A Few Steps More

Taking my dancing skills forward with the Tucson Friends Of Traditional Music.

My colonial, three-cornered, black-and-white tricorn lay next to me in the passenger seat like a good friend cheering me on.

I sit in the car a few moments, thoughts flashing back to the night two-and-a-half years ago when I nervously stepped through a side door and into another century wearing breeches with an oversized colonial officer’s coat, head topped by the same tricorn. I say a prayer, take my hat, and walk out into the warm Tucson evening on the last night of May.

Three people stand inside the door of First United Methodist Church, one at the cashbox.

“Is this your first time?” the lady taking admissions asks.

“Yes and no,” I say. “Not here.”

Contra dance is a derivative of English Country Dance, the dance of the 1700’s colonists, of Washington and Pride and Prejudice. I’ve stepped though them many times before, in the full period attire. This night I wear dress shorts and a brown plaid button-down shirt with sneakers, putting myself in line with the advisory on the society’s website: “Casual.”

Inside the sparsely lit ballroom I tally a half-dozen couples in street clothes, tennis shoes and lightweight skirts. No knee pants, no ruffled ball gowns, no wigs or cocked hats, except for the one I brought in. I am not stepping into an antique painting. I feel underdressed. I am not sure why I am here, pushing myself into a group of dancing strangers. I could say I’m curious, and that would be most accurate.

“Newcomers, over here!” our caller announces. She waves a few ladies and gentlemen over for a demonstration of basic steps. A woman in a casual red-laced skirt stands next to me. She’s 20 years my senior, if I have to guess.

Everything is to an eight-count, our caller explains. That’s familiar. We walk back and forth in a few circles to get the hang of it. She demonstrates a swing, and the familiarity ends. It’s not hoe-down swing, elbow to elbow or even a graceful turn of your partner with hands at shoulder level. This is a waltzing swing, taking hold of the lady in your arms and spinning with gusto for as long as you can, perhaps as fast as you can, until the eight-count ends.

You can get dizzy, our caller advises. “Pick out a part of your partner’s face. If you don’t want to look into her eyes, look at her nose.” I’d rather look at her eyes and hold my breath.

A do-si-do is no mere back-to-back maneuver, but another whirling spectacle as you and your partner circle round each other. My partners can whirl for now. I practice swinging my partner.

“I think that’s right,” I say after ending up with her to my right as is proper.

I try a balance with it, stepping forward and back, hand in hand. She smiles. She neither discourages or encourages me. We are learning together.

“You want to dance with as many partners as possible,” says our caller -- another rule not amended from century to century.

The caller announces the first dance and I seek a partner. Men casually approach the women: “Wanna dance?”

This is what passes for honors? As long as that tricorn is on my head, I cannot follow a suit of such inelegant queries. I approach a lady in a t-shirt and skirt, sweep off my hat, and bow with outstretched leg, the Williamsburg way.

She accepts with gusto, and we line up in a longways set. Soon we launch into a centrifugal rollercoaster ride of circles and swings and left-hand stars, progressing up and down the line, gaining just enough breath between figures to continue on for the full dance. I bow to my lady and find another partner, and the next dance feels much like the first, with the moves jumbled up and the whirling and circling just as intense.

The spinning hurls the sense from my brain, and I sometimes lose track of what figure comes next, thus the need for patient and forgiving dancers and a dutiful caller: “Circles!” “Ladies!” “Do-si-do!” “Swing!” The sweat pours down my forehead. This only after two dances. My tricorn is a fan when the music halts.

It may be the lack of air conditioning in the church hall, or the residual warmth of a scorching Tucson afternoon, or my underhydration for such happy exertion, but I desperately need a break. It puts me in the minority of dancers, most of whom are craving more.

Two jugs of spring water stand at attention outside the ballroom, and I graciously down a cup, enjoying the replenishment as I strike up a conversation with one of the men at the door who saw me enter. I note again this is my first time with the group.

“I’m with a group called We Make History,” I say, something I’ll repeat a few times through the night. “We do different dances from different time periods.”

