Whoops. A pal of mine, either accidentally or on purpose, hit "reply to all" in the email containing the link to my blog... And now I'm in the middle of a firefight between people I love very much.
Sigh. Won't SOMEBODY post COMMENT - on the blog site? It's right there at the end... You could all talk to each other instead of putting me in the middle of it. Or maybe it's my fault for writing the blog in the first place...
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Lest We Forget...
Today is Remembrance Day. Montreal's official ceremony will be held at McGill this year. There will be cannon - a twenty-one gun salute. The McGill staff were sent invitations which told us we'd be hearing the guns and not to get startled.
You can imagine the scenario, right? Some Nervous Nelly who is so absorbed in the papers she has to shuffle that she doesn't know it's Remembrance Day, or that it's approaching eleven o'clock, hears some big guns going off, screams, pulls the fire alarm, the building evacuates, fire trucks come roaring up the street...
It could happen. And mostly because we as a country don't make a point of doing what we used to do on Remembrance Day.
We used to ALL stop work. The buses used to stop. The traffic stopped. People would stop what they were doing.
For a single, quiet minute. We would stop our daily lives to remember the lives given for our sake, taken for our sake. And we'd stand up quietly. For a moment. Think, for one moment. How horrible war was, and is. And pray to god it never happens again.
Well, that's most unlikely, people being people.
A number years ago, a rogue wreath-layer made headlines and caused a kaffuffle when she brazenly walked up to the cenotaph, uninvited, and laid a wreath on behalf of all the women who were raped in the wars.
I know it shocked a lot of people. After all, a lot of mothers of living sons are still shocked when they find out their little boys are "getting everything they need." And that's here in peacetime, with sex posted all over the billboards, in our faces constantly. Now, let me make myself clear: I am ALL IN FAVOR of sex! I just don't need to see it portrayed to sell stuff.
I remember watching the actual ceremony where this woman laid her wreath, and I remember what I was thinking. I was surprised at first, then I thought, well, that happens all the time anyway...
And over the years I've seen the tiny trickle of understanding that began when this woman had the balls to do what she did. It wasn't too long after that ceremony when we first heard about restitution for the "comfort girls" in Korea. A government-built and sanctioned system of brothels using captured women. Hey - to the victor go the spoils, no?
Unfortunately.
Well, there are many other wreaths to be laid, stories to be told aloud for the first time, things we need to think about, as a society, concerning the fallout of war.
I am a victim of World War One. Me personally, I have been affected by the death of my great-grandfather.
My grandmother was about four when her daddy was killed in battle. He had been sent out, he had done a tour, he had come home on furlough, and went out again, and then died.
Little Doris adored her daddy. All four-year-old girls adore their daddies. He meant everything to her. And when he was home on furlough, she heard him and her mother talking. She didn't remember hearing them, but she did have a terrible nightmare during that time that frightened her so badly she remembered it all her life, to the point where she even told me about it.
She told me she dreamt that her father killed her. That he was strangling her. She woke up screaming terribly and would have nothing to do with her father for days. He and her mom finally got through to her that she had dreamt the experience, that it didn't really happen, and she was finally able to trust her daddy again and cry in his arms how much she loved him, just before he was taken away got shot.
As she told me the story, she was an old woman, but it was obvious to me that the dream still frightened her, that she could still see, after all these years, the images that had so terrified a little girl.
I've had therapy, something that wasn't available to Little Doris. I've learned how to interpret dreams, especially the ones that stick with us. And I know what grandma's dream is, what caused it, and I understand its truth.
Little Doris overheard her parents talking about the war, and she heard things every day of her little life about how terrible a thing the war was, how ordinary, upstanding men had to kill other ordinary, upstanding, trustworthy men every single day. And that whoever had the most men left at the end would be the winner.
And even if none of this was said in front of her, she picked up on the fact that HER daddy, her wonderful, funny, loving daddy... was killing other people's daddies. Every single day he was away.
And she dreamt her beloved daddy was killing her. It might have also been an allegorical dream - her daddy might have represented the situation - the war itself. The war was killing more than men. It was killing the hopes and dreams of a generation of human beings. It was killing families, because those who were left at home to worry were having their family life disrupted, were having their hopes and dreams killed. There was no such thing as "normal", not for anyone.
