Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

My dad is in town for an annual medical convention. At the dinner Wednesday night at Dad's hotel, they had entertainment by a sound system and dancers, who lead special dances for the kids and adults.

They usually concentrate on danceable oldies, plus more recent hits f0r the kiddos. But this time, we walked in and the first several songs were country.

That's when we noticed the balloon arrangements included straw and bandanas, and they were handing out cowboy hats. We started to worry.

Not only was it country music, but it was much louder than it usually is at this event. We could barely hear ourselves.

We sat at a table with my dad's old med school friends, who sit with him every year. They all enjoy dancing, and we usually eat and then dance the night away. There's something about my dad's generation; they've always seemed young to me. Maybe it was the influence of the Beatles and Janis and Jimmi, but I feel at home with Baby Boomers. Especially this group, because they're not afraid to let down their hair, what little of it is left.

For awhile, we stared aghast at each other, wondering what the deal was with the music. We almost considered going up to the sound system and asking them to turn it down. After what seemed an interminable period of country music -- but which was probably only 10 minutes -- they began to play some Justin Timberlake, whose songs sounded a lot like Michael Jackson. No wonder the kids like him.

My dad and I were getting salads when I noted, "This is their evil plan to make me like Justin Timberlake; play country music first." My dad laughed.

Justin Timberlake eventually gave way to the oldies everyone loves. They did interrupt the festivities, though, to teach us some country line dances. I participated just for the heck of it. Dad's friends sat down. When I rejoined the table, they jumped all over me. "Why'd you dance to that?"

"Dancing is dancing," I said.

"Yes, but country music?" They seemed to think I needed my head examined, but nobody there was a psychiatrist, so they let it pass.

Later in the evening, the sound system cranked disco favorites like "Dancing Queen" and the dancers handed out "disco sunglasses," which were funky and cheap. My pair had rose-colored star-shaped lenses.

At the tail end of the evening, when only a few people were left on the floor and dad was talking to his friends, I started imitating a nearby dancer, and she kept coming up with fancier moves, which, much to her surprise, I was matching. I felt like Rikki Lake in "Hairspray." But then she leaped up and did a jumping split.

"You win," I conceded.

As always, my dad's friends were some of the last ones there. They dashed around the room grabbing the centerpieces, which were huge balloons, making sure we all had one to take home. The wife of one of dad's friends whispered to me that she was glad I'd showed, because I got my dad dancing, something they'd never been able to do.

We all stood in the hallway saying our good-byes, with me promising to send them copies of the pictures I'd taken. "This is like 'Brigadoon'," one of them called.

Everyone laughed.

"See you next year!" And we left, trailing huge balloons.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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