I talk about the different balls and the styles, from seventeenth-century through the Civil War. I mention dancing a stamina-challenging 30-minute long Virginia Reel.

“You know where the reel comes from, don’t you?”

No I don’t. But I’ll take a shot at it.

“Scotland, I think.”

“A lot of reel music is from Scotland, but the reel is from France.”

So the next time I drain my energy stripping the willow or swinging my way up and down the set, I can praise the French for my consumption.

I replenish myself enough to rejoin the other dancers. After taking my place in the set with a new lady, I see my practice partner in the red skirt ducking out the door. She hurries off without any goodbyes. Perchance she was late for another appointment. Maybe two or three whirls around the set fulfilled her need for diversion. Hopefully the gentlemen were not ignoring her.

The experienced contra dancers stand out in every figure. They spin with the grace of ballerinas and frenzy of dervishes. Ladies’ skirts spin up to an immodest degree. The seasoned women pull you to them with a fisherman’s strength, stare straight into your eyes, and silently demand you give them focus during a hearty swing.

“I noticed your eye contact,” one lady says to me. “That’s very contra.”

Other ladies notice what’s above my eyes. They snicker at my three-cornered hat and shake their heads back and forth as we turn together.

“It’s like I’m dancing with somebody on Masterpiece Theatre,” one partner interjects.

Some mistakenly compliment me with a “yaarrr,” to which the Standard Correction follows: “It’s not a pirate hat; it’s a patriot hat!”

I explain why I’m wearing it: bridging the gap between English Country Dancing and its sibling. Lights flick on between their ears -- “oh!” -- as they recall the connection.

The fiddler and pianist play a waltz, and a lady approaches me. “Wanna waltz?”

I merely bow to her.

“I’m not the greatest waltzer,” I repeat, wondering to myself how many times I’ve said that to ladies. “Perhaps you should lead.”

She does. She knows how. I reluctantly look down at my feet to make sure the music and steps line up. I look up, and for a moment, I’m somewhere in the eighteenth century.

“I prefer to give my attention to your face,” I say with a light British tone.

“Oh no! Not the accent,” she grins.

Oh yes, the accent. Viscount Christopher or Christopher the Patriot or Christopher the Colonist fully emerges. Part of him is there through the rest of the evening, as others compliment me on my hat, glance at it or break a smile. They forgive me for my foul-ups and lead me where I need to go. I’m exhausting myself but know my presence is appreciated and welcomed.

The crowd thins as the clock ticks on. The experienced dancers draw from a deep well of energy, but even that runs dry eventually, as couples quietly disappear. By eleven, the hall sits nearly empty, and I find myself without a lady to take in my arms.

I retreat into the past with a freestyle minuet, walking in graceful three-quarter time about the hall. I pivot and weave amongst the couples with hands held open. Somewhere on the sparsely populated wooden floor I picture a lady in full gown, turning with me, a ghost of the past.

“You’re more graceful than a lot of newbies,” the caller compliments.

Those who are left, including me, help reset the tables cleared out before the dance began, and I assist with packing up the sound system. The evening isn’t over until we are all on our merry way.

“We could follow you all the way down the set in that hat,” the fiddler tells me.

Once again, I talk to the man who greeted me at the door and his wife, who I now know as the organizers. They thank me for coming, and we talk more about the dances I’ve done and who’s stepping back in time in Tucson.

“I have full colonial attire,” I say. “Blue satin with breeches and a jabot and a gold-trimmed tricorn.”

They encourage me to wear it one evening, should I so desire.

I’m stunned. “I didn’t want to intimidate anyone,” I explained. “I thought about it, but decided not to.” In the Tucson heat, I’m not sure if I would want to, anyway. But I’m tempted to come back as the unabashed colonial gentleman. I envision the ladies snickering once again over that.

My shins throb. Sunday morning will ache. I need a caffeine fix. But I’ve taken care of the curiosity, and I shall return in my own grace and borrowed time.

Two days later, my right ankle still abhors me. I limp all over the newsroom.

“What happened to you?”

“Saturday night,” I say. “It’s a long story.”

“Did you dance?”

“Oh, yes.”