. I had only gotten into a brief debate with this person once over Russian hacking and the election. I had also posted -- in the spirit of sharing some eloquent words versus gunk -- part of a speech by then-candidate John F. Kennedy on the role of his Catholic faith in his leadership and how he wanted to be president for all of America, not just Catholic America.
I can't understand why those words set this lady off. Perhaps it was just bad timing, coming in January, when the debate over you-know-who's travel restrictions were reaching their emotional apex. She vented a little, but then she stepped aside. Two months later, I was off her list with no explanation, no warning, not even a good-bye note.
If it had been a lot of other people on my list, I would've shrugged it off. But I couldn't with this lady. She's one of my dancing friends from Virginia.
If you haven't heard me say this before, I give special value to my friends who share my love of history and dancing. They stand apart from the ugliness of this world. They build other people up -- including your servant. I danced with this lady in Virginia, and I had not the slightest hint anything was wrong, and this was two months after that dander-raising post, which I am choosing not to embed here because I do not want to disclose any names.
But I will disclose what I wrote to my dancing friend, feeling dumbstruck and hurt.
Dearest Lady [redacted],
Your servant was quite shocked to see you had unfriended me. I realize you are trying to rid yourself of toxicity online -- which a lot of people are doing nowadays -- but I honestly did not think your servant fit into that category. If I have insulted you, I apologize. If I have made you angry, I apologize. I want to be your friend -- because I love my dancing friends, and I value them highly.
Why? Because they hold themselves to standards of behaviour we don't see all that much anymore. I love that the people I know who do 18th Century English (and Scottish) Country dance can put all of their cares from the current life and times aside and enjoy the merriment of the ballroom. I have treasured the dances I have shared with you, and I do not want that to end.
You also have to know I feel this way because I was bullied as a child, and square dancing in school was especially tough. The young ladies did not want to be my partner. The young gents (if you could call them that) just laughed. So when I rediscovered English Country Dance a decade ago, and when ladies bowed and curtsied to your servant, it changed my life immeasurably... and put me back on the road to GOD. At last, I had discovered the closest thing -- for me -- to Heaven on Earth.
I don't expect you to understand all of this. And I'm far from perfect. But when somebody unfriends me, it hurts. I see my facebook friends as more than just a couple of clicks and a profile -- because that's the way it should be. I have to wonder, what went wrong? What did I do? What did I NOT do?
Be Blessed, My Lady -- and whether you want to friend me or not -- I will still be your friend. I Love My Dancing Friends!
Your Humble Servant And Friend,
Lord Christopher of Dunans
As of this posting, I have not heard back from her, even though I know she read the note. I tried friending her again. For all I know, she is either ignoring me or blocking me for reasons she will not disclose.
This has pained your servant deeply, and I can't understand why. Come on, I keep reasoning with myself, we are talking about one friend out of oodles on the list. Why is this such a big deal? After considerable wracking of my brain, I think I found the explanation in a Biblical parable.
JESUS talks about the lost sheep in Luke 15:4-7 (NIV): "Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent."
That's followed by the parable of the lost coin and the famous one about the prodigal son. The message, in part, is that GOD doesn't give up on the people HE loves. Why should we give up on the people we love, especially if we want to live up to GOD's expectations for us?
I don't give up on my Facebook friends. I count nearly 600 of them on my list right now, and I have not unfriended anybody since I joined the social network about a decade ago. I refuse to go through and purge, because as I said to my unfriended friend, you're more than just a profile. I labour to treat my Facebook friends as if they were standing in front of me. This is in line with George Washington's first Rule of Civility: "Every Action done in Company, ought to be with Some Sign of Respect, to those that are Present." Not only is that rule easy for your servant to remember, it beats having to fuss with Facebook's privacy settings. Further, if I am going to live as a light for GOD, I can't turn it off on social media.
Last year, I began keeping a quarantine list to restrict a limited number of people from seeing certain political posts I thought might ruffle their feathers. It has worked very well, despite a few extra steps involved in the process. Lately, though, I've used it less and less. I just grew tired of posting an opinion and worrying about somebody deciding to cut me to pieces.
I lost even more of my appetite for political posts after another trip -- and another ball -- in Williamsburg.
(In case you're trying to connect dots -- no, none of the ladies you see here are the ones who unfriended me.)
After such a blessed experience expressed in these postings, I couldn't bring myself to discuss politics, at least not on one of my own posts, and rarely on anybody else's. After drawing closer to GOD and feeling closer to Heaven, why tarnish such beauty by going back to the swamp -- even if that flies in the face of the freedom of speech we are given?
This is not the way it is supposed to be. We can not be a nation of tolerance and freedom if self-censorship is the only reliable way to promote peace among us. But given the junk we see online and the off-the-chart response to it, we are running out of options. Your servant is running out of energy to deal with online drama, and I would rather just scroll on.
Be Blessed, My Friends!
This post has been updated with additional thoughts.
I've been restraining myself, perhaps even censoring myself. While campaign season has devolved into disturbing new lows, I have held back my commentating fingers from the Facebook status update and this blog. This is the "silly season," one friend has told me, a friend whom I love and support even if we're divided on a lot of things politically. I decided to trust her on this one, and I decided to trust the better angels of my nature. It's not like I didn't have other things to blog and status about, like making that new 18th Century outfit for a ball in Williamsburg, Virginia.
I felt the wave of inspiration creeping back into me on that mildy chilly Saturday morning, as I walked to the historic city's Old Capitol, a building I've toured at least a dozen times before. Every time I come back, I learn something new, or at least I'm challenged to think about why we have the freedoms we have. That's why Colonial Williamsburg does what it does so well. During that tour, we sat around a table where patriots once sat, and your servant had the opportunity to read a clause from a document urging the free exercise of religion apart from the Church of England. The warm feeling of a heritage to be proud of stuck with me, even if the exact wording did not.
Introducing Laird Christopher of Dunans, all for the ball in the outfit your humble servant made himself! #HUZZAH #WilliamsburgBall
Posted by Christopher Francis on Saturday, March 5, 2016
When ball time came, and I had adorned myself in my satiny homemade fineries, I found myself surrounded by dancing friends. I bowed countless times to many ladies, who returned them with curtsies -- which I never really saw because I bowed so low. I turned and led my partners in a courtly and regal matter through nearly two dozen dances. We laughed and enjoyed ourselves even through the mistakes. We worked as a team, uplifting and blessing each other. The afterglow from that evening left me nearly sleepless.
Then the next day at a Presbyterian church in Williamsburg, where I dressed in my kilt and long coat in honour of the church's Scottish heritage and in praise to GOD, I found myself once again surrounded by friends. Few times have left your humble laird feeling so close to Heaven, so close to HIM.
One week later, I saw people in Chicago ready to tear each other apart live on CNN. Just one week earlier, I was submerging myself once more in my favourite town from the past.
I can't tell you the starting point, but I've found a lot of mile markers along the way.
When I saw people saying "Worst. President. Ever." about George W. Bush -- with the periods.
When people started talking about "red states" and "blue states."
When people started throwing moderates under the bus (despite kissing up to them later).
When Facebook became a place where we could easily and conveniently hate on people in a place that supposedly is for "friends." (Tip of the tricorn to my dear Auntie Susan for suggesting this.)
When GOP Representative Joe Wilson shouted "You lie!" during President Obama's 2009 State of the Union Address.
When TEA Party members started piling on insults.
