As Told By Christopher, Boatman of The Ol’ Miss and the Mighty Mo'
(although mistakenly attributed to a certain Finn)
Daguerreotypes by Mr. M. Cynecki
After the war between the states, a lot of folks I knew headed west. I was not sure what they were after, more than a change of scenery and maybe some steady work.
That’s how I ended up on a barge running from Kansas City to St. Louis and down the Mississippi. Everywhere I go I carry the scars of a ball to my arm in Gettysburg, but the captain admired my service to Virginia and the Confederacy and gave me a job. A friend of mine who served as a Colonel had the same idea after Vicksburg. He heard of Arizona from a Sergeant turned rancher familiar with the land and new opportunities. He talked of the socials and fine barbecue every Friday night. I could have told him he need only travel to Kansas City for the barbecue. He was determined, however, and he made the long journey there.
Once rooted there, he sent word of success to everyone he knew. One of his letters found my hand in St. Charles, and as the banks of the Missouri floated past, his pen told of investments in the thriving copper mine at Ajo and the blossoming town of Tucson. He said we needed to see the future for ourselves. All I could see was the same trees and landmarks and towns I had passed hundreds of times before. If it were not for my arm, my captain would have let me pilot the boat blindfolded in the dead of night with full confidence of reaching New Orleans unscratched.
He gave me leave to journey to Arizona on the condition I would explore new shipping opportunities. Two weeks later, after a patchwork voyage by train and horse, I arrived in Tucson just in time for one of those socials.
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We meet in a church hall east of town. I had not had time to visit a proper tailor, so I wear the best work clothes I have, along with a hat I picked up in Tombstone. As the last of the ladies and gentlemen arrive, the Colonel stands tall in front of us in his white suit and hat, promising a fine time and introducing our musicians, who called themselves The Privvytippers. I still wonder about that name and how they got it.
He is soon taking the floor, leading things off with a bow to his beautiful wife and leading her through an opening promenade. I realize I have no lady to escort, until I look way on the other side of the hall. I run like lightning to find a lady unaccompanied within a group of three. It puts me in a delicate spot, but I pull off my hat and bow to the one whose smile first catches my eye, and we take each others’ arms.
We wind through the room, marching and skipping along the way, eventually ending up in a circle. The Colonel honors the guests with some as he calls them out to dance in the middle.
“All those wearing hats!”
“All those from Maricopa County!”
“All those from Pinal County!”
This is where he voices his dry Arizona humor:
“All those over six feet!”
“All those under five feet!”
“All those over 200 pounds!”
“All redheads!”
After some more circling, a mixer, and some more bows, I find myself another lady for a set dance. It has my partner and I arching our arms and running up and down the other lines before sashaying and weaving about. That weaving step, one they call a pousette, has my lady anxious, but I keep reassuring her.
“Don’t worry about movin’ at exactly the same time,” I say as the couples pousette back and forth. “Just don’t run into anybody.” We didn’t.
Another lady and I settle down into a waltz, a simple unflourished two-step I would dub my “Missouri Waltz.” All around me, folks are getting fancy. They twirl a few times here and there, but every time I attempt it, it either starts or ends awkwardly. I am heartened my partner is forgiving of my monotony, even if it is in line with the rhythm.
Our skilled caller, Miss Becky, teaches us something new, a dance in four-couple squares familiar to the Colonel… but the term is not.
“Quadrille,” I volunteer.
“Quadrille!” he acknowledges.
All the couples take turns leading around the set and gently nudging the other couples into the dance.
“Push Pa! Push Ma! Swing that gal from Arkansas!” our caller sings.
Some show off a bit, pretending like they’re going to fall flat on their face when they feel the push to meet a partner from the opposite side of the square.
“Behave yourself,” the Colonel smiles when I play along with the act.
