By Aimée N. Lanteigne
ROME — It started out as a piece of cast off paper, worn and faded, on his refrigerator door. After my mom passed a few years ago, he paused to sit down and weigh the balance of whatever time he had left and made a list of what he hoped to accomplish before he saw her again. The list was broken into two categories — tangibles and intangibles — translating to what you can make happen and what you hope will happen.
One of the items on my father’s “tangibles” list was “host a barn dance.” I knew I could make that happen.
Dad and my boys were outside tending to his aged horse, when the list caught my eye and my brain started spinning. I left my dad’s that August afternoon and, in my usual “Let’s do this thing!” fashion, I set the wheels in motion for what would become the social event of the year for Rome.
I tracked down Dugan Murphy, a well known square dance caller in Portland. He was open on the date proposed for the dance, so I quickly hired him. He, in turn, recommended a great folk group, “Velocipede.”
With a few more emails, everything was nailed down, and I set out to compile the invitation list. My dad is one of those people who knows everybody, and if he doesn’t know you by name, give him 60 seconds and he will know someone you know, at the very least.
I started with his two older sisters, Judy and Janice. They gave me names and numbers of folks who should be invited. I wasn’t really sure what to expect, but reactions were pleasantly excited!
The concept of a barn dance might be a bit antiquated, but most of my dad’s friends and family are “country,” as he likes to say, so a barn dance fit perfectly. I made sure to remind them this was to be a gift for my dad, and we would tell him on his birthday, Sept. 28, leaving him two full weeks to prepare for the dance slated for Oct. 12.
However, plans had to be altered when he began hinting at knocking off that old bucket list himself and wondered what I thought of helping him plan a barn dance. Nonchalantly, I replied “Gee, that might be a lot of work,” and “I don’t know, kind of late in the season now, don’t you think?” Yet, he persisted.
“No!” he said. “Why would she do that? It’s too much!”
Secretly, he was thrilled, but he couldn’t let me know, because he likes to be in control of things — a trait he passed down to me. Despite his inner happiness, he had to make it difficult for himself and for me because, well, just because that is what he does.
He pursued his own band and caller despite the fact I had already booked one of the best in the business. He hemmed and hawed, called his caller pals, got a price quote. Finally, his friends put an end to the nonsense and told him the group and caller I chose were both wonderful and to stick with them. We could give his caller pals a try next year. He relented. Decision made.
Next, he solicited my husband’s construction skills to build benches for the dance. They drove to a neighbor’s house and checked out the benches his friend built for a recent country-themed wedding. Hay and boards were ordered; the building commenced.
A few days before the event, it was time to set up. Fall decorations were put up by friends who helped clean as well. Strings of pure white lights were crisscrossed from the rafters; the benches were put in place, the food tables set up. He was full of questions — “Where should I put the sleigh? What about the carriage? What should we do for lighting? Should we get a porta-potty?”
The final touch was a sign he had special ordered in maroon and gold. It read “Twelve Octobers.” As my dad will tell you, it is his favorite month of the year, and if he had it his way, there would be twelve months of Octobers on the calendar.
Turns out the weather was just fine for the dance — clear and sunny. Everyone I had called was told 7 to 9 p.m.; everyone my dad had called, thought it began at 6 p.m. Oh, well.
The food arrived in waves as more than 75 people began arriving. The horse’s pasture was turned into a temporary parking lot. Dad’s nephew loaned the use of his golf cart to ferry some folks from the pasture to the barn.
Dugan and his wife arrived in time to partake of the bountiful harvest friends and family had brought — burgers, meatballs, chili, jambalaya, cornbread, cookies, mac and cheese, brownies, hot cider; the list was endless.
Finally, the sweet strains of music could be heard wafting from the barn. Everyone crowded in. Sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, friends, neighbors, grandchildren, co-workers from long ago, even parents of players from my son’s basketball team, whom my dad has grown especially fond of over the years, made their way out to the barn for the first dance of the evening.
Granted, not everyone was willing to dance, but everyone was certainly willing to watch anyone who would! A few brave souls including myself, my in-laws, my husband, a great-niece and dad’s furniture-making friends stepped out on the floor. The first song was a simple circle dance with an in and out step and a promenade, but it must have gone on for more than 20 rounds.
Fortunately, the pace stabilized. For two more hours, guests stepped on and off the dance floor with various partners of all ages. Square dancing offers forever-changing partners, which helps ease the social awkwardness many folks feel in a dance setting. Even my two, teenage sons, at great risk of being videoed, let down their guard and kicked up their heels for PaPa. It did his heart good to see his grandsons out there dancing — that was part of the dream.
The evening culminated with a slow dance, my personal request, “Ashokan Farewell.” Dugan called the old man forward and summoned the crowd to give him a hearty “Hip, hip, hooray!” followed by a resounding rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”
Teary-eyed, but smiling, Buddy began to bid farewell to his many guests. From Maryland to Bangor, Fryeburg to Narraguagus, they had come. A few would linger, and his sisters and niece stayed to help clean up and put away the food. The horse was brought in from her other pasture, fed and bedded down for the night. The cousins from down south retired for the evening. Buddy hit the lights and settled down to reflect about his once-in-a-lifetime dream coming true.
Did I mention my dad is relentless? “We must do this again,” he declared.
Let the planning begin! Late summer? Early fall? What about weather? Should we get a tent? Do you think we should rent a port-a-potty?
