I was twelve years old and in the sixth grade. My Mother asked me if I wanted to take dancing lessons with other members in my class. Many of my friends were going to sign up along with some "girls". Apparently, some adults had figured that we needed to learn some social skills and have some exposure to the arts. Well, I didn't like girls. They couldn't play baseball. They couldn't hit or catch or throw. I was probably a little intimidated by the fact that I might not be any good at dancing.
In all my trips to Lamar Theater on Saturdays, I had never seen Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, John Wayne or Captain Video dancing with a girl. Nor was there any evidence that Duke Snider, Roy Campanella or Mickey Mantle knew how to dance. So, how important could this skill be? After repeatedly refusing my Mother's requests, she gave up on me. So while Joel Wrotan, Bobby Katz and others went to dance class, I stayed home and played with my baseball cards.
In my mid teens girls took a whole new perspective. All at once it didn't matter if they "threw like girls". All of a sudden I woke up and found out I was on the bench. My reputation as a "non-dancer" spread. The only thing that saved me was the fact that I had my drivers license at the age of 14. Otherwise, I would have been a total social outcast.
I was about 16 and had been dating a girl from another town. She knew my limited dancing skills and invited me to her prom anyway. By that time I had matured and was able to swallow my pride. I decided it was time to learn to dance. For my dance instructor I selected my next door neighbor.
Barbara Alexander was the pretty young girl that lived next door. There are lots of country songs written about these girls. The little girl you used to pick on. Freckled faced kid getting in the way. The one that wanted to tag along. Then one day they grew up to be beautiful women. Well in the Winter/Spring of 1961 Barbara was somewhere in the middle of the above mentioned metamorphosis when I approached her about teaching me to dance. She agreed. (Her Mother probably made her).
Everyday after school and whatever sports practice was in season. I would go to Barbara's house and we would practice dancing in her living room. Since I was rhymatically retarded we focused on the slow dance. With "The Platters" in the background, I painfully learned "the box step" This showed promise because I could count to four or eight. I just had trouble counting to the beat. With the Prom rapidly approaching, I continued to work on the box step. Barbara was a great motivator and had me convinced I could dance. But, I was soon to find out that I was "The Great Pretender".
The big night came. I picked up my date in my semi clean 1957 Plymouth. After exchanging pleasantries with people I didn't know, the band started playing. My date knew I was not a dancer. Nor, did she know about my secret dance lessons with my next door neighbor. She was shocked when I asked her to dance. With my confidence booming, I led her to the dance floor. It was almost immediately I found out that she didn't know the "box step". All my hard work and Barbara's patience came cascading down in a few short seconds or bars,notes,beats or whatever.
Years later I would marry a dancer and eventually got where I could survive on the dance floor. I even had to dance the waltz with my daughter at some social coming out thing.
As for Barbara, my dance teacher, she turned into a lovely swan and married one of my friends. Every time I hear an old Platters song, I remember dancing in the Alexander living room. It was one of the first times I can ever remember asking someone for help. A lesson that has served me well. Barbara, this dance is for you.