And so Little Doris dreamt she was being killed. And her daddy died in the war. And her mother remarried, and had a third child with her new husband. And when the war was over, Doris' stepdad came home to Canada, to Quebec, and Doris and her brother and her mother and her new baby sister came in tow.
And then Doris' mother died. And that was it. She and her brother were sent away to an institution.
Not for long. Doris was now fourteen years old, and by her demeanour and determination she managed to get a job, a place to live, and got her brother to live with her, and that was how the little English girl came to live here in Quebec, and meet and marry my grandfather.
But now stop, for a moment, and think: what would have happened to Little Doris, if her daddy had NOT died in the war?
Well, he would have been there for her and her brother, when her mother died. And she'd have helped her father take care of Little Albert. And they would have stayed a family, in theory.
But that didn't happen. What did happen was, a young woman had to fight her way through her teen years and young adulthood, scrimping and saving her pennies in order to save the only living human being related to her, in order to bring her brother up. She had to be wise beyond her years, and tough beyond measure.
Yes, she "succeeded". She did bring Albert up, she did finally marry and have a family, she was always "good with money", she was always tough.
And there's where the OTHER dark side of the story comes in. Because she never learned how to turn it off. She never had a parent to get into an argument with, so she never learned how to compromise, she never knew that parents weren't always right.
So, as a mother, she was uncompromising. Very determined. She ran everyone's lives, always sure that what she was doing was for the best. She really believed that she knew best.
And that caused a lot of trouble in the lives of the people around her. Basically, everyone was afraid of her, and everyone did what she said. Even when she took over my life, either allowing or compelling my father to take me away from my mother, moving across the country, restricting my visits... Nobody had the guts to stand up to Doris.
And that's when the really serious damage was done to Little Debbie.
Now, this is actually so much water under the bridge. Like I said, I've had therapy. I made my peace with everybody, and I've moved on.
But I do have this weakness, this mood disorder. I've had more than one psychiatrist in my life. I'm in my early fifties now, and I feel like it's only in the last couple of years that I've learned to listen to other people's point of view. Pretty much all my life, I've been "certain" that what I was doing was "right."
Just like grandma. Because I learned that from her. That's how she got by in the world, and that's how I learned to get by. Even when I positively hated her, I still believed the same things she believed, about how people should be. Uncompromising.
Well, that didn't work. My first marriage crumbled shortly after my Daughter was born. And now my second marriage has gone by the wayside as well, though I do like to think my second husband had a part in that...
And who else is a victim of war here? Hubby. My second husband is also a victim of war.
His grandfather couldn't take care of his own two little boys because he was in service during the war, and they got separated, handed off to different distant relations. And all the horror stories we've heard about how orphans were treated when they were "taken in", how they were made to work long hours, were abused and neglected, weren't fed properly... all that came true for Hubby's father. And he, in turn, became a "hard man," who once told his own sons that the happiest time of his life was when he was in the navy. In the war.
A little boy who lost his mother and his father to different circumstances, but who also never learned to feel empathy for others, never developed close, loving relationships, became a hard man, and a difficult father, who never learned how to be around his own boys. An emotional cripple.
And his sons both suffered for it. I can't speak for Hubby's brother, but Hubby certainly has suffered, has learned to keep his emotions buried, never was able to let down his guard long enough to enjoy himself, always looking for the black cloud over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop... I used to joke that Hubby could find the cloud in any silver lining. But it's not funny.
And the pendulum of life has swung in every conceivable direction in all our lives ever since the first world war and the second world war turned men into killers and robbed them of their humanity. We, the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of these men, and the families they left behind, have suffered the loss of our patriarchs in countless ways. In mental illness, in obsessions, broken marriages, broken dreams, all of us carrying the scars inside, where they can't be seen, where they can fester and do the most damage.
And we, in turn, have handed down to our children and stepchildren, all our insecurities, all our fears and weaknesses that began so very long ago, in the killing fields of Europe, in India, in Africa and the Phillippines... It seems that we have taken the worst of humanity into our souls, like the bodies rotting in countless graves, our innermost beings have been sliced, blown apart, tortured, starved, mutilated, by what happens AFTER the wars had ended. By the inadequate society left behind. Still screaming inside, not even knowing what it was that killed our hopes, our dreams, our minds, our marriages and families.
LIke the bullet we never saw coming, we are injured in ways we cannot even begin to comprehend, by the loss of stability in our families brought about by whatever war was happening in our society at the times all our fathers were alive. And those wars changed our fathers, our families, our selves.