When people started kicking up conspiracy theories about President Obama's birth and just wouldn't let it go, no matter how much evidence you presented debunking it.
When Congress became a battlefield, not a legislative body.
When people started talking about "'Murica," not America.
When Senator Ted Cruz made a 21-hour filibuster (which technically wasn't a filibuster, but I say it was) on defunding Obamacare, an exercise that led to nothing but wasted time.
When GOD, guts and guns replaced the Constitution and Bill of Rights in some people's minds as the lynchpin of our free republic.
When Donald Trump entered the race.
When he proved he could boost his poll numbers by getting angrier and insulting just about everything with a pulse.
When he threw people out of his rallies, and people cheered it on.
I will probably think of more things to add to this list later, but you know where I'm going. The Trump phenomenon has come to a boil after years of warming up, and should it really surprise anybody that we're boiling?
I can only come to one disturbingly sad conclusion: We hate Congress, we hate Washington, we want to kill it, and Donald Trump is our hitman. Only Trump isn't armed with a pistol; he's carrying a 20-megaton H-bomb, because we would just love to see it nuked. He's our walking revenge fantasy. We don't care about the collateral damage. We don't care about the institutional damage. We don't care about the emotional damage. We just don't care, period. Dagnabbit, we're going to take our country back from those bums.
This is where you say, "What do you mean, 'we?' Is this the Royal 'We,' as in 'We are not amused?' Or are you talking about me?"
Yes, I'm going to talk about you. I'm going to talk about you because politicians don't come from another planet -- as I have said before. Somebody has to vote them in, and somebody has to accept responsibility for that vote. Maybe you didn't vote for that guy or that other guy. Somebody did. And somebody will vote for that guy or that other guy in the next election.
Tell me something, and tell it to me honestly: how many times, when you went into the voting booth, did you feel like holding your nose? You didn't feel like voting for anybody on the ballot. You felt like your candidates, your parties, and your country had left you behind. But still you voted for somebody, because somebody said you had to vote for somebody, and that the stakes were too high to waste a vote. Or you fell for that lesser-of-two-evils rationalization. Or you just sighed and said, such is life.
Ballots only show who you vote for, not who you vote against. They are bereft of nuance or conditions. You can't add in fine print or riders for the candidates to follow. You take the slate or you leave it. What if we had just left it? What if we had just written in, "None of the Above" every time we were presented with a lineup of less-than-desirable leadership? Through a sad pattern of compulsion, rationalization, and lowering the bar, we've slowly disenfranchised ourselves from the power we should have as the electorate. Or we just don't vote at all. People tell us in those get-out-the-vote messages that our vote is our voice. Why do we keep silencing ourselves?
I still believe some true servant-leaders run for office, but they're getting harder and harder to find. The more enlightened among us steer clear of politics. As I have told you before, who wants to work in the swamp that is Washington? Who wants to be dragged into the declining incivility and partisan warfare? Who wants to get pounded into the ground by dark money? Who wants to prove they're innocent of all the slimy, scummy behaviours we associate with politicians by default? The best and brightest among us in America know better than to run for office; they're too good for the job.
So now we're left with this vision of America microcasmed in Chicago: people who say they love America while they hate each other being influenced by politicians who say they love America but openly want to destroy it. It's a sad sight.
The long walk out of Williamsburg on the last day of my visit left your humble servant just as sad. I knew even before this blow-up we used to be better than this. We used to practice our honours. Politics might divide us, but at least we would dance together -- especially in colonial Virginia. No way would I swap centuries to live in 1700's America, but I know some beautiful things got left in our past, including our ability to come together. John Adams and Thomas Jefferson made up after some ugly campaigning.
I hate it when people take the inspiring outfits and flags of our Revolutionary War heritage and co-opt them for political purposes. That heritage belongs to everybody. Leave it alone. Politics has corrupted enough.
What's staggering is that so many people don't care. They want their hit man. They want their weapon. They will ignore or tolerate so many things so they can see their revenge fantasy against Washington executed -- and perhaps a few political enemies, too. I'm serious. How fortunate are we that we have not seen more political assassinations or attempted assassinations in this climate?
Yes, we've come to that, because we let it happen. Because we failed at the ballot box. Because we failed to encourage the right people to run and discourage the wrong people from running. Because we've politicized everything. Because we really don't love America like we should. Because it's more fun to hate than to love. Because we want revenge for the mess we don't realize we had a hand in creating.
I can't tell you how this will all end up. I can just pray.
And in the worst case, please bury your servant in Williamsburg. I already left my heart there.
I wonder as I go through the pre-ball ritual of hurriedly learning 20 dances in two-and-a-half hours. On paper, it looks so intimidating. Even the easy dances look difficult. At least two of these dances I have done before, but I can't remember how. YouTube demonstrations provide a bit of comfort, but I need to see the dance from the way it will appear to me as I'm working through the set, not necessarily looking at it from the outside.
I'm in my kilt and my Missouri sweater for the rehearsal, and to my great relief, my companions in the dance remember your humble servant.
"Good to see you from parts afar!"
We spend a few minutes catching up before the onslaught begins, the quick run through of the dances so we can at least be familiar if we can't be completely polished. In the big leagues of English Country Dancing -- which this is -- callers seldom call a dance all the way through, if they call at all. Memory and teamwork are crucial, and I'm placing a lot of trust in the people around me to help with the tough parts.
An advanced dance breaks down in confusion, and your humble servant is lost in it, trying to find my place as my partner points and corrects. Dance master for children I may aspire to be, but dance master among grown-ups I am surely not. My partner is reassuring when she reads the agony in my countenance. "It's not your fault. We had so many new people."
With so many dances, I can afford to sit out one without feeling I have deprived myself of the full experience. I choose this one.
The George Washington Ball remains one of my favourites because I can dress up in my 18th Century finery to the hilt and find myself surrounded by those who do the same. This year, I have a big decision to make: gold outfit or blue? I have worn my 1740's gold outfit for the last two years, which I adore very much. Now I feel a need to change things up.
The blue 1770's ball outfit of satin jacquard is beautiful and radiant, but it has become very unforgiving -- or maybe it just seems that way. The coat is fine, but the breeches press tight. I almost hesitate to bow low, fearing I will split my pants. Even though I have modified the buttons and gusset in back to accommodate the realities of weight gain from being around for (2)43 years, the inconvenient truth remains -- I am likely getting too big for my breeches. If all else fails, I have a stark white pair that will suffice in a pinch. I also have my kilt.
However, over the past week in my other life and time, I have worked 40 hours in four days, including three double shifts. The net effect is a crash diet. I figure I dropped at least five pounds, like a prize fighter sweating off pounds before the official weigh-in. The breeches still fit tightly, but they're not choking me. My red baldric -- a symbol of my travels as a dancing emissary -- and the big tricorn complete the look.
"This is how they dress in Arizona!" a friend compliments as I enter the venue with a bow. I gladly point out the coat is unlined, built for comfort of the blistering Arizona heat as well as the heat of passionate dancing.
The passion starts with a minuet. Once again, I'm mostly faking it because my feet don't want to move with grace in those heavy buckled shoes. The lady I have invited to join me doesn't quite know it either. "It doesn't matter," I reassure, "as long as we look elegant."
We do our best, knowing we probably wouldn't pass muster in the court of King George III. What I can't accomplish with my feet, I can substitute with my hands. My tricorn comes off my head, and I hold it out with regal affectation. That's the way I dance, but it's not the way some people would prefer.