Later we try something a little more familiar: “Birdie In A Cage”
I offer a dance to a spirited young lady who’s eager to skip about. Perhaps she is a little too eager. As we circle back and forth, swing, and promenade around, she constantly chases after her breath, laboring to catch it. Yet she is not distressed at all. She smiles through the entire dance, enjoying the moments and trying to dispel my concerns as the ladies and gents take turns stepping in and out of the middle of the circle after swinging with others. Thank goodness for the refreshments of punch and ice cold spring water delivered fresh from Mt. Lemmon.
A few wee children are anxious to join in every dance, even if they’re barely tall enough to reach the bottom of our hands. Advising them to sit a complex number gnaws at us, but the time comes to draw them back into our arms.
A girl of six, to my best guess, wanders about as the Privvytippers begin another waltz. I bow to her and offer her my hand.
“Would you like to waltz with me?” I query in a polite and tender voice.
She is shy and of few words. I know she wants to dance, but a fear churns within her. Her head down, facing away from me, she shakes her head in silence, even with my reassurances she has nothing to fear. She scurries off to the side.
But moments later, as I two-step with another, I spot her again. She is reaching up into the arms of the Colonel’s wife, swaying from side to side on the floor and savoring the opportunity to cavort with the grownups once again.
In a mixer later on, she has no reservations in skipping about with me and another young lad who labors as a deputy sheriff in Tombstone… along with his also-deputized sister. They are fast on the draw and light on their feet.
And one must be light on the feet for the Virginia Reel. I know it well, as should every fine citizen of Virginia (it right ought to be a condition of residency) but its popularity has infected the nation. When the music begins, the native Arizonans dance it with fervor, hardly waiting for the caller to advance to the next figure.
As if to cool us off, the Privvytippers pick off a holiday favorite:
“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!”
September is close enough to December, is it not?
Everyone in the set seizes their chance to skip forward and back, to swing and honoring the partners from the opposite end and sashay their own to the bottom and lead the line around through the arches. But nothing is complete without a big finish.
“Swing your partner!” the Colonel bellows, and we comply without hesitation.
“Now swing someone else!”
Dancers reach for whoever they can find, stranding a few who race to swing a lady or gent left alone.
“Swing somebody from another set!”
We race across the room, looking to grab that lonesome lady or gent with the eye of an eagle swooping down on a fish.
“Now swing two or three!”
Everyone grabs anyone they can find, laughing through the most enjoyable chaos they will ever know, as hands grab elbows and hook partners unexpectedly from the sides.
“FREE FOR ALL!”
The room spins out of control into a swinging mayhem, restrained only by gravity. Only a few minutes leave us fanning for air.
Even after that, however, we still have enough fervor within us for a pumpkin dance, the follow-up to the ever-popular pineapple dance from earlier in the evening.
“Anything worth doing once…” I think out loud as the Colonel announces it, letting my thought trail off into a smile.
So the pumpkin is passed or even tossed about to couples who skip hand and hand down the line in groups of two or often three.
Some charge forth as if they are reliving their days behind enemy lines. Some reel about as if they are dancing a hectic round.
Even after all of that, more enthusiasm bubbles up within them. They engage in “Chase The Jackrabbit” as if the evening is just beginning.
Minutes elapse faster than we can count them, and a last waltz arrives. I bow to that young lady deputy sheriff, whom I find is well-versed in a box step. In seconds, I learn from her.
“The foot that isn’t on the outside sort of drags,” she explains to me. I had never heard it explained to me any clearly. With her direction, I worry not about looking down at her feet but into her beautiful countenance, as any gentleman should.
“She is a wonderful dancer and a wonderful teacher,” I compliment to her family after the tune dissolves and we honor each other.
The starry skies of Tucson illuminate us as we venture into the night, pausing for some coffee or some orange juice along the way. Thirst must be quenched. But our feet have had their fill.
Y'all see more scenes and stories of the good 'ol time here!
NEXT: Defend The Plantation
AHEAD: Aim and Amiability
LATER: Away To The Camp!
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