Twirling dirvishes at the wedding


Mrs. Stepford’s son was married in August to his Glasgow sweetheart. His bridal princess wanted to be married in a castle, full regalia for the laddies, and so they did. Both father and son were got up in kilts, sporrans, white knee high socks and Ghillie brogues, those shoes that lace half way up the calf.

Mrs. Stepford missed out on the main event and so Mr. and Mrs. threw a party here in Canada for the bridal pair. It was a good gig with excellent food provided by the Stepfords but also from the parent’s friends who all wanted to excel over the Stepford’s other friends in bringing a specialty dish to feed the cast of thousands that were expected to come.

I had concocted a salad of macaroni, artichoke hearts, laced with finely chopped onions and celery to give it a bit of crunch, then topped with olives and parsley for decoration. I also had cooked a large pre-sliced ham since Mrs. S. didn’t have room in her oven for all three in hers.

I arrived at the reception on time, but barely. I’d had a migraine in the morning and nevertheless chopped a ton of red pepper, cilantro, parsley and green onions for her salads. Mid afternoon I took a nap and arose quite refreshed; but I was late. I had to hurry to get dressed, package up the things I was bringing and get myself out the door.

It was snowing again and I donned my boots for warmth and walking safety – better than just going in my slippery-bottomed leather shoes. Much to my dismay when I arrived, food parcels in hand, I had forgotten the shoes. The locale not being far from home, I returned home to pick up my shoes. This dithering is just an aftermath of migraine days so I don’t worry about it too much. I had realized that the setting up at the hall was well underway and they really didn’t need me for fifteen minutes.

I arrived back at the hall, dancing shoes in hand and proceeded to unwrap – snow encrusted umbrella, Sunday going-to meeting fur lined coat; warm, flat-heeled boots, only to discover to my mortification, that I had neglected to put stockings on. I was still wearing red leg warmers that peeked out with a frill at the bottom of my dress pants and below that bright pastel sky-blue fuzzy bed socks! God forbid that anyone should see this atrocious get up that I wear at home to keep myself warm. It was as if I had turned up in my pyjamas for this prestigious event!

Rapidly I removed the offending pastel blue socks and stuffed them in my coat pocket. I stuffed my now bare feet into my dancing shoes and looked around somewhat guiltily to see if anyone had noticed. It seemed not. Good grief! What was I going to come up with next!

Wedding feasts are wedding feasts; but wedding reception music differs widely and we were in for a treat. Both father and son belong to rock bands, father on bass guitar and son as lead singer. There are also a drummer, a lead guitarist who sings as well. As Stepford son belted out “I can’t get no satisfaction” I wasn’t particularly listening (my tastes run to Classical) and at the end of it and I breathed a sigh of relief that the loudness had diminished, I was quite surprised not to see Mick Jagger on stage, it was so well done. There were several other like tunes, recognizable, excellently played, excellently sung. For a home grown band, it was sounding mightily professional.

Stepford son had been hoping to get the entire invitational list up and dancing, but no one seemed ready to budge after having scarfed a wonderful dinner and several rounds of joy juice. That is, except three little girls who were high on coming to an adult party.


By looks, I would imagine that the youngest was six or seven, the next one eight and the last one about ten. The only other “child” that was there was Stepford son’s cousin.

I said to this lovely shy girl, “What grade are you in now? Twelve?”

She looked a little frightened at my question and then a bit bit pleased, then enormously proud that I had taken her for an adult. She was only thirteen and in Grade Eight, she informed me. She comported herself so well that it was easy to make such a mistake.

The little girls seemed not to have any inhibitions about dancing. At first, I had only sensed that there was motion on the dance floor. Someone was up there but not worth paying much attention. Then a flash of red racing over the dance floor began to flicker regularly in my peripheral vision and I took my camera with me to see if I could capture the spellbinding dancing that was going on.


Dance after dance, these little sprites were using up the floor space, sometimes running in circular motion, sometimes twirling; arabesques, pliés, petits jetés, pas de chats and pirouettes. They did not fatigue. There was boundless energy. The little red-skirted child twirled and twirled, then varied her choreography with some runs and graceful flailing of arms.


The band eventually tired and the children continued to move about, dancing, wishing that music would recommence. Their parents gathered them around and began to say their goodbyes.

I came up and said both to parents, “That’s quite a dancer you’ve got there! Youthful energy! Don’t you wish we still had a fraction of that?”

And then to the little miss I said, ” Are you going to be a ballerina when you grow up?”

She drew her self up in the tallest reproval she could muster, indignant at my comment.

“I’m already am a ballerina!”

How true she was. She knew herself. Dancing, she was a human bundle of self confidence.

Not one of my pictures turned out. The digital camera simply could not focus on such a twirling dirvish. Nevertheless, there is a certain je ne sais pas quoi in these images of speed and innocent artistry.



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