Thursday, June 2, 2011

A Rose by Any Other Name

Day 2- Meaning of your blog name:

I love to dance. When I was a little girl my parents danced all the time. They went to dances. They danced in the dining room, the kitchen, the living room. And when they weren't dancing there was music on. It was ever present in our lives. Even though we only had 2 radio stations- one country, one rock- we had record. (For those of you too young to know what those are, they were like CDs only bigger and black. They had grooves in them that held the music and you had a player that used a needle to play the music. fun times)

In fact, music was such a part of our lives that at any given time I have some song playing in my head. Sometimes, when I take the time to pay attention, I am surprised by what is playing and often wonder why that particular song at that particular time. Sometimes it is a hymn, sometimes a country song, sometimes pop. You just never know. And sometimes it is down right annoying if I don't particularly like the song that is playing in my head.

My daddy also used to be a square dance caller. Now that was fun and when I went to college I belonged to an exhibition/performance square dance group that traveled around for performances. I even choreographed some tricky trades between partners and squares to mix it up a bit. I also taught round and line dancing while I was in college. I can be in a grocery store and a song that we used to perform to comes on and I still know exactly where I should be and what step I would be doing. But I think it would embarrass my kids if I broke out in dance in the middle of the dairy aisle.

I remember when I was really little my parents did a dance called a Schottice (remember this? Put your little foot, Put your little foot, Put your little foot right here)

Love it

We also danced to Cotton Eyed Joe. Not the new fangled 80's one, but the good old days tune.
This is the only good original version I could find. Everything else was that stupid techno 80's stuff.

Isaac Paytn
Cotton Eye Joe

(Mom, who was that cajun fiddler we used to listen to? I think his record jacket was purple/pinkish. Jole Blon was my favorite off of that)

There was also another dance that is close to a swing, the Jitterbug. First dance my daddy ever taught me. In fact when I was in college, I had an uncle that was also in college. He was at a dance I was at. He asked my date if I could dance with him because I was the only girl in the room he was sure knew how to the Jitterbug.      I loved it. haven't found anyone else that knows how, though.
This is the song we used to always dance to the Jitterbug.

Glen Miller
In The Mood

As I got older I still danced. Every chance I got. Until I got married to someone that couldn't dance if his life depended on it. Then I started choreographing community and church musicals. I would strap the current baby into a baby pack and start dancing. I danced in the kitchen, in the halls, in the living room. And my kids loved it.

Then I started  blog and knew I wanted a name that reflected my love of all things dance. (ballroom, particularly the waltz is my favorite) Dancing is in the very fiber of my being. I am constantly tapping out the rhythm of music. (I catch myself during church all the time tapping my toe to the hymns. The chorister laughs at me) I thought that even though I don't dance much anymore I still dance. Just to a different rhythm. The rhythm of life- work, kids, bills- 1,2,3- do it again from the top- work, kids, bills- 1,2,3.

And The Dance was born.
I used to dance to music
On a dance floor.
Now I do the dance of life
with kids, pets, mortgage,
and a job.
But I still dance.

My favorite quote-
Dancing is like singing a song, except I get to use my whole body.

(and I'll find some samples of those other dances- but now I get to go supervise at the high school end of year dance)

Indeed. add to kirtsy


Dad Mom said...

There were two we liked. Doug Kershaw and Jimmy C. Newman. They both play.

Dad Mom said...

You might find a Merle Haggard copy of Cotton Eyed Joe. Dad