The fallout is much greater than anyone could have forseen.
You can imagine the scenario, right? Some Nervous Nelly who is so absorbed in the papers she has to shuffle that she doesn't know it's Remembrance Day, or that it's approaching eleven o'clock, hears some big guns going off, screams, pulls the fire alarm, the building evacuates, fire trucks come roaring up the street...
It could happen. And mostly because we as a country don't make a point of doing what we used to do on Remembrance Day.
We used to ALL stop work. The buses used to stop. The traffic stopped. People would stop what they were doing.
For a single, quiet minute. We would stop our daily lives to remember the lives given for our sake, taken for our sake. And we'd stand up quietly. For a moment. Think, for one moment. How horrible war was, and is. And pray to god it never happens again.
Well, that's most unlikely, people being people.
A number years ago, a rogue wreath-layer made headlines and caused a kaffuffle when she brazenly walked up to the cenotaph, uninvited, and laid a wreath on behalf of all the women who were raped in the wars.
I know it shocked a lot of people. After all, a lot of mothers of living sons are still shocked when they find out their little boys are "getting everything they need." And that's here in peacetime, with sex posted all over the billboards, in our faces constantly. Now, let me make myself clear: I am ALL IN FAVOR of sex! I just don't need to see it portrayed to sell stuff.
I remember watching the actual ceremony where this woman laid her wreath, and I remember what I was thinking. I was surprised at first, then I thought, well, that happens all the time anyway...
And over the years I've seen the tiny trickle of understanding that began when this woman had the balls to do what she did. It wasn't too long after that ceremony when we first heard about restitution for the "comfort girls" in Korea. A government-built and sanctioned system of brothels using captured women. Hey - to the victor go the spoils, no?
Unfortunately.
Well, there are many other wreaths to be laid, stories to be told aloud for the first time, things we need to think about, as a society, concerning the fallout of war.
I am a victim of World War One. Me personally, I have been affected by the death of my great-grandfather.
My grandmother was about four when her daddy was killed in battle. He had been sent out, he had done a tour, he had come home on furlough, and went out again, and then died.
Little Doris adored her daddy. All four-year-old girls adore their daddies. He meant everything to her. And when he was home on furlough, she heard him and her mother talking. She didn't remember hearing them, but she did have a terrible nightmare during that time that frightened her so badly she remembered it all her life, to the point where she even told me about it.
She told me she dreamt that her father killed her. That he was strangling her. She woke up screaming terribly and would have nothing to do with her father for days. He and her mom finally got through to her that she had dreamt the experience, that it didn't really happen, and she was finally able to trust her daddy again and cry in his arms how much she loved him, just before he was taken away got shot.
As she told me the story, she was an old woman, but it was obvious to me that the dream still frightened her, that she could still see, after all these years, the images that had so terrified a little girl.
I've had therapy, something that wasn't available to Little Doris. I've learned how to interpret dreams, especially the ones that stick with us. And I know what grandma's dream is, what caused it, and I understand its truth.
Little Doris overheard her parents talking about the war, and she heard things every day of her little life about how terrible a thing the war was, how ordinary, upstanding men had to kill other ordinary, upstanding, trustworthy men every single day. And that whoever had the most men left at the end would be the winner.
And even if none of this was said in front of her, she picked up on the fact that HER daddy, her wonderful, funny, loving daddy... was killing other people's daddies. Every single day he was away.
And she dreamt her beloved daddy was killing her. It might have also been an allegorical dream - her daddy might have represented the situation - the war itself. The war was killing more than men. It was killing the hopes and dreams of a generation of human beings. It was killing families, because those who were left at home to worry were having their family life disrupted, were having their hopes and dreams killed. There was no such thing as "normal", not for anyone.
And so Little Doris dreamt she was being killed. And her daddy died in the war. And her mother remarried, and had a third child with her new husband. And when the war was over, Doris' stepdad came home to Canada, to Quebec, and Doris and her brother and her mother and her new baby sister came in tow.
And then Doris' mother died. And that was it. She and her brother were sent away to an institution.
Not for long. Doris was now fourteen years old, and by her demeanour and determination she managed to get a job, a place to live, and got her brother to live with her, and that was how the little English girl came to live here in Quebec, and meet and marry my grandfather.
But now stop, for a moment, and think: what would have happened to Little Doris, if her daddy had NOT died in the war?
