“Drive faster,” I urged my father as I slunk further down in the back seat of the powder blue Ford Fiesta. There I was, decked out in my navy blue gingham bib fronted dress which had so much crinoline that the skirt shot out horizontally from my waist when I was upright. When I spun, my white lace pettipants were on full display (no, I am not making this up). Prostrated on the back seat, the bulk of the crinoline netting nearly blocked my view out the window. Because of this, the risk was low of anyone glimpsing me from the passing high school bus, but regardless, I exercised caution. Socially, I was lukewarm: being known as the 15 year old who square danced with her parents was not likely to turn the temperature down to cool where I longed to be. (Becoming hot was never in the cards). 

I was the last in the line of five children, and the one who was raised alone by parents who were finding things they enjoyed doing together as they edged towards retirement. The one they landed on was square dancing which quickly expanded to include round dancing, a form of ballroom dancing with a caller announcing the moves. 

At 12, I started tagging along to the dances, having convinced two of my chums from elementary school to join us. One of those girls was bona fide cool - a top athlete, no less! - reducing the mortification factor of dancing with the ’rents. We were decked out in matching gingham dresses - blue, orange, and red. Oh so cute! 

A year later, I went with Mom and Dad to the national square and round dance convention in Ottawa. So did the red-rigged girl (by then the orange one - the cool one - had dropped out). We met other teen dancers from across the continent and, while we secretly agreed they were all pretty geeky, we had a ball. 

By mid-high school, red had hung up her crinoline, but I had found a nerdy niche as a round dancer. I’d go, partnerless, but spell off the wives who were tired. To amp up the novelty factor, I also did some round dance calling. We’d travelled to Halifax for another convention as a family and went to a weekly dance in a larger centre 90 minutes drive from the farm. 

When I wasn’t waltzing and foxtrotting with middle-aged people, I was trying to establish some social cred in high school by exchanging my poofy skirt for my father’s black suit, slashing black lipstick across my mouth, and drinking Black Russians in the back of a pickup truck. Yes, I was living a double-life. 

By the time I was 17, the goth-wannabe eclipsed the dancing girl. My parents were deep into the cult by then, and continued to dance at least once a week until my father died in 2007. Most of their friends came from that world, some of whom Mom still communicates with. Both shy people, they gained social ease and confidence. Their passion meant that as a teen, I was alone on the farm at least one weekend each month and occasionally, for longer period. The ways in which I misused that freedom are best left to your imagination. 

Despite my embarrassment and mild derision of it at the time, those dance years were formative for me. Of course, I learned to dance, a skill that hasn’t really proved all that helpful other than Zumba class. But I also I learned to the art of small talk and to embrace difference - the square and round dance community is full of the perpetually lukewarm, folks who’d be labelled oddballs and misfits in other contexts. I learned confidence at an age when many young girls have theirs suppressed. I can’t say I learned much about the counter-life I chose at 17 other than liqueur makes me puke or gives me a killer hangover or both.  

If COVID lockdowns taught us nothing else, it’s that connection is critical to our human functioning. I am not suggesting everyone sign up for square or round dance lessons - although you might enjoy it - but it’s so important to be involved and to be part of a community.  Get out there and find yours! 

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