The Minnesota Farm Woman

There isn’t much to do on a Saturday night in a small town, but every so often in our small town there was a wedding dance at the old arena. Since everybody knew everybody around here, the dances were often advertised in the paper and we all went to help the happy couple celebrate. Our arena was a huge cavernous old building that housed a gymnasium and bleachers, the local library and the police station. The gym was used for basketball and roller skating as well as junior proms and wedding dances. When I was 17, a good-looking young man asked me on a date to one of those dances, and I was very eager to go. He must not have been quite as eager as I was, because he was late. Very late. So late, in fact, that I left without him, angry, hurt, and determined to go by myself and have nothing to do with him ever again. When he finally caught up with me, full of apologies and excuses, I kept my nose in the air, arms crossed over my chest, and pouted. For some strange reason, I thought of that long-ago dance last Saturday night, when I was lucky enough to spend the evening with my grandson Max, who is nearly three. After a Curious George marathon he took a bath in a tub filled with soap and cars, which he appropriately calls the “car wash”. I thought he would settle down and go to sleep, but he grabbed his harmonica instead and started to play. He took me by the hand and we danced and stomped around the living room with the exuberance that only a young boy and an old grandmother can have. We held hands and twirled until we fell on the couch, laughing. Once we (me more than him) caught our breath, we started all over again. I didn’t care that the curtains were open and that the neighbors, who might not see the small boy, would wonder why an old woman was stomping and twirling around the living room playing a harmonica. To be honest, neither of us even knows how to play the harmonica, but we made lively music and for a few glorious moments, time stood still. Sometimes, time can be an enemy and sometimes, time can be a friend. It can tear down old arenas until they are no more than memories. It can give you many minutes or hours or days with those you love but can it also turn 17 year-olds into grandmothers in what seems like only the blink of an eye. At that long-ago wedding celebration, I finally stopped pouting and agreed to have just one dance with that good-looking young man. As we walked to the dance floor, the music slowed. Time was my enemy at that moment, because I wanted that dance to go on for ever and always. I guess in a way, it did. HE was a really good dancer, and still is. I hope we’re both around to dance at Max’s wedding. I might even play the harmonica.