All the Way Around

Those of you who have been reading this blog may notice that we’ve been late to several dances. However, I’m glad that Lisa and I showed up on time for the Greenwood contra, a dance I wouldn’t have wanted to miss a minute of.

Our secret is not that we got an early start or that we didn’t get lost; it was that we received an email from our Greenwood host about a pre-contra open waltz session. We decided that the waltz, romantic even among dances, could not be missed.

We approached the Greenwood Community Center through a light drizzle and stepped inside. The hall was a simple oblong room without a stage, but something about the feel of the space instantly impressed us. Two musicians played fiddles as a dozen or so couples danced 1-2-3, 1-2-3. The room was dimly lit by the fleeting afternoon light, and later by white Christmas lights hung from the walls. “Virginia is a festive place,” I thought to myself.

As Lisa and I waltzed, I quickly peeked at the other dancers between the times when I looked deep into her eyes. At first, I thought that they were dancing fairly plain–not too many twirls or pivots. Then I noticed that they were doing other moves. Everyone in the hall knew cross step and several were dancing in different positions, such as promenade. There were twirls and pivots as well, but these moves were just a few among many the Greenwood dancers had in their repertoire.

The waltzing came to an end, and we began to wonder what we were going to do about dinner; the contra dance would not begin for another hour. Suddenly, the room filled up with people holding pots of food. One of them looked us up and down as we gazed in disbelief and said, “You the visitors from New England? Come have a bite!” We learned that the Greenwood dancers hold a potluck supper between each waltz session and the contra dance that follows it. We were treated to curry, potato salad, pasta casserole, plenty of vegetarian options for Lisa, and cookies to boot!

Before the dance began, I got to talk with the fiddler, Steve Hickman, who I later recognized as the “hambone” playing member of the fiddle band Childsplay. “Hambone” is his word for producing incredibly complicated rhythms by hitting parts of his body; I saw him wow a full auditorium in Brattleboro, VT a few months ago. Lisa and I told him of our love for Chorus Jig, and he insisted that we request it of the caller.

The caller turned out to be Tom Hinds, another famous dance writer, who announced “Line up!” as the food began to dwindle. Everyone was up and ready as he did the walkthrough–people in every age group one sees at a dance.

What can I say about the dancing in Greenwood? Over the years, I have heard a number of people describe how they feel at a great dance. One said that there was a spirit in the room, connecting everyone together, another explained that he just started to smile and couldn’t stop once he had started, yet another told me that it was like being involved in an intense meditation with an entire community, and still another mentioned the movement and connection they felt in a place where everyone could dance. Greenwood contained all of these descriptions, and yet, like all magical moments, a part of it cannot be described. Each person I met in the line named this dance as their favorite in the region.

The music was hot; the guitarist’s name was Jim Morrison after all. Steve Hickman, the hambone playing fiddler, was unstoppable as well. Rounding out the band was Will Morrison on drums, who added a solid rhythm to the evening.

Tom Hinds, after speaking with us during the break, announced he would call Chorus Jig. Near the end of the night, he put the microphone to his lips and said, “There’s a place up in New Hampshire where folks still dance Chorus Jig every week. Now you may not have done this in a long time. In fact, some of you may never have done this, but line up for a proper dance!” It was no Nelson, but what is besides the genuine article? The dance was still a great time.

As Lisa and I were about to leave, a man stopped me, saying, “I saw you both in Richmond last night, and I’m glad you came here, too. There’s magic in this hall.”

Indeed there was.

-Crozet, VA

Dave and I learned Saturday night one of the ways in which contra dance was revived in Virginia. After I told one of my partners where I was from, he asked me if I had ever heard of Ralph Page and proudly stated, “He taught me how to dance!” “So you’ve danced up north?” I asked. “Nope. He came all the way down here to teach us,” he explained. I rushed to tell Dave this story only to find that he had just had an identical conversation with his previous partner. One woman said to me, “Wow, a real New Englander! Contra dance was invented there, but you never see them at dances!” I felt like a rare species, a temperate forest plant in the jungles of the south.

Blue and red lights, hung from the high ceiling, adorned the dimly lit hall. Industrial fans waited at the windows for summer’s heat, and along with the wooden rafters, they gave the room the feel of a well-kept barn. Virginians young and old filled the small space with snug sets. This was my first dance of the trip with no familiar faces.

Another first for the trip was the southern accent in Richmond. We noticed Herschel Nelson’s as he called to Toad Mamas’ old timey jigs and reels. The cluttered stage looked like a bedroom set, with doors and windows and a giant sheet billowing above the musicians’ heads. The caller did a fantastic job of teaching and often called through the entire dance; by the end of the night the beginners had turned experienced. His favorite preface during the walk through was, “Now, you have to know your right from your left.”

During the first dance, each of my embellishments brought a chorus of: “Oh! You’ve done this before!” or, “Wow! You’re a professional!” The style in Richmond was straight-forward. I found that many of the men were unused to being offered twirls, and Dave later told me that several of the female dancers tensed their arms during swings, keeping them lowered, to discourage their partner from spinning them. Folks there did the traditional balance–one leg lifted and bent, then the other. The only other time I’ve witnessed this style of balancing was at a dance called by Dudley Laufman in Northern New Hampshire. Watching from the side, I was amazed by the abrupt stop of each couples’ swing, perfectly timed. This dance had a rustic feel–inviting, and somehow wholesome. I loved being a part of it.

During the break, a small group of people did high energy international folk dancing to recorded music. Dave mentioned that this group had probably been exposed to this type of dancing early in life. I was jealous. We marveled at the thought that these may have been the exact recordings that they had danced to then.

The next song on the record was unfamiliar to me, but Dave grabbed me, excited. He twirled me around the room, clapping and kicking to “The Salty Dog Rag,” a dance he learned in college. We followed that with a hambo, then the band began a Bob McQuillen waltz. “We have to waltz to this one,” I pleaded to a tired Dave, who shook his head sleepily. I refused to listen, grabbed him, and took the lead myself.

At the end of the night, it was announced that there would be a carpool for folks who wanted to attend the Sunday night Greenwood dance. We were excited, as this was our next stop, and we’d be seeing this great group at another Virginia dance.

-Mechanicsville, VA