Small towns in Texas, and probably everywhere else in America, know how to throw a party. Smoke from barbecue pits spice the air with beef, pork, chicken, sausage, and frequently veggies like onions and corn. Vendors sell a variety of handmade, homegrown doodads and whatnots from canvas-shaded booths. People race marathons for this year’s bragging rights. Shaded domino tables host fiercely competitive games. Music thunders from platforms slapped together out of scrap lumber. Lemonade sells by the gallons.
America, Rockwell style. Gotta love it.
For many small towns, the best time comes when the sun sets. The main drag is barricaded to outsiders, the road is cleaned as much as possible, the band is rehydrated and retuned. Then it begins. The street dance.
In my day, it was the Texas two-step, polka, schottische, waltz. Now they boot-scoot to the newest line dances. But one kind of dance has never changed: the buckle polisher. Soft, slow music. Your sweetie holding you under the stars. Swaying together so close it’s hard to tell where one of you ends and the other begins–which is why they’re called buckle polishers.
I have a street dance scene in my novel. The music is from my all-time favorite line dance–and probably one of the originals:
Where did you come from?
Where did you go?
Where did you come from . . .
If you know the last line, you know the name of the song. Leave a comment with the title, and I’ll send the winner of this week’s drawing a country-style reminder of a simple truth.