It’s summer, and it’s a sunlit Thursday evening in the city. It’s twenty past seven. The dance students are gathering around 717 Main, looking for a parking place. A few adventurous ones practice parallel parking, nudging their vehicles into an empty space, with various degrees of success.

Upstairs, the music is playing and a few couples are dancing, perhaps practicing a new step out on that fine old wooden dance floor. Others are sitting around, talking with each other. There is nervous laughter in the air.
Denise Kroger emerges from Ray Cornwell’s office and mixes with the crowd. Offering a few quick jokes, she marches out to the dance floor to study the people dancing. Ray Cornwell also comes out and mixes with the crowd. He always makes it a point to smile and laugh. Somehow, in a room full of people, you could always hear Ray laugh. Seven thirty rolls around and by now the place is crowded and noisy. Denise yells in her powerful voice, “OK, everybody! Let’s go! Form four rows!”

They form lines on the dance floor as she talks.

“Tonight we are going to learn open breaks in samba.”

Ray Cornwell, vigilant, now at the record player, stands ready. Denise uses a giggling Wilson to demonstrate the man’s part or alternatively the woman’s part. Denise tells us to try the move on our own as Ray puts on the music. We seldom get it right the first time. The music stops.

“Not like that! Like this!”

Again Wilson or one of the other teachers gets pressed into service, again in an attempt to have us do it right. I might be dancing with certain ladies and sometimes I’d hear various remarks, like “Ray’s funny tonight,” or “Denise looks pretty tonight.” Mostly the talk was complimentary when there were any remarks.

“How are you tonight?” would be Beth Cronk. She always danced at least one dance with me every class, and more during the practice session. The same went for Diane Lawrence, but not steadfastly like Beth. Beth always seemed to consider it a point of honor to dance with me.

One of the unfortunate aspects of dancing was the remark I heard from time to time, “Oh, you didn’t dance with me yet.” Or something to that effect, like, “Why haven’t you danced with me yet?” or “Aren’t you going to dance with me tonight?” And “Don’t you want to dance with me?” was also popular. Really, this was unfair. It put the blame on me. I wasn’t avoiding anybody. I was just busy. While not wanting to neglect anyone, I never kept a tally of whom I danced with.

I’d feel somehow obligated to dance with all these women. They’d just sit there at their tables, looking like they were about ready to burst. They just wanted me or someone to ask them to dance. But seldom did they ever go over and ask a man to dance. Oh no, not very often. They’d just sit there and suffer in silence. One of the few exceptions was Marie. Her simple, direct, “Let’s dance,” was often a relief.

It could be fun to watch Denise Kroger out on the dance floor. She’d have one of her students in tow. It didn’t matter who they were, she was just so proud of them. She would be beaming at them, smiling, focused totally on her student and no one else. She’d steal glances at me and Ann Wilson dancing together – just checking in to see how we’re doing.

Ann Wilson had her own style, too, though she maintained a measure of independence about things. There was the Saturday class that Denise taught us all how to do “the bird,” (similar to “the funky chicken,” but different). Ann Wilson was my partner, and naturally, she did it perfectly and professionally while I struggled to remember all the moves.

She smiled and laughed when I made beaks out of my hands in time with the music, and then, when I had to flap my “wings” and trot around her in a circle, kicking my legs back like a bird, kicking my heels toward my rump, she laughed even more. She laughed at me like I was her special clown, put there just for her personal entertainment, which of course I was.