“Let’s go surfin’ now.

Everybody’s learning how.

Come on and safari with me!”

The Beach Boys were on American Bandstand when Howie entered the Throckmortons parlor.  Meg and his mother were in the middle of the room, matching the dancers on TV step for step.  They were shaking their heads side-to-side, waving their limp wrists in front of their faces and jumping up and down on alternate feet.  Howie knew what they were doing.  Emily tried to teach it to him.  He thought she was horsing around, “No,” she said, “It’s called ‘The Pony.  Come on.  I’ll teach it to you.”  He hadn’t meant to hurt her.  Howie watched his mother and sister warily.

Louise Throckmorton was a short woman dressed in a housedress and an apron.  Her brown hair was tightly curled.  All the Throckmortons had brown hair except Howie.  Pictures of Louise when she was younger showed much straighter hair.  It was after the war that she discovered the wonders of the perm.

Meg was tall and slender, with fashion model looks.  Her hair was cut in popular a pageboy.  She had just gotten home from work, and was still dressed in her sales clothes, a frilly yellow blouse, a green gypsy skirt, and open-toed shoes.  In her ears were large gold hoops, and matching bracelets were on her arms.  They jangled whenever she moved.  Her fingernails and toenails were painted bright red.  Both wore immaculate makeup.

“That was fun!” Louis exclaimed as the song finished.  She shut off the TV and turned to face Howie.  So did Meg.

He started to sweat at once.  He wiped his palms on his jeans.  He had changed out of his cleats on the back porch, he could not gain time by knocking dirt out of them, and instead he rubbed one shoe against back of his leg.

His mother’s eyes grew alarmed at his distress.  She turned to Meg and asked, “Are you sure we need to do this?  Mae could sit with Grandma Ida during the reception and keep her company.”

“We have to, Mom.  How bad can teaching Howie be?  We must to stick to our plan.  Aunt Mae loves to dance, and she has had so little opportunity since…”  Meg paused and gave a hopeless gesture that sent her bracelets jangling.

Yes!  Louise strengthened her resolve.  When the war was over, her Harvey came home to her.  But Steven, Mae’s fiance, did not return.  He still lay in a field overseas.  “Howie, come over here, please,” she commanded, pointing to the center of the room.

Feeling like he was going to his doom, Howie moved to where she pointed.

She continued, “Stand up straight, Howie.  You’re slouching.  And hold your head up.  Now come up on your toes like this.”  She demonstrated by going up on her own toes and spreading out her arms.  “See how I keep my balance.  Standing on your toes gives you poise.”  She moved like a dove floating in the air.

When Howie tried it, he stepped on his own foot.

As Louise floated back to earth, Meg reached over and whacked Howie in middle of his back.

“OUCH!”

“Keep your shoulders straight, she said; and hold your stomach in, and your chest out.  Breathe from your diaphragm.”  Meg was barking at him about like a drill sergeant.  That was their secret plan, to use military tactics on him.  After all, it won the war!  Before, they had been too easy on Howie because he was the baby of the family.  This time they would break him down and rebuild him like a dancing recruit.

It was working, Meg thought.  He was already standing straighter.  Except for his knees shaking, his posture was perfect.  Aunt Mae was going to be so happy!  And what of Emily Hinton?  Meg suspected she was hoping to dance with Howie at the reception.  Firmness was what was needed!  And they would be firm because they loved him.  She whacked him again.

Howie’s sweating increased.  There was one lump in his throat along with another forming on his back.  He hoped there would be no need to hit him in the stomach.

“Hold your arms away from your body.  Now spread your legs,” Meg said, kicking his feet apart with her shoes.  “Get up on your tiptoes like Mom told you.  Look at me!”

Meg rose up on her toes and waved her arms like their mom had done.  Only to Howie, she looked more like a vulture ready to swoop on its prey.

He shuddered and strained as he tiptoed around, flapping his arms about him.

“Remember to flex your knees,” his mother added, bouncing up and down to demonstrate.  “Good dancing is all in the legs.  When you have good balance and appear light on your feet, poise and grace follow naturally.”