"Put your hand down," a gentleman has mildly corrected just hours earlier in practice. I can't help but feel mildly dismayed. Among my dancing companions in Arizona, and in those opportunities where I have taught young ladies and gentleman as a dancing master, affectations are heartily welcomed as an expression of radiant joy. It also kickstarts the wee ones' imaginations, putting them mentally in the powdered wigs and breeches where they would otherwise lack the look. I know people turn up their nose at this, but they haven't danced in our village.
Time accelerates. One dance speeds into the next, and then the next, and then the next after that. We are flying through the evening's selections. I do not sit out until the very end of the first half, where I pass on "Miss De Jersey's Memorial." I am thinking this is the dance that dissolved into disaster just a few hours earlier. On paper, it looks just as intimidating. I am loathe to turn down any dancing challenge, but I am thinking of my fellow dancing companions -- especially the ladies -- and I prefer not to cause disorder and confusion.
After the break, and two cups of strong coffee, I find out I'm wrong. I am soon standing in a set for "Barham Down," and it is too late to step out as the caller reviews the steps. My partner, fortunately, knows this dance well. So do my dancing companions. For the next five minutes, they point and direct and toss your humble servant around like a ship in stormy waters as I try to navigate on my own. Many of us in the line are imperfect, but we are quite merry about it, and some shriek in bursts of excitement upon a sudden turn or change of direction.
"We did it!" I exclaim to my partner, who is equally appreciative with a period-incorrect double high-five. "Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!"
I am tossed around again through "Monticello," a dance where both my partner and I are confused on a key figure, meaning we must quickly reset ourselves when we cannot resolve the problem. These are the times that try the gentleman's soul -- frustration and confusion and the errors. By a great miracle, the problem does not spread throughout the set. We survive to dance again with no hard feelings.
The minutes accelerate once more, and we are soon in Jack's Maggot (the "maggot" part being 18th Century terminology for an idea, not a slimy pest). During the hands-across figures, where we turn in a star, my free hand is raised in an open joyous display of those discouraged affectations. Mine is the only raised hand in the room, although a lady or two will briefly indulge me.
"I don't care if I am tossed from every ballroom in Virginia," I whisper in the passion of the moment. "I shall let my light shine through! I shall teach this to the wee ones!"
In a rush the night is over. Twenty-one different dances have come and gone, and I have danced twenty of them -- with as many different ladies as possible, as is tradition and custom. That's a scorecard of accomplishment.
Throughout the evening, I talk with others about other dances at other times. People on the East Coast, and especially Virginia, have the opportunity to attend balls similar to this one multiple times a year, and in the full attire, just like this. Your humble servant, on the other hand, only has time and budget for one, and it's worth it.
Yet in the afterglow of the evening, when we are all mingling and enjoying snacks in an adjoining room, I see part of myself as abnormal. My dancing friends are amazed I have traveled cross-country to be here. Some have traveled a few hundred miles, but I have journeyed the farthest. The expense is significant. I confront myself with the possibility that I am a junkie looking for a fix. What is wrong with me?
In times of distress and doubt, sitting silently among my dancing companions, I must reach back to GOD and to reason. Some climb mountains. Some people sail. Some travel. Some geek out at the "cons." I dance in a tricorn. A conventional passion it's not, especially for a man. It's something I lament in a discussion with some young dancing friends.
"Why don't we have any equivalent of Jane Austen for the young aspiring elegant gentleman?"
"We have Horatio Hornblower," one suggests.
"True," I say. "But I don't think he loved to dance like Austen did."
And what about Mr. Darcy, another points out.
"I don't think men read Jane Austen for him," I observe. At least none of the men I know do, unless they're unwilling to admit it.
We agree a better source for gentlemanly inspiration is sorely needed... if only to prod more men into dancing at the balls. In Colonial times, they could've played cards apart from the cavorting. Not anymore.
The next day, at a meeting of the local Jane Austen Society, an opportunity presents itself.
"Who here has not done English Country Dancing?" our dance mistress asks. A young lady in an Empire dress raises her hand -- the only raised hand in the room.
"This is your chance, Dancing Master!" a newfound lady friend next to me goads, vocalizing my thoughts.
She is a most graceful and measured pupil, a receptive and quick study. And she embraces affectations.
Your humble servant -- or Laird Christopher Francis Leslie of Edinburgh, if you will -- returns to one of his favourite balls: The George Washington Ball, presented by the Williamsburg Heritage Dancers in Williamsburg, Virginia. Here are some of his most memorable recollections of a glorious evening.
A FEW ADJUSTMENTS
For this ball, I have a brand new cocked hat -- gold trim with a gold cockade. I have a brand new jabot, purchased just this morning in the historic shops. Instead of my red satin balderic, I wear my Scottish Royal Stewart tartan with my clan pins and a brooch to fasten it. I think it looks much better than the last time. It certainly doesn't feel any heavier, and in the cold of the late winter, I do not feel excessive warmth.
COME JOIN US
Once again, I journey to the rehearsal session, where we walk through some 20 dances on the program in 2 1/2 hours. Venturing into the room, I don't know a soul. For a moment, I remember what it was like to be the outsider. But I soon meet a lady, Mary, who is there alone, and we strike up a conversation. She will be the first of several ladies who will help brighten my evening with their kindness and encouragement.
During the rehearsals, the group goes through a dance that the callers indicate you shouldn't try if you don't know it.
"We just want to practice," one of the explains as the caller questioned why four of us were off to our side. "We don't want to ruin it for anybody else."
We walk through the steps on our own, messing up without fear of reprisal, but also realizing that the dance is too complicated to walk through in just a small set of four, where we need other couples on either side of us to help guide our steps for some of the complicated square weaving figures that involve other couples.
We would have just stood and watched the rest of the dance, but several in the other long sets then invite us to join them, so that we could dance and learn from one another. We make it through with the help of the kindness of the experienced, who did not want to see us left out.
A LONG JOURNEY INTO HISTORY
I told several people I was "all in," not content to sit out any dances if I could help it, coming all the way from Tucson, Arizona.
"You came all the way for this?" people reply, jaws dropping.
"Yes," I nod. "I don't get to do much Colonial dancing in Tucson. I dance Scottish, which is great cross-training. But as for English, it's just not there. And it's not there with everybody dressed up as beautifully as they do here."
With that in mind, I gather the others went a step further. It's important to find a good dancing group, one that will welcome newcomers.
"Some can be cliquish," one gentleman tells me. I've heard of others where the amateurs and inexperienced are confined to their own set, the dancing equivalent of eating at the kiddie table. Not here. Not now. And I pray, not ever.
ALREADY THERE
Midway through the practice session, a lady joins us in her Colonial day dress, apron, and mob cap, stepping right out of the pages of time.
"I just got off work," she explains to me, having scurried over from her interpreter role at Colonial Williamsburg.
"You're doing what I want to do eventually," I tell her, referring to a planned future chapter of my life: leaving the news business, becoming a CW interpreter, and joining a historic dance troupe.
GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS
The minuet is always the first dance of the evening, in history and in historical re-creation. Last time, I faked my way through one. This time, I have a rough idea of the steps. That is enough for me to quickly seek out a lady, bow, and lead her to one of the lines.
Unlike last time, whereas I stood in the back, a long way away from those in prime view, I am second in line in the middle row of dancers, meaning I'd better get this right, or at least look like I was.
