More dancing the night away at Ft. Stanton

As last week's post ended, Kenneth Dusenberry was lining up partners for the Grand March at the Ft. Stanton Live Saturday night ball.  The Grand March was performed according to military protocol, with dancers in pairs positioned according to rank.  Kenneth encouraged spectators to join in, but most of us felt reluctant to do so. I heard one couple dressed in Western style clothing tell Kenneth they just weren't dressed appropriately.

But the spirited atmosphere must have overcome their reluctance, because I spied them later at the back of the column ready to march.  As Kenneth Dusenberry and his partner led the dancers around the room, I recognized the music as "Scotland the Brave,"  one of my favorite traditional Scottish melodies.

After the march, Kenneth announced that the first waltz of the evening must be danced with the Grand March partner, but that the rest of the evening was for mingling.  He reminded us again that balls were one of the few opportunities for meeting members of the opposite sex that were available at a 19th century military post. Sort of like a modern day Internet dating site, I suppose.

By this time, Wayne and I had sat out two dances. We were beginning to feel like we were missing out on the fun.  When Kenneth announced the Hat Dance, we made a quick decision to join in.  This wasn't the intricate Mexican Hat Dance that we were familiar with, or we would have stayed seated for sure.  

Males lined up on one side and females on the other.  The participants were of all ages, from grandmas and grandpas to elementary school age children.  The young lady standing beside me in line provided a quick summary of the dance, which she assured me was lots of fun.

This is the young lady later in the evening.

Three chairs were positioned at the front of the dance floor.  They were occupied by either one male in the middle with two females on the side, or one female in the middle with two males on the side.  The person in the middle was given a hat. He or she talked to the potential dance partners on either side and chose one of them as a partner. They then danced down the floor to the end of the respective lines. The person not chosen got the hat and moved over to the middle seat, and the procedure was repeated.

This is where I should have known I was in trouble.  I was one of the females on the side.  The male in the middle looked at me and said, "You know how to dance, don't you?"  (I guess he thought that if I had reached my current advanced age and was still mobile, I had had plenty of time to learn how to dance!)  I said, "Yes, but I'm wearing my Birkenstock sandals."  "That's okay,"  he said, and handed the hat to the other female.  We began dancing down the floor.

I was struggling mightily trying to follow a new unfamiliar dance partner and keep my shoes on at the same time.  My first embarrassment came when my partner said, "Hey, you've got to let me lead."  I guess I was pulling him down the floor to get this dance over with post haste. Then my worst fears came true as I stepped out of one of my sandals, right in the middle of the floor.  An elementary school age young man in military uniform rushed over from the sidelines and helped me put my shoe back on.  I thanked my dance partner, who was unfailingly polite and thanked me also (both of us grateful that the agony was over, I'm sure), and I slunk away to my chair instead of rejoining the female line of dancers.

Birkenstock sandals have many virtues.  They are unbelievably comfortable, they don't rub blisters, and they just feel like summertime. But I'm sure none of those 19th century belles would have been foolish enough to try to dance in similar footwear.

The next dance was the Virginia Reel, an intricate dance that I (thankfully) just observed.  I'll wait to describe the Virginia Reel in next week's blog because it is quite complex.  If anyone has ever danced the Virginia Reel, please let me know if my description next week is accurate!  

Dancing the night away at Ft. Stanton

I should have known better than to wear my Birkenstock sandals to a ball.  But I had only intended to be an observer at the Military Ball that culminated Ft. Stanton Live activities last weekend.

Ft. Stanton is located near the town of  Lincoln, in the pine forests of southeastern New Mexico. My husband Wayne is describing the entire Ft. Stanton Live experience in his blog (www.ccchuckwagon.blogspot.com).  I would like to focus on our experiences at the ball.   It was a unique evening that took us back into the history of the Southwest in the last part of the 19th century.  And I truly felt transported.