Head, arms, shoulders, chest, knees, toes, breathing – flapping!  This was hard, Howie thought.

“Don’t forget to bounce.  That’s it!  Stay up on your toes.  Hold it!”

But he couldn’t.  Slowly he tottered forward…until he fell…still flapping…to the floor.  Had he been a bird of prey, he would have gone hungry.

Fortunately, his mother and sister had already moved the furniture out of the way.

The room they were in had been a quaint parlor when the Binnings lived there.   The beautiful wood floor used to be highly polished to display its natural grain.  And wood trims bordered the walls, just at the waist to keep furniture from knocking holes in them.  Reclaimed rag throw rugs, had made by hand, proving the industry of the farm wife, were scattered about.   Broad striped paper covered the wall from the floor to the trim and solid green went from there to the ceiling.  Rose-colored curtains hung over the two parlor windows, while prints and family photographs added decoration, and lace doilies protected the arms of the furniture from dirt that could not be prevented from being brought in from the fields.

But Mrs. Throckmorton tastes were more modern.  Shag carpeting now covered the floor.  The wallpaper was gone, as were the curtains.  And the trim was painted to blend in.  The rugs, prints, and photographs, along with the lace doilies, had followed the farmer son and his family to Florida.

This room was bright.  After the gloom of the war, color was an expression of joy.  Louise loved it.  She used yellow in the kitchen, but the parlor was pink, a perfect color for a parlor, she insisted, as she spread it over the walls, the ceiling, and the trim.  Even the bricks of the fireplace were altered with pink.

Then she hung original paintings.  No prints for her!  These were genuine oils: bold vibrant paintings of fruit on black velvet; in genuine fruit colors of brown, yellow, green, blue, and purple.  They had been painted by an artist who believed that conventional lines showed a lack imagination, so their contours were unusual.  The subjects were common apples, bananas, and grapes, but to Howie’s scientific mind they looked like giant amoebas crawling up the walls.  Louise was ecstatic about how they lovelied the room.  It was like well-applied makeup.  Not many people could coordinate colors like her!  The room clashed with Howie’s hair, she noticed as he lay sprawled on the floor.

“I’ve seen trained seals on Ed Sullivan dance better than that,” said Meg, jangling her bracelets in exasperation.

“Yes,” replied her mom, “and they can juggle, too.  They do it for fish…maybe I should open a can of tuna for Howie.”

On the back wall of the parlor, opposite the windows, was the shelf that held the Throckmorton dancing trophies.  The couch, which usually its place in the center of the room, was pushed back beneath it.  It was a green and black couch covered in alligator textured vinyl.  It had a rounded back and tailfin armrests.  Tailfins were also popular on cars the year it was bought.  A zebra striped comforter was spread across its back.  In front of the couch was a magazine table made of chrome and a glass.  Ox blood red recliners sat on each side of the room big enough for two.  White floor lamps with black hoods stood beside each.  When they were not eating in the kitchen, the Throckmortons loved sit in those chairs eating and watching TV - especially when wrestling was on.

When Howie falling managed to avoid all the furniture in the room, his mom let out a sigh of relief.

A HiFi floor model record player stood by one parlor window.  A portable color TV on a rolling stand was in front of the other.  One trophy had been taken down from the shelf and placed on top the TV.  The statue, of a dancing couple with their arms extended, greatly improved the quality of the picture when it was leaned against the rabbit ear antenna.

The windows that used to be covered by rose-colored curtains were now framed with dark blue drapes over orange pull down blinds that flew up at the slightest tug.

Shag is a style of carpet that looks like a badly mowed lawn, if lawns were made out of yellow and orange fibers.  Some fibers are cut low and others left high to give the floor a plush appearance.  Small earrings dropped onto shag carpets are never found, unless they’re stepped on.

Black sheepskin rugs normally covered the shag walkways to protect those areas of carpet from gaining a thread bare look.  Now they were rolled up, leaning against a wall.