A bow to "the presence," a bow to my lady, and we are off and minueting, in small steps around each other, three-quarter time, alternating holding left and right hands in a Z-formation. I know I'm supposed to be stepping right-left-right, left-right-left, but my focus is shifting from footwork to figures. One thing I have learned from two years of Scottish Country Dancing: If I get the patterns right, nobody will mind if my footwork is wrong.
I have sympathy for my Colonial ancestors who danced at a ball many times before. They have to measure up and dance perfectly, or else it is a mark upon their character. Right now, I can taste their anxiety.
"Other hand," my lady quietly corrects me during a turn.
I have to wonder what people thought of those aristocratic gentlemen who couldn't dance a proper minuet. Even here in Virginia, where people loved to dance, it's only logical to expect that some people's feet would not measure up to the desires of their heart. Fortunately, I am with a good group, and my minuet is at least serviceable and elegant if not perfect.
"We honour the presence," she says, cueing me to another bow towards the front before we bow to one another once again.
I thank my lady with another bow and turn to see half the crowded room -- perhaps two dozen at least -- is standing and watching us, some with cell-phone cameras in hand. I pass the first major test of the evening.
"Dancing a minuet in Williamsburg," I smile. "Check that box." Again.
ILLUSIONS OF ROYALTY
His Regalness, sharing a dance
with two beautiful ladies
(Source: Facebook/Williamsburg
Heritage Dancers)
He is the most period-correct in the room: White ponytail wig, snow-white face powder, blue satin jacket and breeches, brooches and medallions, and rings on his gloved fingers.
I cannot help but compliment him on his attire between dances. "I am glad to see that the French are with us!"
He recoils. "The French? Where are they? I am King George The Third!"
He displays his regal medallion of England. All the air escapes my body and I quickly fall into as low and courtly a bow as I can muster.
"My apologies, Your Majesty." Under protocol, our eyes shouldn't even meet. "All the portraits I have seen show you wearing gold instead of blue!"
Embarrased, I back away, not thinking it awkward that His Majesty would somehow be in Williamsb
urg, rife with rumours of revolution. The ballroom is the great equalizer, where rank is set aside so that all might delight in diversion. Yet that is little insurance for the awkward moment.
I explain to a lady how I might have just hurled Virginia closer to revolution more expediently than Lord Governor Dunmore.
"Oh that's not The King," she explains. "That's Lord Foppington."
"Really?"
"Yes, Lord Foppington." He apparently only thinks he's royalty, the classic delusion of comic history, of those macaronis long before Chef Boy-Ar-Dee with their egregious frilliness, buttons and bows. Only in the 18th Century does gentlemens' fashion approach the beauty of the ladies. Excess, however, is not elusive.
FOLLOW YOU, FOLLOW ME
Great Scottish dancing is great teamwork, as I have learned. And such is true for English. When the invitation for "The Punch Bowl" came forth, I went to sit down without regret, not knowing the dance and not wanting to ruin it for others by attempting a caper of advanced difficulty.
One lady would not have that.
"Would you like to dance with me?" she asks. In the real 18th Century, ladies did not ask gentlemen to dance, but this is one item of protocol happily dispensed of for the enjoyment and benefit of all -- or perhaps she saw through my eyes into my heart.
"My Lady," I say, "I do not know this dance, and I'm told not to try it on the floor."
She waves off my apprehensions. "How can you learn it if you don't get to try it? I can lead you."
And she does. The beauty of "The Punch Bowl" is that it's highly symmetrical, meaning I can follow my partner, like looking into a mirror, and walk through the moves like I know them, provided I can react quickly enough to the changes. She knows the dance well enough to lead your humble servant strongly.
"You're doing beautifully!" she cries mid-way through, even as I have made a quick wrong turn here and there. Nobody in the set minds. We are at the end, more adept for those adapting. It ends with the two of us at the bottom of the lines, bowing and curtsying to each other right in front of another person's cell phone camera.
"HUZZAH! HUZZAH! Thank you, My Lady! Thank you for Blessing me with this dance! Thank you for leading me!"
My words can scarcely contain my gratitude.
A short time later, I return the favour for another lady in a three-couple set during "Trip To Tunbridge," a dance she does not know, but one I can lead her through.
"Do not fret," I tell her. "I believe in you. We will get through this. It's not a mistake, it's a variation!"
The dance is filled with tricky diagonal moves of turning one corner than another. We watch, wait, dance and try to learn. This is where I realize I have danced this one before, several years ago at that Playford Ball in Nashville. Now the steps and the feel of it are coming back.
"Lead down," I say, softly calling to her as we move about. "Lead up, diagonal, diagonal, to your own side..."
Before we know it, the dance is over, and she has danced it like a champion. She reaches out and hugs me before I can bow in appreciation.
Minutes later, I lead another lady through a dance with a "dolphin hey," a fancy term for a figure where a lady follows a gentleman around the other two dancers in the set in a weaving pattern. Normally, the two leading the figure are supposed to change who's in front as we work our way around. But I quietly simplify things for her, content to let her follow me. It doesn't ruin anything about the dance for the others, and it looks elegant all the same.
"I believe in you," I tell her, just as I told the other lady, and other ladies throughout this evening who are unsure of themselves and their abilities.
We dance through it with nary an error, and she is abundantly grateful in the closing honours.
"Thank you!"
"Thank you, My Lady!"
ONE GOOD TURN...
After rolling though 21 dances with 21 partners -- plus at least a half -dozen more if one counts the circle mixer -- the final waltz arrives.
I seek out a partner, and I find one in an older lady.
"I was hoping you would ask me for a waltz," she replies brightly as we stroll back onto the floor.
I can't imagine why she might pine for your humble servant. I give my standard advisory. "I'm not much of a waltzer, but I am a two-stepper."
We step a few beats from side to side before I continue my thought. "However, My Lady, I can lead you in a waltz-minuet, which is like a country dance we make up on the fly, where I call the steps and you follow."
In a beat, we are turning and siding to each other, circling around each other in an improvised celebration. I have danced it many times with many ladies, and it has never failed to uplift.
"It's like a waltz tango!" she proclaims.
With a final bow and curtsy, the ball is suddenly over. Months of anticipation, like the light at the end of a tunnel, suddenly over. I have a few more moments to chat with newfound friends, some who did not know I had come all the way from Arizona to pursue my dearest diversion.
All I can think about is how tremendously blessed I feel at this moment: having the opportunity to dance with so many ladies, without sitting out a single dance. I have not felt so much warmth since my very first 18th Century Ball.
"GOD Bless You!" I keep telling ladies and gentlemen as I bid them farewell.
Laird Christopher with a Lady of the
Jane Austen Society, the next day
(Source: Facebook/Virginia Lee)
A bonus day of dancing will follow tomorrow, as part of a Jane Austen Society meeting at a small women's club up the road, enough to satisfy any remnant afterglow that lasts through the night.
People can ask me why I love this so much. I tell them it's beautiful, it's uplifting, and it brought me back to GOD. Few things in this world bring me joy, and this is one of them. I gather I some recessed Virginia genes somehow made it into me, because I don't know any relatives of mine who have ever enjoyed this.
Thinking about it, I feel the overwhelming presence of GOD in this ballroom tonight, and I realize what we've just done is what GOD calls us all to do. We're to lift up and encourage others -- keep them from going astray and give encouragement to keep them on the path, not cutting them out, but bringing them in. Mistakes will happen, but we just continue on. Everybody gets to dance in this ballroom of life, with OUR HEAVENLY CALLER there to show us the way.