Well, he would have been there for her and her brother, when her mother died. And she'd have helped her father take care of Little Albert. And they would have stayed a family, in theory.
But that didn't happen. What did happen was, a young woman had to fight her way through her teen years and young adulthood, scrimping and saving her pennies in order to save the only living human being related to her, in order to bring her brother up. She had to be wise beyond her years, and tough beyond measure.
Yes, she "succeeded". She did bring Albert up, she did finally marry and have a family, she was always "good with money", she was always tough.
And there's where the OTHER dark side of the story comes in. Because she never learned how to turn it off. She never had a parent to get into an argument with, so she never learned how to compromise, she never knew that parents weren't always right.
So, as a mother, she was uncompromising. Very determined. She ran everyone's lives, always sure that what she was doing was for the best. She really believed that she knew best.
And that caused a lot of trouble in the lives of the people around her. Basically, everyone was afraid of her, and everyone did what she said. Even when she took over my life, either allowing or compelling my father to take me away from my mother, moving across the country, restricting my visits... Nobody had the guts to stand up to Doris.
And that's when the really serious damage was done to Little Debbie.
Now, this is actually so much water under the bridge. Like I said, I've had therapy. I made my peace with everybody, and I've moved on.
But I do have this weakness, this mood disorder. I've had more than one psychiatrist in my life. I'm in my early fifties now, and I feel like it's only in the last couple of years that I've learned to listen to other people's point of view. Pretty much all my life, I've been "certain" that what I was doing was "right."
Just like grandma. Because I learned that from her. That's how she got by in the world, and that's how I learned to get by. Even when I positively hated her, I still believed the same things she believed, about how people should be. Uncompromising.
Well, that didn't work. My first marriage crumbled shortly after my Daughter was born. And now my second marriage has gone by the wayside as well, though I do like to think my second husband had a part in that...
And who else is a victim of war here? Hubby. My second husband is also a victim of war.
His grandfather couldn't take care of his own two little boys because he was in service during the war, and they got separated, handed off to different distant relations. And all the horror stories we've heard about how orphans were treated when they were "taken in", how they were made to work long hours, were abused and neglected, weren't fed properly... all that came true for Hubby's father. And he, in turn, became a "hard man," who once told his own sons that the happiest time of his life was when he was in the navy. In the war.
A little boy who lost his mother and his father to different circumstances, but who also never learned to feel empathy for others, never developed close, loving relationships, became a hard man, and a difficult father, who never learned how to be around his own boys. An emotional cripple.
And his sons both suffered for it. I can't speak for Hubby's brother, but Hubby certainly has suffered, has learned to keep his emotions buried, never was able to let down his guard long enough to enjoy himself, always looking for the black cloud over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop... I used to joke that Hubby could find the cloud in any silver lining. But it's not funny.
And the pendulum of life has swung in every conceivable direction in all our lives ever since the first world war and the second world war turned men into killers and robbed them of their humanity. We, the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of these men, and the families they left behind, have suffered the loss of our patriarchs in countless ways. In mental illness, in obsessions, broken marriages, broken dreams, all of us carrying the scars inside, where they can't be seen, where they can fester and do the most damage.
And we, in turn, have handed down to our children and stepchildren, all our insecurities, all our fears and weaknesses that began so very long ago, in the killing fields of Europe, in India, in Africa and the Phillippines... It seems that we have taken the worst of humanity into our souls, like the bodies rotting in countless graves, our innermost beings have been sliced, blown apart, tortured, starved, mutilated, by what happens AFTER the wars had ended. By the inadequate society left behind. Still screaming inside, not even knowing what it was that killed our hopes, our dreams, our minds, our marriages and families.
LIke the bullet we never saw coming, we are injured in ways we cannot even begin to comprehend, by the loss of stability in our families brought about by whatever war was happening in our society at the times all our fathers were alive. And those wars changed our fathers, our families, our selves.
The fallout is much greater than anyone could have forseen.
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Witches' Ball
Well, some of you know this already, but as it figures in today's blog, I must confess my religion.
I am a witch.
Now, whenever I tell people that, they invariably look at me sideways, inhale sharply, back away a step or two, then they all ask me the same question:
"Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?" they inquire, quoting from The Wizard of Oz.
I usually pause for effect and then ask them, "Is there room in there for mediocre?"
Or, "Let's say I'm as good a witch as I was a christian."
