Fred and Ginger live here
She’s quirky, she’s small, she has a sweet letter and a tiny rose, she’s dusty and squattie, she has her little hat just so. She is an inch and a half tall and almost the same around. She’s stout, this little bell hop. I walk by her at my mom’s house every time I make coffee and this little bit of ceramic what not practically blows me kisses and whispers how sweet life is. I love her. I love that my mom loves her. Today I took pictures all over my mom’s house while we gossiped and talked. Mostly we cackled like big fat geese. We laugh long, deep and hard as often as possible, mostly at ourselves and the craziness that is living. Today’s morning topic was spectacular. Apparently my dad went and took a dancing lesson yesterday evening at the Moose Lodge. Ballroom dancing. His partner was a tiny wrinkly lady who wore tap shoes. He wore sneakers. My mother was furious! They have been married for forty-eight years (I’ll have to check for sure) and for the first ten fought over going dancing on Friday nights. Every year mom dresses up for the company party and they attend, but never dance. Dad is a great dancer, mom fantastic. But he’s quiet and shy and reserved and busy and it’s not all that fun to dance in front of other people. So he took a lesson to see if he might like to learn and attend classes with her. He was previewing it alone and didn’t tell her, he didn’t want her to know, because then she would WANT to go and he would be stuck if he didn’t like it. There were words. There was language, but mostly there was laughter and surprise. I nearly spit my coffee into the next room as I was getting the play by play. I love it that my dad wants to try something new, that he’s testing new waters, that he thought of dancing, that he went alone, Mr. Shy-pants. I think it is grand and romantic and bold and youthful and I love that he did it his way. They are going next week, mom said she won’t wear tap shoes, though.