Other than the trophies the only other personal touch in the parlor was a thatched vase of Greek design.   It sat on the floor by the door.  It was ivory with two large handles.  In ancient times vases like this held exotic oils, but Louise filled it with ostrich feathers.  It was an heirloom from Howie’s Grandma Throckmorton house.  It stood in her parlor for years.  Grandma often brought family heirlooms when she visited, dividing them between her two children while she was still alive.  Louise wished she had the nerve to put it in the basement with the rest of Grandma’s gifts, but since it was sitting at a side of the room by the door, Louise felt sure it was relatively safe from Howie.

  “Get up, Howie.  You’re wasting our time!”  Meg nudged him with her foot as he lay face down, with an orange fiber tickling his nose.

“Achoo!” he sneezed, as he got to his feet, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.

His mom told him, “Take your sister’s right hand in your left one.  And place your other hand on her waist.  Come on, she won’t bite you.”

Howie looked like he wasn’t sure about that, but he did as he was told.

“Ugh!” Meg jumped back, wringing her hands and sending her bracelets twirling again.  “He’s sweating on me.  Howie, stop sweating!  This is not going to kill you.  We are just trying to teach you to dance.  Mom, tell Howie to stop sweating on me.”

“Howie, dear,” his mom responded.  “Do as your sister says.  It is not polite to sweat on the people you dance with.  It is one of the first rules.”  She nodded knowingly.

  “It’s a shame Emily never taught him to dance,” Mrs. Throckmorton said to Meg.  “You know, I rely on her to teach Howie so many things.   But,” she sighed, “I guess some things only a mother can do.”

Howie sneezed again.

“That is no excuse for him to soak me,” Meg said.  “If he sweats any more, it will rain in here and our makeup will run.”

“Howie, stop sweating this instant!  We do not want our makeup to run.  Although Meg, I have some of that new waterproof makeup that they advertise on TV.  You know, where they pour the bucket of water over the model’s head to prove it doesn’t run.  It’s made with the same ingredients the army uses in its camouflage paint, and that has to stay put; soldiers can’t stop and freshen their camouflage in the middle of a battle.  They don’t have mirrors anyway, unless you count those little ones they use for signaling, but nothing with proper lighting.  And they’re always wearing gloves.  You can’t apply makeup properly when you’re wearing gloves!”

“I tried to sell some to Easter Hinton this morning.  After I applied it - when she wasn’t looking - I poured a bowl of water over her head.  And it didn’t run!  …took her by surprise though.  She must not watch much TV.  But she bought her usual order.  So I have some left in the kitchen.”

 “It sounds wonderful!” exclaimed Meg.  “Let’s go try it.  Oh, wait!  We have to finish teaching Howie first.”

Hope had started to grow in Howie’s heart and he was reluctant to give it up.  “No!  No!” he exclaimed.  “You don’t have to teach me!  I can practice on my own.  I promise.  Go ahead.  Although I am sure you two could not look any more beautiful.”  In his desperation, Howie was not above flattery.  But would it work?

“Thank you, Howie.  But, no!”  His mom squared her shoulders, prepared once more to do battle.  “We promised Aunt Mae you and she would dance at Meg’s reception, and we will teach you, no matter what it takes.  Meg, take your brother back into your arms.”

 “Wait a minute,” Meg said.  “I just got an idea.”  Quickly she ran into the kitchen door and came back carrying two plaid cooking mitts.  She shoved one over each of Howie’s hands.

“There!  That should keep him dry,” she said.

“And it won’t matter if he is wearing them because he won’t be applying makeup,” his mom added.

Howie was still sweating, but now it didn’t show.  At his mother’s insistence, he placed his right mitt on his sister’s waist and presented the left one for her to hold.  It turned out to be too large, so she grabbed it by the thumb instead.

Mrs. Throckmorton selected a record and placed it on the spindle of the HiFi.  Then she dropped the needle onto its groove.  Soon the sounds of the “Tea for Two Cha Cha” filled the room.

“Me for you,

And you for me.

Tea for two,

And two for tea.”

Louise smiled as the music started.  It brought back memories.  She met and fell in love with Harvey while dancing to music like this.  And she listened to the tunes during the separation of the war.  She used to sing baby Meg to sleep each night with them.  Then she fell asleep herself, dreaming of when she and Harvey would be together again.