The Military Ball was listed on the schedule of activities as starting at 7:00 pm in the cafeteria. Ordinarily, it wouldn't have been an activity that caught our eye, but we are writing a second mystery novel, this one set at Ft. Stanton, so we wanted to pick up as much local color as possible to make the book more authentic.  The new book title is Forts, Farbs, and Phantoms.

During the day at the fort, we had talked to a teenage Civil War re-enactor and, just to make conversation really, had asked about the ball.  He described it enthusiastically and answered our nosy questions such as, "Are there plenty of young ladies to dance with?  What dances do they do?  Have you learned those dances?" He said, rather shyly, that yes, there were usually plenty of dancing partners and that he loved the Virginia Reel and the Hat Dance, but that he was still working on the Waltz. He said that "civilians" were welcome at the ball. We caught a glimpse of him later, decked out in his white gloves (de rigueur for male dancers, so we learned, because ladies' gowns couldn't be washed or cleaned). Later, we exchanged a mutual flicker of recognition as he danced by us.

The many buildings at Ft Stanton are being restored at different rates, but the cafeteria was still in rather sad condition.  A new floor was being laid in one part, but the ball was held in the older part, with a small stage set up for the musicians.  Plastic chairs had been placed around the perimeter, and there was a drink dispenser with lemonade and small plastic cups on a table in one corner.

When we arrived at the fort a little before 7:00 in the evening, all was dark and quiet in contrast to the lively daytime activities.  Camps were set up on the grass, and in several we passed, we saw re-enactors sitting outside chatting.  In one camp, there were singers harmonizing on plaintive folk tunes.  Kenneth Dusenberry, of the Artillery Company of New Mexico, decked out in full uniform and heading up the ball. appeared at the door of the cafeteria and invited all outside to enter.

 He began to paint a picture for us of the history of military balls at forts in the Southwest, describing how important they were for socializing in the days before technology, and how much they were enjoyed by all. Gradually, the old cafeteria faded away, and we entered  through a time warp into an era of dashing young soldiers and beautiful dance partners in hoop skirts, gracefully making their way around the dance floor. Some of the present-day participants were dressed in period costume, and even those who weren't took on an old-time aura as they danced the traditional dances.  Kenneth Dusenberry reminded the audience that women could not dance backwards very easily in hoop skirts, so if a lady fell down, it was always the male partner's fault.

The first dance of the evening was the Grand March.  I'm going to describe it in detail as well as the dances that followed in next week's blog.  I hope you will join me and find out what happened when I tried to waltz wearing Birkenstock sandals.

The Right Way to Start a Summer Day

Standing around the kitchen more asleep than awake at 7:00 am on a recent summer morning, waiting for the water for coffee to boil, the last thing my husband Wayne and I expected to hear was mariachi music. “What’s that?” we asked each other, not trusting our own ears.  

Following the sound out of doors, we located its source over our back fence.  A group of eight mariachi musicians was playing and singing “Las Mañanitas” (the little morning songs). “Las Mañanitas “ is a familiar tune in Hispanic culture, played for special occasions.  Someone must have been celebrating a birthday in the house next door. Guitars and brass instruments were making a full sound, sure to awake any late sleepers in the neighborhood.

It was an uncharacteristically humid morning in El Paso.  We felt like we were somewhere else in the world.  Memories of visits to Mexico and Spain came back to us as we sat on a wooden bench outside in our bathrobes, mugs of coffee in hand, listening to several more songs.  That’s “Malagueña Salerosa,” I observed, joining the mariachis in singing the parts that I knew.  After each selection, we applauded vigorously, not knowing if the musicians could hear us or not.

As the group started to leave, Wayne had a sudden inspiration.  He ran into our house, grabbed a $20 bill, and hurried to our back fence to catch the singers before they left in their cars.  One of the mariachis climbed up a muddy bank despite wearing white boots to take the money and our thanks.

We were just pouring ourselves a second cup of coffee when the doorbell rang.  Standing there were two of the musicians who introduced themselves, thanked us for the tip, and asked if we wanted another song.  On closer observation, we could see that the singers were quite young.  They were a group from a local high school, and even had a business card.  We declined the extra song, but we shook hands all around and thanked them again.