What happens in the ballroom should be happening to you! Find out more about the Williamsburg Heritage Dancers here.
Sir Christopher, Earl Of Suffolk, attends the George Washington Ball in Williamsburg, as presented by the Williamsburg Heritage Dancers. What follows are his recollections.
WHATEVER SHALL I WEAR?
A fancy 18th Century Ball in a historic setting requires no less than my finest attire: my gold 1750's regalia, manifested in gold brocaded breeches, a gold weskit, and a gold skirted jacket, adorned with a red baldric and a lace jabot. For eye candy, I'm adding an emerald brooch. And of course, I have to wear my gold-trimmed tricorn, the one inspired by Lord Cornwallis' topper in The Patriot. Not only does the outfit befit mannered English royalty, the skirted coat make me appear fashionably portly.
Underneath, I've added a few hidden touches. I'm wearing a new ruffled shirt with ruffled cuffs I saw this morning at a store in Willamsburg. I am also wearing two layers of white stockings, necessary because the new white stockings I have just purchased are a little sheener than I desire. I want my calves to be snow white when I bow to the ladies of Williamsburg, not white tinged with pink.
The neck ruffles in my shirt are tucked into my weskit, away from view. They don't play nicely with my weskit, so I tuck them in and tie on the jabot, attaching it to my baldric with a safety pin to keep it from flying about as I prance the night away. I also pin my baldric to my shoulder with the brooch. This is when the shirt's true value emerges: I accidentally prick my finger and deposit blood spatters on one of my cuffs. Fortunately, the shirt's synthetic weave makes it a snap to remove the offending spots with tap water. My purist friends might frown on anything less than period-correct materials, but I will politely disagree.
PUNCTUALITY IS PROPER
I have only a short walk down the halls of my inn to the grand ballroom, so I shan't be needing the carriage. But timing is a question. The announced start time is 7:00, but I am not certain if that's the time of the first dance or the time the reception begins. I split the difference and arrive at 6:30.
Our Colonial dancing hosts are still arranging the entry table and placing the modern-day nametags which we will all use to identify each other. I'm happy not to have to remember names, which I struggle with. Remembering the dances will challenge my memory quite adequately.
The tag reads "Christopher Francis," to my delight. "You fit all 11 letters of my first name on!" I marvel to the hosts.
"We're proud of that," one of them smiles.
As the guests arrive, the color and fancy flourish I am hoping for materializes before me. Ladies are not shy about wearing their wide 18th Century polonaise ball gowns with the farthingdales and corsets. But most of them are skipping the highly-powdered, highly-elevated wigs. Several ladies are fast-forwarding to the late 18th Century, preferring the Regency pillar dress of the Pride & Prejudice era. One lady walks in wearing a hat with a large plume atop her fancy wig. My Lady, how shall she be able to dance in that?
The gentlemen are sporting a few powdered wigs here and there. They run the gamut of the breeches-and-buttons theme: a few townspeople, a few fancy aristocrats, a Continental Navy officer or two. Many are wearing tricorns. And they will keep them on, just like your humble servant as he eagerly awaits the first dance.
APPREHENSION
The journey to this moment has taken three months of preparation, and many months more of researching and dreaming, along with a electronic correspondence to the hosts...
My Most Honourable Ball Host or Hostess,
Greetings from Tucson!
I am registered for the upcoming George Washington Ball, and I had a couple of curiosities.
First, I notice no mention of a caller. I completely understand this is in the spirit of the time and true to the authenticity of the dance, but I do hope others will be forgiving of my missteps. I have indeed received the instructions, and I plan to attend the "refresher" session on the day of the ball, but many of these dances are new to me.
I have been dancing English Country Dances for about 5 years with a couple of groups here in Arizona, and although I do not consider myself a beginner, I do not consider myself advanced, either. What advice would you give to a newcomer to this ball who will be journeying quite a distance for an immersive Colonial experience? How best can I enjoy the evening without being a burden to more experienced dancers?
I have wanted for some time to dance at a grand Colonial ball, in my finest period attire -- a rare experience indeed, one that is even rarer in Arizona. This is a "bucket list" item for me, and I want to make sure I do things in a manner pleasing to all.
Thank you so much for this opportunity. I pledge I will not be unworthy of it.
Your Humble Servant And Friend In The Dance,
Christopher Francis
Tucson, Arizona
A few days later, I had my reply from Lou, Dancing Master Emeritus, who said he was "delighted" that I would be coming so far. "We pride ourselves at being a very welcoming an accommodating group of dancers," he wrote. He also assured me there would be callers and opportunities to practice the tougher dances.
In closing, he wrote: "In an interesting aside, a dancing master in Colonial Virginia was named Francis Christian, a striking similarity to your name."
Francis Christian. My mouth drops open. The past has caught up again with me once more.
FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT
The first dance of the evening is not a grand march, like I am used to, but a minuet, of which I have no practical experience. This is the only dance of the evening we have not rehearsed at a practice session earlier in the day.
"Can I fake one?" I asked one of the instructor/callers.
"You can try, if you know what you're doing."
Which I don't, at least not exactly. The minuet refers to any number of dances, and there is no clue as to which one our hosts intend. But like dancing at a fancy ball, I have also dreamed of dancing a minuet at a fancy ball, and so I intend to do my best.
I bow to a young Regency lady, asking for a dance.
"Do you know the minuet?" she asks. "I don't."
"Well, I don't either," I reply. "But if you follow my lead, we shall both be fine."
Couples are lining up in two columns, facing our trio of musicians: Japanese keyboard, violin and English flute. My dancing partner and I take a position near the rear of a long row. If both of us blow it, it will look fairly inconspicuous.
The secret to my scheme lies in situational awareness. We will need to follow the lead of the couple in front of us, and in front of that couple. Everybody will be doing the same dance the same way. Just what way is about to be revealed.
It starts easily enough, with a courtly bow and a curtsy to the players and to each other. Then the gentleman and lady take hands and begin moving daintily about each other. It's ballet before people knew what ballet was. I'm watching the footwork and the movement of the gentleman in front of me as I try to synchronize my movements. I'm about a second behind as I tread lightly around the lady with a fancy flourish of my hands or my tricorn. It's a beatiful dance, even though I have only a faint idea of what I'm doing.
Five minutes after this charade begins, it is all over with another courtly bow to my partner, who seems pleased and satisfied. The ultimate irony: if she was true to her Regency persona reflected in her dress, she probably wouldn't have danced the minuet in the first place.
MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW ARE KNOWN
The first country dance of the evening is about to begin. Now the real test of my abilities begins. I have rehearsed this dance earlier, but now I will have to do it with little or no help from a caller.
From my experience and travels, a caller is the guiding light in historical English dance. That person is there to help you enjoy the evening by not forcing you to know hundreds of dances, as those Colonial Virginians did. Yet we are not among novices. So the procedure will be this: the caller will briefly walk us through one iteration of the dance, since the steps all repeat in a loop. The music will begin, and the dance will be called during the opening iteration, and then the caller will drop out, leaving us to our own skill... or lack of it. This is where the reassurances of the Dancing Master Emeritus shall be put to the test.
I bow to my new partner and get to it.
If I err, I err slightly. Others are far from flawless. We help each other in the lines, softly prompting each other or pointing where to go. I imagine those Colonial Virginian dancers did the same to guide and correct each other, not in anger but in love.
