You Have To Dance
by Mary Alice Dixon - March 26, 2020

In 1918, when the Spanish Flu hit, my grandpa went over Niagara Falls in a pickle barrel. On a bet. So he said. But, then again, Grandpa was a newspaper reporter, a fellow in love with stories, who lost his job with the paper after inventing one too many tall tales. 

“Those Falls scared me out of my mind but I kept on going,” he told me forty years later. “This here walking stick was made from a piece of that dern barrel.” He pointed to his oak cane. “See the handle, it’s shaped like a stallion’s head.”

Even as a kid, I had my doubts. Not about the waterfall, not about his fear, certainly not about my grandpa’s resolve. I just wasn’t sure about that cane. To me the handle looked less like a horse than a mule. 

After grandpa’s less than illustrious reporting career, he took up selling pianos. Said he went door-to-door taking orders. Had pianos delivered to folks then refused to take any payment. Lost that job, too. 

“As if,” he said, “anybody had any money to give. Boys were coming home on crutches from the war, their daddies and mommas were dying from that Spanish Flu. Boys on crutches were dying, too.”

He spit Bull of the Woods tobacco into his spittoon when he said “Spanish Flu.”  

“People need music, honey,” he said with a far-away look in his eyes. “In tough times you have to dance. Even if only in your heart.”

***

One day last week I took a walk at sunrise. The streets empty, the schools indefinitely closed. Coronavirus isolation. Midway through my walk I paused at the end of an ordinary suburban street I’d often walked. Something was different. 

There was a huge drawing of a labyrinth, its chalk lines fresh on the asphalt. The drawing stretched the width of the cul-de-sac. I looked around, saw nobody, then followed the path. Chalk arrows pointed the way. Every five steps or so there were instructions printed on the ground in block letters, in a child’s bold hand.

“Stand on your head.” Me? In the middle of the street? No way.

“Do a cartwheel.” Nope, not gonna happen.

At the heart of the drawing I read the final instruction: “You have to dance.” 

Tears came to my eyes as I remembered my grandpa’s words. 

Then I did a silly little dance in the street. My grief about the pandemic lifted. I felt peace.

The next day at sunrise I walked down the same street. The drawing was gone. Not a trace of chalk remained. There had been no rain. 

***

Grandpa walked with a limp and a cane. But he danced whenever he could. We will, too. We humans are stubborn as mules. Even when we’re scared out of our minds, we keep on going. You have to dance. Even if only in your heart.

copyright 2020, Mary Alice Dixon
Charlotte, NC