In an old barn with cowboy boots, flannel and too much denim to count…it doesn’t matter your age, where you’re from or what you look like. You swing with the elbows of strangers and jostle against neighbors as you doe-si-doe. Grins emerge and shouts of joy abound. The temperature inside rises. I’m holding the leather-gloved hands of a motorcycle punk as we promenade around the room; I’m “barreling” with a group of young hipsters who sneak outside the barn to have a smoke; I’m waltzing with the caller because why not ask an overall-clad character to dance? This is home.
Square Dancin’In by Fannie on February 21, 2011 at 5:32 pm