The first dances fly by, and my apprehensions about the material dissolves. Now I can focus on my other responsibilities... like honouring the ladies.
SHE'S THE ONE
Many attending have come as couples, but in the courteous tradition of historic dance, the guests are encouraged to dance with as many different partners as possible -- especially the gentlemen.
Some call that a requirement. I call it a blessing. The mathematics of historic dance always seems to favour the honourable; more ladies than gents always attend such functions. In every dance, several ladies end up dancing with each other because there either not enough gentlemen or not enough gentlemen willing to dance.
Not me. I know what to look for. The ladies who are desirous of a dance are nearly always standing on the edge of the floor, looking a bit forlorn or lost, scanning the crowds with their eyes to see if a gent might be walking their way...
"My lady, do you have a partner for this next dance?" I ask in my aristocratic British accent as I bow to a lady, a question I shall repeat as the night progresses. When she says no, true to my suspicions, I add the predicate: "May I have the honour of this dance."
"Honour." Always "honour." Never the vernacular shorthand. Everything is done in honour to the ladies. Every step shows them honour. The mannered Colonial gent shall look his partner in the eye in the spirit of Christian love. When I bow to them, I shall bow low and with great reverence, as if each one of them were The Queen.
"My Lady," I say upon rising. "I thank you for such a wonderful dance. And I thank you for your patience and tolerance of my faults."
I have been told such overly courtly manners are more than what is required. The ladies, however, merely smile and enjoy it, returning the thank-yous with another curtsy and maybe a blush.
LEAD ME ON
One of the many callers of the evening assures us we can master the steps of the last dance before the break for refreshments.
"They look much harder than they actually are," he says after he's walked us through it once.
In his mind, he's right. But for us novices, we need more help with its looping figures which take us inside and outside our little groups of four along the line. At least in my line, several of us are more than a bit confused.
But when the dance begins, his calling dissolves. We are on our own, lost in time and space beyond the first few figures. A few others are getting through, but the dance's rapid pace does not allow them the opportunity to prompt us with a quiet word or gesture.
My partner and I along with the couple next to us do the only thing we can. Stand. Stand and look admirably to each other. Try to keep the dance's progression going as neatly as we can without disrupting the other couples. But like bubbles in a torrid sea, we can't escape our fate as we rise to the top.
Fortunately, our caller has gotten the hint. "All right, let's halt," he says, seeing the need to walk us through it again.
"He needs to call it," I observe to my partner. "Sometimes you just have to call it. This isn't like in Colonial Virginia. We don't do this for a living!"
My partner smiles and curtsies to me again, "Thank you, my kind sir!"
We walk through it again. We amble through it once more as the music resumes. And somehow, we learn it. Our caller is right in the end, but if only the journey was less agonizing.
THE INNER CIRCLE
Circle mixers are my delight, for they allow me to dance with as many ladies as possible -- all in one dance. For the sole one of the night, our leaders choose "Indian Princess," a variant of the dance "Indian Queen," which was originally developed with Pocahontas in mind.
The steps are easy and lively: setting to your partner, passing them by and turning another lady next to you, then returning to your partner, setting to them again, passing them again to the other lady on the other side and turning them. Then you turn your partner a couple of times before progressing three places down to meet a new partner, where everything begins again.
Nobody needs to call this dance, at least not for long. Everyone picks it up right away, in two large circles as we skip around one another and allow our joy to pour out of us.
It is my tradition to raise my free hand whenever I am turning a lady -- an affectation many of my dancing friends at home warmly embrace. Abroad, it is harder to convince others to let their light shine through. It is true for this group... until I spot a gentleman next to me raising his free hand high in exhaultation.
"They're doing it," I laugh to my partner. "They're doing it! HUZZAH!"
I shout more huzzahs when the dance ends over joyous applause.
LET THE LADY LEAD
I am only planning to sit out two dances this evening. One of them is "Prince William," a dance that threw my friend Madame and I into a near fit of frustration at a Scottish ball in Tucson. It is a beautiful dance, but it is also filled with complicated figures and turns and the dreaded "crossover hey." For a pro it's no sweat. For a novice, it's too much all at once.
But as I am walking away from the floor, a lady turns the tables on me.
"Did you want to dance this one?"
"My Lady, as much as I would like to, I didn't do it very well at the rehearsal this afternoon. But I can do it if you lead me strongly."
She agrees she can, and we line up in a three-couple set. A saving grace of the dance is that if a few dancers mess up, the effects can't ripple through the entire ballroom like in longways dances. We could mess up as much as we wanted in our little group of six and the dance police wouldn't pull us over.
So we start the dance, which should look something like this, as demonstrated by another group:
Now imagine that same dance with one lady pointing at several of us to single when to move and who to turn. She did not have to make an exasperating amount of gestures, to our relief. And eventually, we all learn the dance, including that crossover hey, more or less.
"There's a bulge in it," another lady had explained to me at the earlier rehearsal. And by golly, that cleared things up for your humble servant.
LONG AGO AND FAR AWAY
The other dance I intended to sit out, "The Punch Bowl," came with fair warning not to attempt to learn on the floor. So I sit it out -- for real this time, with no lady jumping in to rescue and prompt me at the last moment. That's when I encounter a lady in garb at least one century earlier than most of the room.
"I see you have embraced the Renaissance," I complimented.
"Yes! This is from the De Medici era of Italy," she explained, describing her green dress adorned with hundreds of hand-stitched beads. She talks about her life as a Renaissance re-enactor in Crownsville, Maryland. She had shifted timelines from later eras. But she was still fond of historic dance of the Colonial era, even though she was choosing to sit out the second half of the program. Her body would only allow her so much.
A tinge of sadness flashes through me. I know there might well come a time when my "dancing days are done," as George Washington once lamented as he turned down an invitation to join an assembly late in his life. For the life of me, though, I shall fight that day until I breathe my last. You can bury me on the dance floor.
THE LAST MINUET
The second half of the ball flies by as quickly as the first. By 11pm, it is time to call the festivies to a close. After a final French contredanse, our orchestra indulges a common wish for a final waltz with the ladies and gentlemen who came together.
Some may waltz. Others will minuet, and that other would be me, as I saunter amongst the couples, holding my hands gracefully in three-quarter time in a solo, improvised caper, but I don't want it to end like this.
I quickly locate another of those ladies standing on the side of the ballroom floor, scanning the crowds, and ask for a waltz.
So we start to waltz. But I have a last request.
"My lady, I often dance an improvised minuet with my partners back home. If you are willing to learn, I can lead you through it. Would you like to try? It's like a country dance we make up as we go along."
She agrees with a smiling nod, and I begin the number, starting by turning her by right and left hands, and then backing away, coming forward, and then turning single before siding to each other. The secret is in the hand signals. I call the next step just before it's done, and the lady follows my lead. It's not in perfect synchronization, but it looks beautiful as the Earl of Suffolk in his gold attire steps stately around a lady of the Colonies in her green and pink floral dress, rosy cheeks highlighting her smiling face. She is a quick learner.
"Thank you for indulging me," I say after a low and final bow.
A FRIEND IN HISTORY
All during the evening, a Colonial lad thought he spotted a familiar face. After most of the others had left, we met up as I was talking to another.
"Your face is familiar," he said to me, "But I can't place it."
I looked at his nametag. I instantly recognized it.