In other words, I'm just not particularly good at all, but not too bad...
This, of course, is not what people are expecting. They want to know whether I am evil or not. For that you see, you have to wait till "Judgement Day" if such is your belief. Or for the historians of tomorrow.
A witch can be a man or a woman. The "religion" if you have to call it that, is commonly known as Wicca.
For me, it's a celebration of the various seasons. A "nature" religion, if you wish to put a label on it. Paganism.
I became interested in Wicca after I learned enough about it to understand three things:
1) I did not have to believe any particular thing,
2) I did not have to practise any particular thing,
and
3) I did not have to associate with any particular group.
"That," I said, "is MY KIND of religion!"
I am what is known as a "solitary," meaning I keep to myself and only occasionally join in public rituals. In point of fact, I only occasionally do any rituals whatsoever - but that's because I am lazy. This level of devotion - ie, practically nonexistant - suits me just fine.
However, when someone proposes something that promises to be FUN - well, I am right there! With bells on!
I love parties.
In point of fact, I've been known to throw a few good ones. No matter whether I was married or single, my parties have made the social headlines. Mostly, I think, because people are slightly surprised by how much fun they can have.
I once had a party where there were no fewer than 130 invitees. I put notes on all the apartment doors in a two-block radius, giving my neighbours three weeks' notice to either come or get out of town. I rented a sound system. I recorded music ahead of time, mixes. No long fadeouts, no overlapping. Just finish one song and start the next.
My former DJ hubby of the day informed me this was BOUND to fail, however, the 100 or so dancing fools up at any one time proved him wrong. I have a good ear for music that people like to dance to.
One couple met at this party and ended up getting married. A lot of my pals said they had wondered, they weren't sure if they'd come or not, but wow were they ever glad they had.
I clear space for dancing, I lower the lights and turn up the sound. I cook and plan and arrange scrumptious dishes. I get the windows open early so nobody gets too hot. I make sure there are plenty of places to put your drinks, and plenty of places to get more.
And I dance.
I have a button an old friend gave me - I think I might have been in my late teens. I believe the lady on the button is Emma Goldman, who was a Somebody even I had heard of. The button is a quote from her: "If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution."
Well, it's been a number of years since I threw a dancing party, since my most recent Hubby does not dance. Not even in private. And so I was thrilled when the local group of pagans decided to throw a Witches' Ball. How wonderful, I thought. I now have a Boyfriend who dances, I'll invite a ton of friends, this will be a blast!
I did begin to have some doubts when I found out it was to be a non-alcoholic evening. As Ogden Nash put it so succinctly in his "Reflections on Ice-Breaking":
Candy is dandy,
But liquor is quicker.
My friends and I polished off a bottle of wine before heading out. As we walked to the establishment where the Ball was being held, we passed a homeowner who was delighted to see us in our finery and masks, and she volunteered that she was putting out fifty pumpkins! So we were in high spirits.
The hall was large. There were not enough tables to sit at, chairs were in very short supply. Some poor inexperienced youngster probably thought that would make people dance. It doesn't. It makes them stand against the walls for support, wishing they could sit down.
It was too hot, nobody wanted the windows open. It was too brightly lit, something that I have found discourages dancing quite thoroughly, and the music wasn't loud enough for the hall. In fact, had I been playing the music at that volume in my own apartment, I don't think the people upstairs would have noticed.
Needless to say, in my opinion, the "Ball" wasn't much of one.
As outgoing and as fun-loving as I am, I am of that age group where people dance in couples. Like "the buddy system" in swimming, I prefer to dance with a partner. I don't care what genders they are for other people, after all, variety is the spice of life! But for me, I prefer to dance with a man. That what the word "dancing" means to me, and I can't get past it. I can dance with a female friend, but I have the most difficulty of all getting up and joining a group of people who I don't know who are already dancing. Feels too much like muscling in for me to be comfortable.
Fortunately my lady pal S guessed my discomfort almost immediately and got me up dancing. And from the dance floor one did get a slightly better view of all the costumes.
There was a fellow who had been painted red and black - his head and face. He was done up in a demonic look. I went up to him and asked him if he was, in fact, painted red all over... "Wouldn't you like to know?" he smiled back. Delightful! The evening was getting better!
