11/27/2023 0 By BuddyCushman

Thinking about dancing quite early Monday morning. Like, it’s not so much a reliance, the kids and me, rather a dance. We dance eight dances: the Bristol Stomp; the Monkey; the Watusi; the Mashed Potato; the Camel Walk; the Hully Gully; the Stroll; and the Swim. Dancing at the Upstairs Cellar. Dancing (lessons) at the Methodist Church. Dancing in the freshman cafeteria. Dancing in the Mill Pond Diner, a Park Department bedouin, Frank says pour cold water over your wrists on the hottest days. He says drink hot coffee on the hottest days.

Dancing like “Now as you hide far beyond innumerable peaks”; like snowflakes melting into the top of my head; like “The Monkey Time” on a 44th Street floor, captured on film for sisterly giggles. And every bobber moment on Mill Pond back there in my hometown, back there most of the time with Donnie. Dancing in the Everett Woods. With Milky Dent and a lazy day at Wonder Pizza, the Venice Beach walkway, Lolo home in the cottage on the canal, making spaghetti sauce, dancing around the kitchen to Buffulao Springfield, it’s spinning on the turntable in the next room. Lolo wondering which of the eight dances “I Am a Child” calls for.

Back at the Park Department Frank’s always saying, “When it’s raining we get out of the rain,” and, “When it’s sunny get busy, boys.”