The First Call Might as Well Be a Foreign Language
I stood there in boots I'd bought an hour earlier, holding hands with a seventy-four-year-old named Dale, trying to figure out why "allemande left" sounded like a dinner order. Thirty seconds later I was spinning through a square of eight people, laughing so hard I nearly collided with the fiddle player. That's Herminie square dancing for you—chaotic, loud, and weirdly addictive.
Nobody warns you that the first night is mostly apologizing. You step on toes. You head right when everyone else heads left. You forget if you're a "head" or a "side" and honestly, half the veterans can't remember either. The caller repeats everything twice, the music has this barn-raising energy that forces you to smile, and somewhere around minute twenty your brain stops overthinking and your feet just... go.
Dale Started Coming Because His Physical Therapist Dared Him
Dale had knee replacement surgery last winter. His therapist muttered something about lateral movement, Dale figured hell, might as well enjoy it. Now he shows up fifteen minutes early to wrap his joints, eats half the cookies from the folding table, and helps newcomers figure out which corner of the square is theirs. He's not graceful. He's enthusiastic, which is infinitely better.
Herminie gets something right that fancy dance studios miss—this isn't about looking good. The teenagers dragged here by their grandparents stand next to retired mechanics and the occasional college kid who saw a flyer at the coffee shop. Last month our caller was Brenda, a former truck driver who smoked through the break and could make a do-si-do sound like actual poetry.
Here's What Actually Happens (Because Lists Lie)
I could tell you about promenades and weave-the-rings. But that's like describing a roller coaster by listing bolts. The real experience goes like this: you show up in shoes that don't slide. The floor is that specific community-center wood that squeaks no matter how you step. Somebody always brings baked goods. The caller shouts over fiddle music, eight bodies try to move as one organism, and when the pattern locks in—when it actually works—it's the best kind of rush.
Classes split by stubbornness, not skill. Beginners learn the fundamentals: how to "honor your partner" (it's a nod, calm down), the difference between a star left and a star right, and why you don't let go of hands unless Brenda specifically says so. Intermediates chase trickier patterns where the ladies chain and the gents sneak around back. Advanced nights? Brenda talks at normal conversation speed and you realize square dancing is basically speed chess in boots.
Next Friday Is the Harvest Hoedown. I'm Nervous.
They run themed nights—Western wear, neon throwback, once they tried formal attire and Dale wore a bowtie with his Carhartts. The hoedown's coming up. I'll mess up the apple-blossom sequence. I'll eat too much of whatever Mrs. Gable brings in that foil-covered dish. I'll probably step on Dale's boots again.
Square dancing didn't fix my life. I still have a job I tolerate and a car that makes a noise I can't identify. But Thursday nights, for ninety minutes, I'm not thinking about any of it. I'm listening for Brenda's voice, grabbing Dale's rough hand, moving.
Sweaty. Lost. Exactly where I want to be.
Come join us. Wear sturdy shoes. Leave your dignity at the door—you won't need it, and honestly, nobody else brought theirs either.