Another fellow entered the party, one of the chief organizers of this event, a young man who keeps himself too busy to ever have to follow through on his flirting... Since I was costumed and masked and he had just entered the room, I seized the opportunity to go give him a welcoming kiss - a GOOD one - he laughed and exclaimed "Who ARE you!!!" Once I laughed, the jig was up. I dragged him to introduce him to my pals, and then he was off visiting all his admirers.
About this time the music became tolerable to our ears and BF and I got up with the crowd and did our stuff for a few numbers.
Thanks to the lack of open windows, the plenitude of candles, and the number of bodies, the room was becoming quite hot. Masks and costumes were being peeled off all over, and the music was clearly geared to bodies about 30 years younger than ours.
Finally a recognizable song came on, and I dragged BF up onto the floor once more. It was quite deserted, of course, but this was the first evening he and I had had a chance to dance together, and this sort of thing takes practise...
We had a good time getting our cues mixed up and bumping into each other, but he managed to spin me around a few times and I was loving every second of it. Finally the song came to an end and I abruptly realized that, not only were we the only people on the floor, but everybody else was standing around us in a circle.
And then they all clapped.
BF bowed, I curtsied... but GEEZ - how humiliating is THAT?!
I can just imagine what they'd been saying while we were up there:
"Wow! Look at that! Gee, I hope I can still dance when I'm their age!"
This experience did not dampen my desire to dance, but we did leave shortly thereafter. I gave my "busy" pal a pinch on the bum as I left (he was wearing a "man-skirt", so access was unimpeded) and waved as we flew down the stairs and out into the cool night air.
And walking home, and talking with my friends, I came to the conclusion that there were only about three or four people in that entire crowd who knew how to have a good time. Even though they were pagans... I mean, it's pretty bad when even the christians are having more fun than the pagans!
And by and large, I find that very few people know when to let loose, let their hair down, let it all hang out... Get up on their feet and start moving around, if not actually dancing then at least talking to more than the two or three people they came with!
Well, to each his or her own. I personally have decided enough is enough, and come spring, I'm going to throw a PARTY. Cocktails, finger food, loud music, and buffet at midnight, or one a.m.
It's time to remember how to have FUN.
I am a witch.
Now, whenever I tell people that, they invariably look at me sideways, inhale sharply, back away a step or two, then they all ask me the same question:
"Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?" they inquire, quoting from The Wizard of Oz.
I usually pause for effect and then ask them, "Is there room in there for mediocre?"
Or, "Let's say I'm as good a witch as I was a christian."
In other words, I'm just not particularly good at all, but not too bad...
This, of course, is not what people are expecting. They want to know whether I am evil or not. For that you see, you have to wait till "Judgement Day" if such is your belief. Or for the historians of tomorrow.
A witch can be a man or a woman. The "religion" if you have to call it that, is commonly known as Wicca.
For me, it's a celebration of the various seasons. A "nature" religion, if you wish to put a label on it. Paganism.
I became interested in Wicca after I learned enough about it to understand three things:
1) I did not have to believe any particular thing,
2) I did not have to practise any particular thing,
and
3) I did not have to associate with any particular group.
"That," I said, "is MY KIND of religion!"
I am what is known as a "solitary," meaning I keep to myself and only occasionally join in public rituals. In point of fact, I only occasionally do any rituals whatsoever - but that's because I am lazy. This level of devotion - ie, practically nonexistant - suits me just fine.
However, when someone proposes something that promises to be FUN - well, I am right there! With bells on!
I love parties.
In point of fact, I've been known to throw a few good ones. No matter whether I was married or single, my parties have made the social headlines. Mostly, I think, because people are slightly surprised by how much fun they can have.
I once had a party where there were no fewer than 130 invitees. I put notes on all the apartment doors in a two-block radius, giving my neighbours three weeks' notice to either come or get out of town. I rented a sound system. I recorded music ahead of time, mixes. No long fadeouts, no overlapping. Just finish one song and start the next.
My former DJ hubby of the day informed me this was BOUND to fail, however, the 100 or so dancing fools up at any one time proved him wrong. I have a good ear for music that people like to dance to.
One couple met at this party and ended up getting married. A lot of my pals said they had wondered, they weren't sure if they'd come or not, but wow were they ever glad they had.
I clear space for dancing, I lower the lights and turn up the sound. I cook and plan and arrange scrumptious dishes. I get the windows open early so nobody gets too hot. I make sure there are plenty of places to put your drinks, and plenty of places to get more.
And I dance.