Now the light was on. In my change from Civil War to Colonial attire, John couldn't place me. But now he remembers, and he's happy to see me both well and not in need of another ice cube pressed up against a major artery.
I know he loves to dance. John had mentioned an opportunity at Manassas last summer, and I knew I wouldn't be able to take him up on it in the short timeframe I had for the trip. "Oh, just break my heart!" I had said.
But now, here we are, neither expecting the other. History repeats. I indulge him to take a few pictures of your humble servant before the time comes to say good night.
AND IN THE MORNING...
The afterglow is with me through the night and into the morning as I walk in Colonial Williamsburg. The ball is like a dream now, something I cannot believe happened, and yet it did. Wistfulness and sadness tinges within me. At times my life is measured as time between fancy balls.
I don't know if I will ever see most of my new dancing companions ever again. Expense and real life will only allow me so many of these ball adventures.
Yet as I walk down Duke Of Gloucester Street, I spot a group of familiar young ladies, who instantly spot your humble servant. I'm not wearing any historic attire anymore -- just shorts, tennis shoes, and a red jacket... but topped with a tricorn hat.
They greet me again, smiling, their ball gowns exchanged for sweaters and skirts.
It's not an adventure to Virginia without some adventure in getting there. The first two legs play out flawlessly. The planes are on time. The crews for the planes are on time. The pilot on the Tucson-to-Chicago leg pushes tin and gets us into Midway 15 minutes ahead of schedule, even as he dodges storm clouds. Even the rental car surprises me: Budget puts me into a Chevy Impala, as opposed to the Toyota Yaris I've gotten in two past ventures, both of which illuminated the "Check Engine" light just as I was returning them.
At 4:20pm EST, I fully expect to be in Williamsburg by 5pm, with perhaps time to change into my period attire for a candlelight concert at the Raleigh Tavern. Then I start up Interstate 64. The warning from the electronic sign minces no words: "I-64 BACKED UP 8 MILES."
In an instant, Norfolk becomes Los Angeles. Cars slow to a crawl. Virginia State Police patrol the diamond lanes, flashing their blue lights and perhaps busting a few motorists who decide to violate the HOV rules or drive on the shoulder.
The radio traffic reporter is incredulous: "There's a mondo backup on the Westbound 64 from about the tunnel on." Already I'm coming in contact with history; it's the first time I can recall a traffic jockey using the word "mondo."
Cars creep forward. 4:30 turns to 5:00 and then 5:30, and I still haven't hit the BB&T. At this rate I'll be lucky to make into Williamsburg by 8pm. By 6:00, I'm finally through the tunnel, out of the backup, without seeing any trace of the traffic anomaly that started the whole thing.
"It's a really bad Friday out there! I-64 still backed up from the tunnel. For some reason it has just never recovered from the earlier situation," the traffic lady updates.
Now I will have to push tin, within reason. I once got a ticket on Highway 93 outside Las Vegas for doing 104 miles per hour after neglecting the speedometer on a lonely stretch of desert highway. Now in Hampton Roads, I don't have an opportunity to repeat the deed as the line of traffic mysteriously slows again, this time outside of Yorktown, and again, for no obvious reason. I can only surmise the combination of rush-hour traffic and Friday getaways is coming together to my disadvantage.
By 6:30, I roll into Williamsburg. After getting thrown off course in my journey towards the historic area, I duck into a garage and beat a charge towards the Raleigh Tavern. Colonial Williamsburg gives off a beautiful tranquility at night. Modern lighting, what little there is, sparsely illuminates the streets. Not only am I seeing the past, I'm seeing reminders of my past visits, the sights and the atmosphere that has me wondering what in tarnation I'm doing in Arizona.
I slip into the Tavern and hope the ticket-taker in period attire will have mercy on a soul who has just traveled 2,000 some miles by plane, 40 more miles per car, and is wearing shorts in March, as per Tucson tradition.
"The ticket office was closed," I explain to him as he shines a non-period LED flashlight on my voucher, which would've been exchanged for a proper admission slip had the proper office been properly open instead of shutting down 15 minutes before closing time.
"Well, I've got a list here," he says, pulling out a piece of paper, scanning it for my name. I'm not on it. But he is kind and hospitable -- as so many people in Virginia are -- and my paperwork proof is enough to gain your humble servant passage.
I soon forget about the Interstate quagmire as candles -- real ones, not electric -- illuminate the small side room. In October 1771, a concert featuring a radical new instrument, the pianoforte (which means "soft-loud" in Italian) took place here. And this is what we are about to see as our players enter the room.
"I must apologize to the ladies," our pianoforte player notes playfully, "for I have offended you in a way you weren't even aware of. We made you enter through the front door, which means you had to pass by the bar. In the 18th Century, you never would have brought a lady around that way. There are two other private entrances here for you."
The trio consists of pianoforte, viola da gamba -- essentially a six-string bass violin that's tuned like a lute -- and a German flute. They are with the "Governor's Musick," one of Colonial Williamsburg's top interpretive groups. So when they begin to play, the clock instantly winds back 200 years with the opening strains of John Ranish's Sonota opus 2, Number 7, Adiago and Allegro. Pieces by Theodore Smith and Francisco Guerini follow. It's like a lullaby in the night, a reminder of what I came here for, what I would love to do if I wasn't so rooted in Arizona.
"We're so spoiled here in the 21st Century," the keyboardist notes midway through the concert. "Music is just a mouse click away." He tells us how his instrument was high tech for its time, primarily because of its touch response -- a lighter keystroke produces a softer sound. The pianoforte was to the harpsicord what Moog or ARP would later be to the piano.
Somehow I'm able to resist the temptation to dance. It's probably becauase I'm not in my breeches and tricorn. But when the trio plays a closing minuet, I can close my eyes and see myself bowing to Madame Noire before I move gracefully around her.
"I had this dream where we were doing this beautiful dance from the Renaissance," she once told me. I know she would love to be by my side right now, soaking up all the Colonial atmosphere.
We'll have that dance, My Lady. Our day will come.
After a hot, sweaty, opening skirmish, the 2nd Virginia gets an invitation to take the lead role, and this time, your humble servant is along for the fight.
Darkness envelops the camps, pierced by a stray headlight from a vehicle delivering supplies to the moonlit tent cities. Police and security buzz the perimeter of the camp, situating themselves for a long day of crowd control. Not even a stray snore cuts through the soupy morning air.
I enter our camp, jacket in hand. I am the first to arrive. I thought at least a few officers would already be here, even before the morning bugle. A few soldiers sleep in the tents. The rest of us have spent the night at a nearby hotel. Re-enacting lets you pick and choose your level of submersion into the military way of life. A cool bed and a cold shower are well-accepted amenities.
The wake-up trumpet sounds across the camps just minutes after three of our officers arrive. "That's a good bugler," one notes as he sits in the darkness.
"I need to visit the sutlers," I say to them. "I lost my kepi on the way in."
"We found one," another replies. "It was lying in the road." I'm not 100 percent sure it's mine, but it fits.
The others stroll in as morning rises to meet us. It's going to be another tough one: high humidity. High heat. However, there's a 40 percent chance of showers. Ordinarily, this would be something we would root for, but not with the tents. Rain means mold. Mold means hours of scrubbing down stained canvas.
This time, I'm rested and ready. My hydration is at a level that will let me function through the sticky Virginia day. I'm ready to come to Stonewall Jackson's aid.
"Officer in the camp!" a voice calls. All of us stop what we're doing, rise up out of our chairs and snap to a salute to the commander who has just walked inside our perimeter.