Howie frowned.  This was worst than facing the power hitters in a line-up with the bases loaded and no outs!  At least in a game, eight other players were there to help, and if you did make a mistake, it went out of the ballpark.  It did not lie on the floor holding its foot and writhing in pain.  He remembered Emily on the floor of the school gymnasium doing the Pony.

But she couldn’t have been hurt too badly, because she was danced later with lots of other boys.  He had absolutely refused to try the waltz.  Who thought up a dance so dangerous that you held on to each other?  Anybody could get hurt that way!  Even physics didn’t help when dancing.  Movements that confused a batter were just as likely to fool a dance partner.

When would this lesson be over?  Howie sighed

Louise Throckmorton swayed gracefully in time as Meg explained steps of the Cha Cha to Howie.  “Extremely simple steps!” she emphasized.  “If seals can learn to dance, then so can you, Howie.”

As they started, she counted out the steps.  “One!  Two!  Cha!  Cha!  Cha!  Two!  Two!  Cha!  Cha…OUCH!”

Meg was hopping on one foot and holding the other in her hands.  One of her red-painted toes was starting to swell.  “Howie, you stepped on me,” she moaned.

 “Maybe you shouldn’t be wearing open-toed shoes, dear.”  Mrs. Throckmorton suggested.  “After all, Howie is just learning.”

“Where was I supposed to step?” Howie complained.  “She stuck her foot right underneath me.”

 “Howie,” his mother explained, “when she steps forward, you are supposed to step back, like this.”

She demonstrated the backward steps with a gentle swaying of her hips, as she counted “Back!  Two!  Cha!  Cha!  Cha!”  She finished with a flourish, clapping her hands to the rhythm.

“But I thought I was supposed to step forward when she stepped forward, then back when she stepped back, and to the side when she stepped to the side.”

“That was the Swing, Howie.  This is the Cha Cha!  Can’t you hear the difference in the rhythm?  Oh never mind!  Waltz with me while your sister rests.”

Not the waltz!

 “First, let me put on a different record.”

Meg was on the couch, having crawling over the table.  She continued to moan and hold her foot.

A stack of records sat on the edge of the HiFi.  Its lid was raised and held in place by a self-locking hinge.  Mrs. Throckmorton searched through the stack until she found a waltz tune.  Then she put it on the spindle and dropped the needle.  She stepped up to Howie as the record started to hiss and crackle in 3/4 time.

“Put your right mitt on my waist and take my right hand in your left, just like you did for the Cha Cha.”

As his mom held the thumb of Howie’s mitt, she was startled to see the sweat escaping down to his elbow.  “You are sweating, aren’t you, Howie?  You’re not getting sick, are you?” she asked, feeling his forehead.  Then she snatched her hand away.  “No!  Don’t answer that!  You are going to learn to dance whether you are sick or not.  Follow me and count…one, two, three…one, two, three…left, two, three…right, two…OUCH!  Howie, you kicked me!”

Mrs. Throckmorton joined Meg on the couch.

 “Mom, I am confused.  Why do I count to three when I only have two feet?”

Mrs. Throckmorton glared at him.  “Howard Thomas Throckmorton, if I had not been in labor with you, I would swear you were adopted.  But I know they did not switch you at the hospital, because you were the only redheaded baby there.”  She turned to Meg, “I don’t understand it.  Throckmortons are such good dancers.”

Suddenly Meg jumped up and ran from the room.  She could be heard descending the basement stairs.  When she returned, she was wearing her father’s army boots.  They were stuffed with newspaper to make them stay.  Yesterday’s headlines could be seen sticking up around her ankles.

Mrs. Throckmorton clapped her hands in approval.  “Oh!  You are full of clever ideas.  Nothing can stop us from teaching Howie now.”

Meg stepped up to Howie.  “A waltz is in 3/4 time,” she explained, as she took him into her arms.  “And that is why you count to three. It goes like this.  One, two, three…two, two, three…three, two, three…four, two, three.”

“Wait!”  Howie backed out like he was escaping an inside pitch.  “You just counted to four.  Which is it?  Do you count to three or do you count to four?”