“Do you realize how early those teenagers must have gotten up this morning?”  we marveled.  

 “Would this great experience have happened in very many other places in the U.S.?”  we observed.

 “Las mañanitas.”  What a super way to start the day!

Click to hear Javier Solis sing Las mañanitas

Fútbol – Out of the Mouths of Babes

Summertime in El Paso brings leisure to watch those long soccer (fútbol) games on TV.  As we watched the finals of the Confederations Cup between Brazil and Spain this past week (Brazil won quite handily), I was reminded of a memorable FIFA World Cup game that we had watched several years ago.  The experience turned me into a soccer fan, for sure.

                               

Mexico

 

The most authentic Mexican restaurant in our neighborhood, Barrigas, had placed a handwritten sign on the door, “Open at 7:00 a.m. for World Cup Game – Mexico vs. Portugal.”  It was a chance for Mexico to cinch a spot in the second round of play. 

Portugal

Although most Americans display a lukewarm attitude towards soccer, here on the US-Mexico border, fans take the game very seriously.  My husband Wayne and I decided to join the early morning crowd at Barrigas to cheer Mexico on to victory.

 

We arrived promptly at 6:59 a.m., beating several of the waiters to work, and succeeded in capturing the best seats in the house.  The television channel from Ciudad Juárez, México was tuned in and projected onto an eight foot wide screen.  Soccer fans are notorious around the world for their aggressive behaviors, such as cursing, throwing beer bottles, and landing an occasional punch on a fellow fan.  This crowd was more subdued, however, as families filed in, most wearing sports jerseys and caps in various combinations of the colors of the Mexican flag – red, white and green.  There was a buzz of excitement in the air.  Two grammar-school aged children, a boy and a girl, squeezed into seats at the table behind us.  I hoped I wasn’t blocking their view of the screen, but I really didn’t want to give up my spot that I had set a 5:30 a.m. alarm to secure!

 

The match began with Mexico almost scoring a goal.  A roar went up from the crowd.  But Portugal soon put one in to make the score 1-0.  When an unfortunate Mexican player touched the ball with his hand (a real no-no), the referee gave Portugal a penalty kick. Penalty kicks can be deadly, because the only defender is the goalkeeper.  The score became Portugal 2, Mexico 0.  A glum silence fell over the crowd.  I noticed, however, that the two children behind me were keeping up a running commentary on the game in Spanish, giving advice freely to players, coaches, and referee alike.  And they showed no mercy.

 

“Center it, center it,” they yelled at the Mexican player trying desperately to get the ball anywhere near the goal.  “Not so high,” they advised him when he kicked it over the goal.  If there was a possible foul on the field, the kids helped the referee out by pointing out exactly what the Portuguese player had done to the Mexican player.  “Look, look, he kicked him.”  But if a player from Portugal went down, wincing in pain, they made clucking sounds in disbelief.  “The yellow, the yellow,” they advised the referee for the slightest Portuguese infraction, hoping he would give a player a yellow card, a serious event in soccer.  If a Mexican player missed a good chance at a goal, the children showed little sympathy.  “Take him out!” they advised the coach.  “Give it to Kiki,” they urged.  Kiki was the nickname of Francisco Fonseca, a key Mexican footballer.

 

At this point, after numerous cups of coffee, I had to excuse myself from the table.  Maybe the extra coaching by the children had an effect, because Mexico scored a goal in my absence. The score was now Portugal 2, Mexico 1.  Could Mexico catch up?  The children’s comments became more optimistic.  “That a way.  Now we’re going.” Up the field, down the field ran the players, with the clock ticking off the minutes and seconds until the end of the game.  It wasn’t over until it was over.  Or was it?

I heard a small voice behind me say, “If Mexico loses, I’m going with Brazil.”  Ah the fickleness of youth!  We called for our check and left the restaurant.  Wasn’t Brazil scheduled for a game tomorrow?