Carole Richards of Livermore with her dad Matt Wilson.
Livermore reader Carole Richards shares a special memory of dancing with her father Matt Wilson.
I was 12 years old the summer of 1956 when I heard Dad say “Mum, how about we take these kids dancing tonight?”
I excitedly dressed in a cotton skirt and blouse, and put on my only pair of shoes, white KEDS.
My older sister, Rita, the twins, Donna and Doug, and I all piled into the 1949 Ford with Mom and Dad and headed to Weld. It was a warm summer night. The car windows were open and we could hear music as we crested the hill just before the Grange hall came into view.
When we entered the dark hall, there was a sign that read: “Adults $1, Children $.50.” The floor throbbed under my feet as I stood watching several couples whirling to the music
The band consisted of an elderly woman banging on a piano, a tall, lanky man with a fiddle nestled under his chin, and a shorter man plunking on a banjo. Hidden behind the fiddler was a bald man beating on a mismatched set of drums.
We kids found seats in the wooden chairs that lined the edge of the dance floor and watched in amazement as Dad held out his hand to Mom and guided her out on to the floor. Dad, with his coal-black hair curling above the collar of his best Sunday shirt, took Mom in his arms and waltzed across the floor. Mom was barely five-foot-two (with eyes of blue). She matched Dad’s every step in her high-heeled shoes. They seemed to float above the scuffed floor boards. As they gazed into each other’s eyes and smiled, they were one rhythmic body swaying and twirling to the music. We were captivated by their complete enjoyment of the moment.
Brother Doug offered his hand to his twin sister as he had seen Dad do, and they stepped onto the crowded floor. With faltering steps, they weaved their way to Dad’s side, and with determination Doug mimicked Dad’s steps and soon caught on.
When the music stopped, Dad escorted Mom to a chair, and held out his hand to me. “Come on, Sally, let’s dance,” he said. (My name is Carole, but he always called me Sally.)
Dad led me onto the floor, put his strong right hand on my back, and with my left hand in his, we moved to the music. His right foot moved forward, I stepped back, his left foot moved forward, I stepped back. The slight pressure of his hand on mine guided me though the swaying dancers and his other hand on my back turned me left or right, or guided me into a dizzying whirl. Around we went; my feet barely touching the floor. I felt as though I was floating on a cloud.
Our family danced together more that summer and for many years after, not only at the Grange hall, but at The Top Hat in Rumford, and also in Madrid, where the crowd tended to be a bit rowdy. However, Weld was our favorite place to dance.
Years later, just a few weeks before he died, Dad said, “Sally, there’s a tackle box under my bed. Bring it here please.” When he opened it, buried beneath dozens of $2 bills and a few beloved fishing flies were two tarnished silver dollars. He told me he and Mom had won them in a dance contest when they were going together. The coins were over 60 years old, but as he held them in his hand, I saw once again that smile I had seen that night long ago on the dance floor when he and Mom had held each other and swayed to the music in perfect harmony.
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