By this time the record had ended and the phonograph needle was circling the inner groove emitting a stream of constant static that was giving Meg a headache.  She marched over and put the needle back to the beginning of the record.  Then, with her fists clenched at her hips, she turned and said, “Howard Thomas Throckmorton, you are not going to ruin my wedding.  If you can be so coordinated on the baseball field, how can you be so clumsy on a dance floor?  Now, let’s try it one more time!”

But baseball fields do not have white and black floor lamps, and as Howie reluctantly moved toward his sister, he bumped into one.  It started to tip.

“Look out for the lamp,” his mother yelled.  “It is falling.  Grab it before it breaks.”

Meg leaned back, holding the thumb of Howie’s mitt for support.  She just managed to reach the lamp before Howie lost her.

The mitt slipped!  And down she went!

She fell with her left hand twirling the lamp like a propeller, while her right was waving the plaid mitt.  Then she hit a recliner.  And it reclined hitting the record player, causing the hinge to slip and the lid to…

“SLAM!”

Bringing the waltz to a screeching halt.

Mrs. Throckmorton cringed.  That had been a favorite record.  Then suddenly she jumped off the couch, over the table, and landing on her good foot; trying to catch the trophies as they fell from the shelf.

A record from the top of the stack had shot into the air when the lid slammed.  It turned…two…three times like a tiddley-wink before landing on the shelf.  Where it proceeded to roll the length, toppling trophies as it went.

Still hopping, Louise managed to catch one trophy in her right hand and another in her left. 

Then a third trophy fell!

This is ridiculous! she thought, as she tossed the first two trophies into the air and grabbed for the third.  Soon she was juggling all three, still hopping on one foot.

Howie watched in horror.  What was this dance called?  And would he have to learn it?  He tried and waving his hands, one of which was bare and the other was still clad in a plaid cooking mitt.

The trophies were returning too fast for Louise to put them down so she kept them juggling.  A fourth fell, but she managed to add that to the circle.

Howie worried, would he have to do it at the reception?

But Louise was only doing what she had to do.  Feet and ankles could heal, but trophies could not.  Briefly she wondered if there was more money in circuses than in cosmetics.  Or maybe she should train seals.  That had to be easier than teaching Howie!

Eventually, the record reached the end of the shelf and it fell, hitting Howie and causing him to hop right into his mother.

Jugglers shouldn’t have to put up with this, Louise thought, as she flailed her arms in an attempt to keep from falling.  The trophies were all headed for the glass table.

Quickly Howie jumped back, but this time he hit the sheepskin rugs.  And they started to fall, hitting the table just ahead of the trophies.

WHUMP!  The first trophy hit one end of the roll.

THUMP!  The second trophy hit the other end of the roll – and sent the first trophy catapulting back into the air.

WHUMP!  THUMP!  Two more trophies went flying.

Louise, at last, lost her attempt to keep her balance, and she hit the roll, sending the last trophy back into the air.

She cringed, waiting for the coming crash.

But the trophies flipped…two…three times in the air.  And…

One…Two…Three…Four.  They landed back on the shelf as neatly as they started.

Louise let out a sigh of relief.  But with nothing hold the other end of the rug, it rose up and smacked Mrs. Throckmorton square in the face, causing her to fall backward against the second recliner.

Which reclined…hitting the second floor lamp.

“Meg,” she yelled again.  “Grab it before it falls.”

Meg was still on the floor, with a lamp in one hand and a mitt in the other.  Even so she sprang into action.  She put the mitt between her teeth to free up a hand for grabbing.  She reached for the lamp…and she caught it.  Now she sat twirling both lamps with her bracelets jangling, her mouth full of plaid cooking mitt.  She looked like she was about to take off.

Howie stood still, on one foot, afraid to move.

But everything seemed safe.  They all let out sighs of relief.

Howie bent down to pick up the fallen record.  It was unbroken

“Look!  It’s not even chipped,” he said, turning to show it to his mother and Meg.

On the floors, Meg her legs were stretched in front of her, with the boots sticking straight up, and Howie couldn’t avoid them.

He tripped and started to fall.  And he was headed for the vase!

