I am still searching for a man who can dance as well as my father.
My biggest regret is that when I got married, my family didn’t have enough money to have music at my wedding and I was not able to have that father-daughter dance with Daddy. He loved to dance and genetically passed that on to me.
As children, we were always surrounded with music. The small portable record player or the larger console with the hidden record player held the passageway to our musical education. Mother had no rhythm at all, but on the dance floor, Daddy’s prowess somehow made her appear to have some degree of talent.
On special occasions we would often find them dancing together in our living room as we watched on the edges of the couch waiting for our turns. The four of us would swing about in that small space and alternate partners-the two of us dancing together or dancing with one of our parents. My favorite partner was Daddy. He taught me how to swing and two step, cha-cha and twist. He was always a gentleman on the dance floor as with everything he did. Patient and kind. We recorded our dancing adventures on a 35mm camera and I have repeatedly watched him swing us around graciously on that ancient celluloid with awe and pleasure.
The bluesy sounds of Elvis or the rhythmic beat of the Teddy Bears, he was my very own Fred Astaire. I have this picture of him dancing with my older sister at my brother’s wedding. He has his arms carefully placed on her shoulder and in her hand as she bends her red curly head to watch her feet, making sure she does the right step. He is looking out across the room, smiling and confident. The dance of his life will always be the dance of my life. I always hold close to me the memories of those evening dances in our living room, twirling around in petticoats and velvet.