An oldie, but oh what a goodie...

When I was younger I used to beg my grandma to tell me the greatest story I had ever heard. It goes something like this:

There once was a beautiful young lady who went to the county dance. Her date, a gentleman, was kind and handsome. The night was cool and clear. Stars were gleaming, the moon’s light spanned for miles. They pulled up to an area where cars were parked in no logical order; and the doors, like two huge French doors made of wood, where open. Gazing through the opening you could see people dancing and laughter all about.

The music was playing inside; a fiddle and drum band. As they entered, everything grew louder. The barn had been cleared and bails of hay lined the dance floor. The lights were dim and rustic. Girls in their dresses looked fabulous, while the guys looked relaxed in their pants and button up shirts.

The dance wore on and the girl became tired, so she sat out a dance. As she watched others she noticed an alluring man standing across the room. This wasn’t the same man she had arrived with, but something wouldn’t let her gaze go. He was staring right back at her, thinking there is something about that girl. He smiled his suave smile, pointed to her, pointed to himself, and then pointed to the dance floor.


Her heart fluttered but she shook her head no. She thought, “The nerve of this guy. I’m here with another man.” She looked away, but something made her look back. His gaze never ceased. Now their eyes locked on each other, the music in the background had faded to muffle, and the dancing images that separated these two became blurred. The man across the room pointed her, pointed to him, and pointed to the dance floor once again. A little intrigued by his persistence and her heart still a flutter she said no.


And the rest is history…

That’s how she always ended it. Left for my imagination to dream and wonder what love really is, what it means, what it feels like.  This is the story of how my grandma and grandfather met in the 1930’s. That version of the story may not have been exactly how she told it, believe me the content is real with the dance and my grandfather pointing at her and the floor, but that is how I always imagined it – with the lights and the music. I loved that story. I used to beg her, “Grandma, tell me the story of how you and grandpa met,” and she always did. Even when my persistence was annoying and even through his death, she always told me and lit up every time. You could call me a hopeless romantic from the beginning.