He calls over our Colonel for a discussion. The two converse outside our hearing as we go about our morning business, sitting and drinking water and making sure we have our supplies in order for the day's battle. Before long, we learn those battle plans are changing.
Most of the 33rd Virginia is gone this morning, deciding not to battle another day of humidity along with the Federals. What's more, one of their commanders has had a medical emergency. A few remain, but some other battalion has to step into their lead role and absorb the holdouts.
Our Colonel huddles us up for a morning meeting. We are more than happy to fill the spot, but the commander giving us the invitation has a request for us: we need to shed our grey wool shell coats. The 33rd Virginia didn't wear them; we actually need blue shirts on instead. The officer making the request, however, understands we may not have the time or cash to invest a spur-of-the moment wardrobe change. Our white shirts will do nicely.
The lead role in the battle will bring other advantages besides less wool to sweat in: we will get an earlier starting time, meaning we will finish earlier and be able to start packing up sooner. We will have less time standing around waiting to be sent in as reinforcements. We'll fire more shots. Everybody will see more action.
"You're in my company," one of the captains says, noticing my pacing as I itch for battle. "And I'm ordering you to sit down and don't overheat."
I remove my old reliable 1861 Springfield musket from its sack. It has rusted a bit on the outside after the trip from Arizona, but it looks all right. During inspection, though, it fails to cock properly, meaning it's no good for battle. I figure rust may have invaded the lock, meaning the hammer won't hold where it's supposed to. If we had more time, I could take it apart and clean it out with some help from one of several gun experts in the camp. But we have to form up and march out. I swap my Springfield for a loaner Enfield from the regimental armory. I could learn to like this weapon: it's lighter and easier to carry on a long march.
"Yeah," the recruit in the file right of me agrees. "It's that's thinner barrel."
We are among the first Confederates to take the battlefield. No standing around waiting for something to happen.
"Prone!" barks a commander. At least, that's what it sounded like. I have never heard the command before. I don't know if he called "Prone!" or "Prime!" or something else, but it means get down on the ground, out of sight, out of range.
For the next 15 minutes, we lay in the grass, sneaking a glance at the Yankee standards hundreds of yards away, peaking out over the tall grass that is rife with spiders, ticks, grasshoppers and hornets. A monster stinging insect nearly buzzes my face. I'm glad the horses haven't trotted through this area before us.
A lady walks between our laid-out ranks delivering ice to anybody who holds out their kepi. I stretch it back to her, and the cubes she deliver go down my shirt and into my mouth, the rest melting into the cap for a cooldown.
Any moment now, we're going to get the order to advance.
When we do, the next 15 minutes rushes by in a stew of shooting, moving and firing. We gain major ground quickly, taking the Yankee artillery. But then we head towards stalemate, hyphenated by my own frustration as I pinch musket caps to get them to fit on the Enfield's smaller nipple. Across from us stand a persistent line of Federals in red shirts, and they just aren't going down.
It takes twice as long for me to fire, but commanders are prodding us: "Load, boys, load!" My Captain sees me rushing to get loaded and slows me down. "Take your time," he says in a low voice. "Don't rush it." Maybe he sees me turning red again like yesterday. The only thing heating up is the gun barrel. The Springfield disperses heat very well. The Enfield is holding it in.
We push on. We fall back. The ranks grow ragged as we rush to form up.
"Dress this line!" I call, trying to help my brothers in arms keep in line.
"Somebody needs to take a hit!"
Comrades to the right and left of me go down on volleys, and we pull them back up again as we advance, recycling them back into the unit. Nobody wants to lie around and play dead in a battle this large and exciting. Do it right, and the crowds don't even know it. Still, about a dozen mock casualties litter the space between us and them. At least one whips out a pocket camera and covertly squeezes off a few frames around himself. A couple of men in period attire dart between the lines, huddled over small video cameras. Official souvenir DVD's will be out in a few weeks.
Pressing on after shooting off some 30 or so rounds, we drive the Federals back behind the tree line -- and they've left us some booty.
"Plunder that water supply!" our Colonel barks.
Cases of Nestle water bottles sit in the open, waiting to be devoured. We break ranks, grabbing and drinking as much as we can before falling back into line for the next order to advance.
In front of us, the cavalry units are charging and putting on a show, one barely visible to people in the bleachers. A few more lines advance, and then just as suddenly as it began, it's all over.
"That's it, boys, the Yankees are leaving," a commander says.
And so are the crowds. Whether it's the heat, or the mistaken feeling that most of the action has ended, the stands are emptying out quickly. But appreciation is everywhere. Journeying back to camp, and throughout the day, spectators stop us and thank us, asking groups of us to pose for a picture or two.
I am chilled out and walking in the clouds. At last, I got to be a part of the battle, and oh what a battle. We agree universally this was the better battle of the two, whereas yesterday the unit did a lot of standing around and waiting to move in on cue. Nobody cares that this skirmish didn't last as long. Every moment counted.
As soon as most visitors are gone, we start taking the camp apart. The sun emerges from behind the clouds, and we're glad it held off so long. Tents come down and go into the trailer as we sort through all our personal effects. Soldiers trade the wool pants and linen shirts for tees and shorts.
By 4:00, we're loaded up and moving out, exhausted and happy and planning a pizza party back at the hotel with a dip in the pool afterwards. Our Confederate ancestors never had it so good, which is humbling. We brought smiles to a lot of faces today, which is uplifting. We fulfilled our mission, which is inspiring.
"Officer in the camp!"
People jump to attention and salute as one of the lead generals stops by the breakfast area of the hotel, where we're wolfing down Costco's best Italian pies. He smiles and laughs at us in joyous admiration, praising us for stepping up to fill an urgent need.
"I would have liked to visit with you more," he says. "But as they say where I'm from, I was busier than a one-armed pickpocket at a county fair!"
We invite him to stay and break crust, but he and his wife are off to find the best authentic Southern food they can get, collared greens and all. Still, he has to proclaim his love for his Arizona gunslingers, who come so far and do so much.
In war, the history books teach one thing, but the soldiers remember another. It is hardly cinematic or comprehensive. Each battle is personal, focused not on the whole but on the instant. When it's all over, I don't remember the big picture -- the lines on the map with the arrows and circles pointing the direction of the troops and where they marched or retreated. I remember the lone Yankee who charged from the line in desperation to be picked off with one of our shots. I remember that solid walls of Federals in front of me that weren't moving anywhere. Memories of the rote and struggle of firing at will fix in my head. A taste of fear is in there somewhere, fear not of getting killed but of not keeping up, not looking good on the field. It's not nearly comparable to its mortal cousin, but it's still fear.
Unlike my younger compatriots, this news producer's body isn't in the best shape for battle. I gather one could say that about a few old Confederates. But the heart will compensate for many things and drive forward just like the lines pushing those Federals back.
Laird Christopher submerges himself into his dearest diversion for a third time amongst the merry assembly of the 
It's not an adventure to Virginia without some adventure in getting there. The first two legs play out flawlessly. The planes are on time. The crews for the planes are on time. The pilot on the Tucson-to-Chicago leg pushes tin and gets us into Midway 15 minutes ahead of schedule, even as he dodges storm clouds. Even the rental car surprises me: Budget puts me into a Chevy Impala, as opposed to the Toyota Yaris I've gotten in two past ventures, both of which illuminated the "Check Engine" light just as I was returning them.
