Last Friday we went square dancing with our home school group. The weeks leading up to it, I wasn’t all that keen on going. Square dancing? Who does square dancing anymore? I had a list of reasons why it wasn’t the best idea. Kids are tricky creatures. When you think they’ll like something, they go and decide it’s the worst thing in the world. And Lucy, still healing from her broken leg, would she have fun?

But on the drive there, I thought: “Hey, we’re going square dancing! How unique! This will be fun!” Doc kept saying how much fun we were going to have. My kids excited to be seeing their friends. I finally was as eager as everyone else.

So we get there, and sure enough, it’s in a barn, but it’s not a cow barn like I imagined, it’s a lovely horse barn. Oh, horses! I still have horse-ownership fantasies. Then I saw where we would be dancing. Again, not what I expected. Instead of dancing on hard wood, we would be dancing in the soft, fine dirt in the expansive arena used for riding. Oh boy. Dirt like sand at the beach. Lots of it. Everywhere. I pictured of all of us covered in dust as we stomped around, coughing in fits. I didn’t want to put Lucy down in it.  At least now that she’s in the Wee Walker, I could scrub her, and the leg brace, when I got home. There was sure to be lots of scrubbing once home.

After we petted the horses, said hello to friends, the music began. We formed our squares, four couples each. Our group of home schoolers took up half the arena. The caller was a professional, or at least an amateur who knew a heck lot more about square dancing then we did. He was tall, with a gray beard and flannel shirt.

He coached us through each step: dosado, arm turn, hand star, courtesy turn, and promenade. Peter lead Susan around the circle with his arm around her waist. Their friends weren’t there yet, but they didn’t seem to mind. Edmund had no partner, so he stood in the center of the square like the hub of a wheel, grinning.

I tried dancing with Lucy in my arms for a bit. A tired and cranky girl, wanting to be carried everywhere. I want to square dance. Doc and I passed her back and forth a few times, but halfway though the night, I plopped her down. She pitched a fit for a few minutes then decided it would be more fun to play. So she did.

We danced for hours, ate chocolate brownies, donuts and drank cider. A few of the teen girls were dressed in western clothing. Someone requested Cotton Eyed Joe. A long line of girls kicked and spun in unison. Susan knew that dance, the benefit of being a tween girl and going to the right birthday parties. Their favorite friends arrived, so she and her brothers quit square dancing to play.

And the grown-ups and teens kept dancing, getting more confident, spinning faster.

At the end of the night, the caller had us form one big circle. It was so large it stretched the entire building. When the music started, those that recognized it laughed out loud. We mimicked a bird beak with our hands, flapped our wings and shook imaginary tail feathers. Peter and Edmund on the other side of the circle watched me intently to learn all the Chicken Dance moves. My eldest next to me  already a Chicken Dance veteran.

I didn’t want to stop dancing. I’ve been to Doc’s company holiday parties with music-blaring DJs, when I wore a fancy dress and heels. We usually leave those parties early. Last Friday I wore jeans, t-shirt and sneakers that ended up covered in dust. Doc and I wanted to keep dancing; I think the other parents wanted to as well, but it was the young people that asked for one last dance.