Let’s Dance

Quick, Quick, Slow, Slow

Let’s Dance

Slow, Quick, Quick

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

Concordia was the location of the blessed event. What a gorgeous church that is.

Pastor Bolm had been our pastor, friend and counselor, but he had retired. Pastor Chuck married them. The FFA state officer team served as the maid of honor, and the Aggies from NMSU had been the best man. The California kids were polished, but the New Mexicans held their own. What a crew that bunch was. Lindsay, Steve, Julie, and Chris sang, We all sang. Jackie played the organ and Zenora joined her on the piano duet.

I walked our daughter down the aisle, and gave her away. She was beautiful. She was happy. After I sat down, we held hands and watched her give her vows. We shared my handkerchief.

When it was over, I was jolted by the full sanctuary. Friends and family all, many had come a long way. Others had come from down the street or out of the surrounding vineyards and orchards. Hitchcock even had a new red wild rag. He was beaming and waving his hat.

Our people they were.

After we posed and smiled, we left the wedding party. We had to greet folks at the reception hall. Never had there been a wedding reception in the Selma Cold Storage, but we had one. We chose the shook storage, cleaned it out, and opened the doors to the dock.

Selma had never seen anything like it. I suspect there are many disbelieving witnesses to this very day.

Let’s Dance!

The music had played nonstop since the disc jockey had been reminded we expected dance music.

We had given him a play list. No rock. no rap, no ballads and no pauses was the standing order. We wanted three four time. We wanted Ray, George, Jim Ed, Dotsy, and Bob. We wanted twin fiddles with the smell of New Mexico. We wanted Texas, and we wanted home.

            The floor had been slicked and the candles lit. Food was served, wine was poured, and the Aggies brought in extra kegs, but, if you wanted to dance, you didn’t have to wait for all the tedious pomp and circumstance. You could dance from the jump.

            We had shown our crew of Lutherans how we danced, but the Aggies quickly had the crowd broke and we were all dancing in our big counterclockwise rotation. Old ladies who hadn’t danced in years were squealing with delight. Kids, always welcome in our gatherings, were learning as we watched. Wall sitters were told to be watched and if they remained sedentary somebody needed to go get them.

            Yessiree, Bub, Cliff, Lake Valley or even Hachita had nothing on us that night.

            What a night it was. At 9:30, we gathered as a family and hugged. Big sister, little sister, new son-in-law, and the two of us. We then walked them out into the crowd for the big send off and they drove away.

            The festivities continued. At 1:00 we shut down. The crowd lingered as a few of the Aggies continued to dance without music. The Californians watched in fascination. Wade and Sandy were most notable. Part of the Best Man crew, they came all the way from La Union to be with us.

            Quick, quick, slow, slow their practiced, unaccompanied dance steps continued. Quick, quick, slow, slow they danced with Sandy whispering in Wade’s ear. I will always remember them that night. Time has separated us all, and Wade has gone on before us, but that night … we danced.

            Quick, quick, slow, slow

            We danced the same way many nights at Riverland and up the river at the Gun Club. A Westerner walked over to us at the latter one night and extended his hand.

“You folks are either from Texas or New Mexico aren’t you,” he deducted.

“Yes, sir, New Mexico is home,” we responded.

“I can tell,” he continued. “Watching you dance reminds me of my home.”

The same thing happened across many miles. The best of times was always within a sea of hats. There was a night at Marina del Rey and then on to Thousand Oaks, a night on the lake in Penticton, several nights at the buckle presentations on the floor of the Gold Coast, and in a blizzard on another night in Williams. Even a New Mexican, though, must confess you haven’t danced until you dance in Texas. Under a big Texas sky with folks who have danced together for more years than they dare count, is just special.

Quick, quick, slow, slow is a common theme regardless of the place or locale. If there are hats on the floor and the music doesn’t overpower the voices, it is hallowed ground.

Slow, quick, quick

Westerners, though, always look forward to slow, quick, quick.

If you were lucky you were taught by your grandmother. It is not easy to perfect, but the very best make it look effortless. It was worth going to a Hachita dance just to watch the Cowans. They could just glide across the floor.

There was another old cowman that would also come to those dances. He would never get there early, and just appear on the floor. Dip, turn and sway, he would create a vacuum as folks made way to watch him and his partner.

The first of the Cowboy’s for Cancer dances were similar. Those were the years when real hats outnumbered the townies. Couples flocked to the floor as the Delks struck their first chords in three four time.  Slow, quick, quick the partners would begin before they even reached the dance floor, arm in arm, and hand in hand.

“Cowboy, dance with me,” she will invariably whisper.

“It’d be a pleasure, ma’am,” would be the response. “You may have to remind me how, though.”

“I’ll remind you how,” she would smile. “I surely will.”

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Let’s dance!”