The Anonymous Dancer Yardley Community Center, the sign read. The steps leading up to the broad open doors were wooden. Each creak on the wood brought me back fifty years. There were four steps—and sure enough—I entered a wooden dance hall that transported me back two-hundred years. The dancers were contemporary but the dance was early American . The origins of Contra Dance are difficult to trace. It is a folk dance made up of long lines of couples. Its mixed origins from English country dance, Scottish, French dance styles in the 17th century have strong African influence from Appalachia. A table was set up at the entrance of the hall. A light breeze blew past me and swirled through the dancers and out of the back door. I had an invitation to attend from a couple who attended Contra Dances throughout the area. A dull stomping in time echoed on the wooden-slat floor as feet touched down after flight in a swing or during a promenade. Mandolins and strings kept the beat. Looking at the stage I hoped to pick Kurt out from among the fiddlers. A breeze came through again swirling among the skirts and then round through the building. I stood still fascinated with the event I had come to observe. I, a deliberator of the arts, a non-dancer. The table was filled with papers on dance: Contra bands, English Country, Country Line, where to go, what to wear, who was playing when, inviting beginners to “come early” to practice. Was I a beginner? Finally I noticed the woman sitting at the table. Her hair loosely wound around her head, she kept time as her flowing dress bounced up and down with a swing of a crossed leg. I forced a smile when I saw her. It was an “I don’t belong here do I? ” smile. It was my religious habit. I hadn’t changed into secular clothes because I was just an observer and really came for the live music. I barley kept myself from walking out of the Yardley Community Center. I was here to observe and by golly, I was going to. I fumbled through some of the handouts and folded them up into my pocket. Then I noticed the chairs lined up against the dance floor wall. This is what I would do—take the flyers over there and read them. My stomach felt a little funny because I had waited too long to enact my plan. The bun lady was about to speak to me. Glancing at the chairs and started to head that way—too late. “Are you here for the dance?” I smiled and looked at the dancers as if to say “Dance? Oh, is that what this is?” Instead I said, “I’m meeting someone here.” As I said this stared at the stage looking for my friends. Just as I was about to leave again the sign requesting a $6.00 entrance fee clarified the woman’s question. I fumbled through my pocket, found my wallet and pulled out two bills, a five and a one. Emboldened I placed them in the basket and went to sit down. The music stopped. I didn’t want to look but somehow knew that dancers were dispersing and coming toward me. My goal was a chair directly in front of me—about two feet— “Hey, you’re new here—right?”
1