We kicked up our heals and circled left. Then the other way around. The fiddle player crooned and the banjo player strummed as the caller told us to swing our partners. I hooked Charlotte’s arm and we whirled around, just like we had as little girls.
Well blow me down with a cactus if we weren’t square dancing in the middle of New York City.
Stranger things have happened, sure, but it’s not how I typically spend my Monday nights. No sir-ee. A week before, when I saw the sign proclaiming free square dancing in Bryant Park, I let out a hoop and a holler. “Come hail and high water, I’ll be dang busted if my patootie is not at that shindig,” I thought to myself, “And Ima gonna git my favorite little missies to join me.”
They didn’t take any convincing. Miranda and Charlotte yee-hawed right along with me when I told them about the event. We went whole hog outfitting ourselves in checkered shirts, affixing suspenders to dungarees, tying bandanas around our necks, and braiding our hair into pigtails. When offered a plastic cowboy hat by the event staff, we said “Thank you ma’am,” and topped our ensembles. Not quite up to our usual standards, but festive enough that a group of tourists begged us to take a photo with them exclaiming, “You look like real country girls!”