Square dancing is a contact sport

by Dan Skantar

With more than a little trepidation, I decided to check out CAC’s square dance.  Why the jitters?  Well, my most recent square dancing experience was way back in the eighth grade.  (How long ago was that?  Hint: The Godfather won the Oscar for Best Picture that year.)  Also, I wouldn’t know a Virginia Reel from a fishing reel, and as a dancer I have all the balletic grace of a bear.  But, assured by friends that this was a can’t-miss good time, I was off to North Park.

First I took stock of my Going Square wardrobe: Jeans?  Check.  Western shirt?  Nah.  Boots?  Nope.  Cowboy hat?  Check, but too chicken to wear it (bwak!).  Belt?  Too preppie.  (I reckoned that looking preppie at a square dance would be the height of uncool.)

For immediate style advice, I flipped on the TV.  Hee Haw was nowhere to be found.  “Dadgumit,” I snarled.  “Where’s Roy Clark when you need him?”  Seeking divine guidance—or at least a visit from the ghost of Grandpa Jones—I went to bed with the radio set to a country station.  What to do?  I wondered as I dozed off humming gloom, despair, and agony on me…

The next morning, as my cat’s claws jolted me awake, the solution hit me.  “Aha!”  I howled, feline flying.  “It’s off to Marshall’s!”  One quick sortie procured a suitable belt and a blue-and-white gingham plaid shirt that screamed “county fair!”  True to my city boy self, I stuck with my white basketball sneakers.  In my duds I looked more like Potsie from Happy Days than an extra from Oklahoma, but I was satisfied that the outfit would pass muster.  Sit on it, Malph, we’re goin’ square dancin’.  Ayyyy!

A square dance deserves a proper venue, and North Park’s Parish Hill Barn, perched atop a small knoll, was the perfect stage.  Bathed in moonlight, alive with the muffled sounds of music and voices within, the old building stood out starkly against the blackness of the surrounding woods.  I entered into the spacious downstairs kitchen area where thirty or so people sat scattered around rows of long wooden tables as they enjoyed snacks and drinks.  The sweet smell of barbecue filled the room.

The rest of the crowd, more than a hundred strong, was upstairs in the main hall, feet thumping on the thick-timbered floor.  From below, their thunder sounded like a buffalo roundup.  After chatting a bit I found a partner, resplendent in her denim ensemble, and we joined in at the next dance.  I scanned the crowd to find that my clothes were somewhere in the middle of the country dress scale.  Sartorial mission accomplished.  Enter one dancing bear…

The evening was a blast!  Square dances are organized by a caller, a person who divides the dancers into small circles of six or eight, demonstrates the steps, and then calls them in sequence as the dance unfolds to recorded music.  Dancers simply try to do what they’re told.  The basic moves come easily—swinging (dancing with your partner in a tight circle), promenading (dancing side by side, hands joined), and the folded-arms reverse circle, the do-si-do.  Our caller, a perky woman who seemed to enjoy her work, gradually cranked up the pace of each dance without ever letting us get out of control.

For a mostly amateur crowd, our choreography was impressive, even with at least one dancing bruin on the floor.  Still, I saw more body-banging than in your average basketball game.  Shoulders, backs and tushies smacked and whacked as dancers from different circles encroached on common space.  Having ridden the New York City subway at rush hour, I was unfazed.  Nobody else seemed to mind, either; there were very few wallflowers at this gig.  Nobody got hurt, but plenty of us dragged ourselves off the floor, pooped.

By far, the most fun part of square dancing is that you get to dance with a lot of people.  The routines involve trading partners and mixing lines, so everyone comes into contact with everyone else, if only for a moment.  I calculated that I danced with about sixty women in three hours.  “This sure beats sitting at home watching baseball with the cats,” I thought.

At CAC volleyball the following Wednesday, the square dance was the topic.  As with most CAC events, I was glad I participated and looked forward to the next square dance.  Maybe I’d even wear my cowboy hat.