I have a button an old friend gave me - I think I might have been in my late teens. I believe the lady on the button is Emma Goldman, who was a Somebody even I had heard of. The button is a quote from her: "If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution."
Well, it's been a number of years since I threw a dancing party, since my most recent Hubby does not dance. Not even in private. And so I was thrilled when the local group of pagans decided to throw a Witches' Ball. How wonderful, I thought. I now have a Boyfriend who dances, I'll invite a ton of friends, this will be a blast!
I did begin to have some doubts when I found out it was to be a non-alcoholic evening. As Ogden Nash put it so succinctly in his "Reflections on Ice-Breaking":
Candy is dandy,
But liquor is quicker.
My friends and I polished off a bottle of wine before heading out. As we walked to the establishment where the Ball was being held, we passed a homeowner who was delighted to see us in our finery and masks, and she volunteered that she was putting out fifty pumpkins! So we were in high spirits.
The hall was large. There were not enough tables to sit at, chairs were in very short supply. Some poor inexperienced youngster probably thought that would make people dance. It doesn't. It makes them stand against the walls for support, wishing they could sit down.
It was too hot, nobody wanted the windows open. It was too brightly lit, something that I have found discourages dancing quite thoroughly, and the music wasn't loud enough for the hall. In fact, had I been playing the music at that volume in my own apartment, I don't think the people upstairs would have noticed.
Needless to say, in my opinion, the "Ball" wasn't much of one.
As outgoing and as fun-loving as I am, I am of that age group where people dance in couples. Like "the buddy system" in swimming, I prefer to dance with a partner. I don't care what genders they are for other people, after all, variety is the spice of life! But for me, I prefer to dance with a man. That what the word "dancing" means to me, and I can't get past it. I can dance with a female friend, but I have the most difficulty of all getting up and joining a group of people who I don't know who are already dancing. Feels too much like muscling in for me to be comfortable.
Fortunately my lady pal S guessed my discomfort almost immediately and got me up dancing. And from the dance floor one did get a slightly better view of all the costumes.
There was a fellow who had been painted red and black - his head and face. He was done up in a demonic look. I went up to him and asked him if he was, in fact, painted red all over... "Wouldn't you like to know?" he smiled back. Delightful! The evening was getting better!
Another fellow entered the party, one of the chief organizers of this event, a young man who keeps himself too busy to ever have to follow through on his flirting... Since I was costumed and masked and he had just entered the room, I seized the opportunity to go give him a welcoming kiss - a GOOD one - he laughed and exclaimed "Who ARE you!!!" Once I laughed, the jig was up. I dragged him to introduce him to my pals, and then he was off visiting all his admirers.
About this time the music became tolerable to our ears and BF and I got up with the crowd and did our stuff for a few numbers.
Thanks to the lack of open windows, the plenitude of candles, and the number of bodies, the room was becoming quite hot. Masks and costumes were being peeled off all over, and the music was clearly geared to bodies about 30 years younger than ours.
Finally a recognizable song came on, and I dragged BF up onto the floor once more. It was quite deserted, of course, but this was the first evening he and I had had a chance to dance together, and this sort of thing takes practise...
We had a good time getting our cues mixed up and bumping into each other, but he managed to spin me around a few times and I was loving every second of it. Finally the song came to an end and I abruptly realized that, not only were we the only people on the floor, but everybody else was standing around us in a circle.
And then they all clapped.
BF bowed, I curtsied... but GEEZ - how humiliating is THAT?!
I can just imagine what they'd been saying while we were up there:
"Wow! Look at that! Gee, I hope I can still dance when I'm their age!"
This experience did not dampen my desire to dance, but we did leave shortly thereafter. I gave my "busy" pal a pinch on the bum as I left (he was wearing a "man-skirt", so access was unimpeded) and waved as we flew down the stairs and out into the cool night air.
And walking home, and talking with my friends, I came to the conclusion that there were only about three or four people in that entire crowd who knew how to have a good time. Even though they were pagans... I mean, it's pretty bad when even the christians are having more fun than the pagans!
And by and large, I find that very few people know when to let loose, let their hair down, let it all hang out... Get up on their feet and start moving around, if not actually dancing then at least talking to more than the two or three people they came with!
Well, to each his or her own. I personally have decided enough is enough, and come spring, I'm going to throw a PARTY. Cocktails, finger food, loud music, and buffet at midnight, or one a.m.
It's time to remember how to have FUN.
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