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Back Porch
39
The Dance
by June B. Lands
My hometown is located in a rural area, is the county seat, and when I was growing up, had a thriving cotton gin housed in rusty, pieced-together tin roofing right in the midst of family homes, two short blocks from the town square.
One day each month was trade day on the square. Farming people came to trade, buy or take care of business at the courthouse. They came as families and brought surplus crops, knives, guns, dogs, chickens, or a pig or two.
We had no conventional cultural activities, so the ladies in town committed themselves to development of our social graces. The most popular effort, at least among the girls, was a formal dance given by a group of parents at least once a year.
The dances were held at the Rec Hall which was in front of the football field and beside the two tennis courts. With balloons and crepe paper flowers, bows and streamers, with a lace-covered table offering punch, cookies, mints and nuts, with one of the more jovial fathers spinning the latest dance tunes on the record player, it was easy to forget that this bam-of-a-building was a place for ping-pong or darts on any other day.
Handwritten invitations were sent, received and accepted. The host and hostess paired the couples and included the name on the invitation. Everyone in town knew who was a steady or who just could not stand whom, so there were not too many crises.
The most important thing about the entire event—even more than The Date—was The Dress. The color, style, fabric, store bought or homemade, the neckline, especially the neckline.
My dress that year was homemade. I can close my eyes and see myself in that dress—dotted Swiss, white with tiny green dots. It had a fitted bodice, short cap sleeves, and a sweetheart neckline, a high sweetheart neckline. The floor-length skirt had three gathered tiers.
My assigned escort was Bill, a boy about my age who lived across the street from us. This was the first summer dance for both of us* but he was not so enthusiastic as I.
Maternal coercion sent him to my door the night of the dance. He knocked and without a word handed me a box that contained my corsage. He was so scrubbed that he was shiny, and every freckle was standing at attention.
Couples who were not driving age had two choices, walk or be driven by a parent. The dance was to begin at 7:30, it was still light at that hour, and the Rec Hall was about three blocks away. We walked.
The hosts and hostesses greeted everyone, hugging and exclaiming over the loveliness of the girls and their dresses and kidding the boys and complimenting them on their fine choice of dates.
Then someone passed out No Break cards, small, decorated cards with a tiny pencil attached by a ribbon. There were six or eight numbers beside lines drawn
where names could be entered. The first and last dances were with your date. Other blanks were to be filled with the names of whoever requested a specific dance. No one could break in on these. All other dances were open.
The boys did the asking. The girls, giggling nervously, huddled, trying not to look at the boys but glancing sideways at the lucky girls being asked, always knowing whose card would be filled and whose card would still have blank spaces at the end of the evening.
This tribal ritual would play over and over throughout the rest of our Hves. The players would change. Circumstances would be different. But the rules would be the same.
That evening the last dance arrived. Then it was time to leave. Daddy came for us in a pick-up truck, an old. early ‘40’s model with the shift in the middle of the floor. This was no jazzy, play-around vehicle. This truck spent its nights at our house, but it lived and worked at a sawmill.
Daddy always parked the truck so that it straddled a shallow, grassy gully in front of our house. On this night as he drove the truck into its usual spot, almost before we stopped moving, Bill opened the door and bolted.
As he sprinted toward freedom, he called, ‘“Night, Mr. Bishop. Thanks for the ride.”
The Hummingbird
by John Rumbley
Last night I heard the Hummingbird--Her whistle far away.
It called to me to climb aboard Before the break of day.
The Hummingbird’s a lightning train--As fast as fast can be.
She has her breakfast in Mobile.
Her lunch in Tennessee.
The Hummingbird is si Iver-sleek--She snakes along the rails.
At night you see her burning eye And moonlight-glistened scales.
The Hummingbird is elegant--She glides in golden dreams:
Her china glows, her crystal chimes. Her silver softly gleams.
They say the Hummingbi rd is gone--Her wheels no longer roll.
I guess the cry I heard last night Mas wailing of her soul.