By Lorry Myers
I first witnessed it at a holiday party for Panhandle Eastern Pipeline
where my father was employed. The party started with Bingo and big prizes and ended with a five-piece band playing until midnight. The sodas were unlimited and so were the treats and the adults let the children wild.
They don’t have company parties like this anymore.
That night, the party was winding down and so was the little girl in me so I found a seat at my parent’s table, hot and hoarse and ready to go home. The bandleader declared the last dance of the night and my father grabbed my mother’s hand and tugged her onto the dance floor. By then, my brothers and sisters had found their way to the table and the six of us watched our Mom and Dad standing together holding hands.
Then the music started.
It was a twangy country song, a love story sung by a steel guitar. The singer with his slick black hair and snap button shirt, sang about slow dancing with the one you love, at least that’s what I heard. The others on the dance floor swayed to the same music but my eyes were on my Mom and Dad.
They were dancing.
My Dad wrapped his arm around my mother’s waist and she had her arm draped around his neck. My father held my mother’s right hand up close against his chest in such a familiar way that everyone knew they had done this before.
You could tell.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.