Give Ridiculous Some Light

Last Thursday, I stepped out my apartment door and looked up to see my gentleman neighbor also stepping out of his. His face spoke all kinds of shock. On this mid-March, rainy afternoon, I was wearing nude panty hose, a ruffly black skirt (with unseen gingham bloomers underneath), white leather Mary-Jane tap shoes, and a bright yellow rain coat. He'd caught me on my way to clog.

I turned the key to lock my door, giggled through our expected "Hello," and followed with a simple request: "Don't ask." So down the stairs and to our cars we went, chuckling for different reasons. I'm quite confident I gave him a colorful quandary to solve. Maybe he thought I was planning to pop from a birthday cake or that I was the entertainment for a Civil War Reenactment. Maybe he reconsidered his relocation to the South or wondered how I got my legs so tan.

Little did he know I was on my way to meet a group of people dressed just like me, geared-up to clog (and for those of you unfamiliar with what clogging is, take a look at this video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cs2j8f7H2WY) for a room of red-faced, inexhaustible elementary schoolers. It was Heritage Night at Harris Creek Elementary school, where Latin American, Irish, and Appalachian folk dancers were to show these little ones vintage ways to bust a move, which they did without hesitation around and around a cafeteria-sized circle.

It's these little moments, these kinks in our chains, that cause us to look up and let the world surprise us a little. Too often we let our routines and expectations build walls around our imagination. Too often we let misfortune define our worth. But it's when I wear this ridiculous outfit into the light of day to see children absorb the elaborate dances of our past without an ounce of judgment, that the beauty of this world shines a bit brighter.

As for the neighbor, I look forward to the next time our paths cross. Hopefully I'll be wearing a pair of jeans and flip-flops.


Love and little jig,


Corrie Lynn

Tuesday Nights

For two years, Tuesdays have been long. From 8 to 5, I work at the Library for the Blind, assisting patrons with various talking book needs and come home to eat quickly, change into comfortable clothes, slip my jingle tap shoes in a bag, and reenter the car to meet Ron, my 66 year old clogging partner. We travel across nearly three counties in rush hour traffic. He drives while I sometimes nap or knit, but there's always conversation. Ron has been living in Raleigh his entire life. He has watched the planting of strip malls and belt-lines, the infiltration of new ethnicities living next door. Ron could be a cynic. He could spend the 45 minutes complaining to me the hassles of watching things change, memories die. But he instead tells me he took scrap bread to the lake today to feed the ducks and met a nice young boy catching his first fish. We listen to pop music and swap stories of our weeks. I give him advice on healthy eating, since his recent heart problems. He shakes his head at whole grains and broccoli. He asks of my love life. I shake my head at the slim pickings.

We reach Atwater Farms, the home and retired dairy of fellow clogger, Don. There's a one-room wooden building, built for the special purpose of dance, tucked behind his home and garden plot. Once inside the building, the open windows frame lovely moving images of grazing cows. I also feel tucked away, protected, here. I am reminded where I am from, the constancy of surrounding countryside. I rest my eyes on what the window frames. I hear the taps jingling on tapping feet. I turn around when Pam, the team mother of sorts, says to me, "Come give me a hug, sugar dumpling!" As she squeezes me, I forget what lives outside this very space.

Finally, we get to dancing! For those that don't know, there are a lot of variations of clogging. Some people always start on the left foot, some on the right. Some cloggers use jingle taps, some use regular tap shoes. Some kick high, some aren't so sure. Within the community, this causes tension and disagreement. I say, any dancing at all is better than none! And if anyone is interested in such an old folk dance, they should be encouraged to learn, regardless of the particulars. For me, dance is the purest form of feeling free. It provides a euphoria of sorts, but only if one feels comfortable. To have a community especially for dance is special because you grow in relationships as you grow as a dancer, making the impulse more organic. May I just say, holding hands with people of all shapes and ages while dancing freestyle in a circle stretches my smile to greater territory each time. I am so thankful for these people.

I never sleep on the car ride home. Sometimes I ask Ron to stop at the grocery store so I can pick up a couple things for the week. I take him through the fresh produce section. I pick up an avocado.

"What's that?" He said.
"An avocado."
"It looks like a hand grenade. What do you do with it?"
I laugh. "You can use it to make guacamole or just put it on sandwiches as a spread or topping."
"I don't eat anything I can't pronounce," he says. We are in the check out line at this point, with a lady in front of us.
"Well they say it's good for women's reproductive organs, so you might should give it a chance."
"Oh! No, you didn't!"

We all laugh. I've forgotten by this point how I'm usually in bed by this time most other weekday nights. Ron drives me back to my car. I get home and put away my groceries, thinking of a healthy meal I could get Ron to eat next week.