Louise gasped in horror.

But finally Howie could finally put his physics to use.  He twisted in mid-air and landed right back on his feet.

Unfortunately, he also landed on Meg’s feet, at least one of them – the sore one.  Even the boot was not protection from this landing.  She yelped and yanked the foot away.  Again Howie went flying.  This time he towards the TV and the portable stand.

Mrs. Throckmorton stretched out a hand for Howie to grab.  “Here!” she urged.

Howie reached for her.

“Not with the mitt!” she cried.  But mitt was all she reached.  And it slipped!

She was left holding the second plaid mitt, as Howie, waving bare hands in vain, hit the TV and its stand.  And it rolled…straight at the vase!

They watched in horror as it traveled, trailing its cord behind it.  But suddenly it jerked to a halt.  The electrical cord had stopped it!

And they were letting out sighs of relief when…

 “CRASH!”

Grandma Ida’s vase lay shattered on the carpet, with ostrich feathers fanned out around it

What happened?  The TV stopped!

  Then they saw it.  There!  In the middle of shards that used to be a vase was the dancing trophy.  It had flown off the TV when it jerked to a stop.

“Oh Howie, “his mother said, “Grandma gave us that as a wedding present.  I know she will think I broke it on purpose.”

Howie felt awful.  He knew Grandma Ida.  Louise was terrified of her.  The only one who did not feel her sharp tongue was Howie.  His father thought it was because Howie was the youngest.   But really it was because Howie reminded her of her late husband, the only other Throckmorton to have red hair.  It was her that convinced the family that Howie should be a doctor.  “Not everyone has your skills,” she told Harvey.  Privately, she advised Howie to go to college far away from home, as possible.

“Tell her Howie did it,” was Meg’s mumbled suggestion, her teeth still clinching the mitt.

Howie felt horrible.  “Mom, are we finished?” he asked.  “I have a math test to study for.  Can I go, please?”

“Alright,” his mother reluctantly agreed.  “I have to clean this, anyway.  But,” she continued, “We’re not finished!  We will practice again, and soon.  You can’t disappoint your sister or Aunt Mae.”

Howie was up the stairs before they could stop him.

“What will Grandma say?” Louise worried, as she surveyed the damage. 

“You should to tell her Howie did it,” repeated Meg, spitting the mitt out so she could be heard clearly.

 “It was an accident,” Louise insisted.  “But what will she do?”  But there was no answer to the question, so she went to the kitchen and returned with a dustbin and a vacuum.

While her mother cleaned, Meg started putting the room back in order.  She put down the lamps.  Then she got up and limped over to the couch.  By bracing herself against the wall, and pushing off with her good foot, she was able to move it back to the center of the room, with the table in front of it.  Next she pulled the recliners upright and arranged the lamps back beside them.  There was no need to do anything to the trophy shelf.  But she grabbed the antenna trophy and put it back on the TV, before pulling it to its previous spot by the window.  She unrolled the rugs and spread them out on the floor. Last, she picked up the record, placing it back on the stack.

Then she sat on the coach, still wearing the boots, and started to cry.  “Howie is going to ruin my wedding,” she wept.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Louise came to sit next to Meg.

“Don’t cry, dear,” she hugged her.  “We are not through with him, yet.  We’ll try again.”  Upstairs, Howie felt a chill go through his body.  But Meg continued to sniff. 

Louise searched for something else to say or to do.  “Mike is coming to dinner tonight,” she reminded her daughter, “and you don’t want him to see you with puffy eyes, do you?”

Meg shook her head and tried to stop, wiping away the tears from her eyes.

Her mother added another incentive.  “I still have that waterproof makeup.  And I need to practice applying it before I try selling it to any more of the neighbors.  You can be my guinea pig.  You won’t mind if I pour water over your head, will you?  There’s blush, and the brightest red lipstick.  Come on, and we will fix you up pretty.”

“Okay,” Meg gulped and sniffed, “and I have a new dress that I bought at the shop.  Emily showed it to me.  I would never have thought to buy it otherwise.  Wait until you see it!”

“We’ll wow him,” Louise said.

And off they went to the kitchen.