My husband and I just finished six weeks of ballroom dancing lessons. The lessons were for him. I know how to dance. But it was better for him to learn from an “expert” than a spouse.

I am almost an expert at ballroom dancing (though my skills are a bit rusty from lack of use) as are many people who grew up in Ventura, Calif., around the time I did. The reason is Cotillion and Mrs. Golotz. From sixth grade through the end of high school, great numbers of us went to Cotillion one Saturday night a month during the school year.

In retrospect, Mrs. Golotz was an amazing woman. My first instinct is to call her an Army drill sergeant, but that can’t be true because I enjoyed going. Although she was firm and made us behave and learn and practice – over and over – we also clearly viewed Cotillion as party time. Our parents were all steadfastly behind the program and would accept no excuse for our missing Cotillion, but that was OK with us. We girls wanted to go, and the boys, when their interest in girls kicked in, did too. Mrs. Golotz taught us well: the waltz, fox trot, swing, cha cha, tango, samba, all of them.

Mrs. Golotz was the more impressive for her physical dimensions. She was attractive with her black hair pulled back, slim and dressed with dramatic elegance. But she probably was only 4 feet tall. She wore high platform shoes at a time platforms were unheard of, and one platform was noticeably higher than the other. Everyone had a moment’s surprise when taking all this in, but as she glided through her moves we forgot her physical challenges and marveled at her graceful, effortless dancing.

A car full of formals

One snapshot I have in my long-term memory is a night in early high school when four of us girls were dressed for the end-of-the-year formal for Cotillion, all in the huge net formals of the day, and our only ride was with my friend’s father in his cool Thunderbird. Since it only had a front seat, it could fit two girls beside her father, then two more girls on their laps! We were all net, net to the ceiling, net flowing out the windows, net being pushed away from her father’s face as he tried to drive this interesting, colorful, giggling cargo across town.

One Cotillion in my seventh grade year, Mrs. Golotz asked for names and phone numbers of boys who might join. I gave her the names of two of my buddies with whom I roller-skated and climbed trees, both one year younger than I.

I thought no more about it until I went over to ask Ricky to come out and skate, and he slammed the door in my face! Then the same thing happened with Mike.

I didn’t understand at first, but then I slowly realized that dancing lessons were the last thing either boy wanted to endure, but both mothers had insisted, and I was the one responsible for my friends’ misery.

They stayed angry for about a year, then they slowly started enjoying Cotillion in spite of themselves.

Belated thanks

At the end of my senior year, we were having our formal night at Cotillion and a goodbye tribute to us seniors. Mike and Ricky both asked me to dance, each so tall and handsome, and both thanked me! We had a good laugh.

I’m still friends with Mike. He says that for his whole adult life he has been comforted to know that he is a competent dancer in any situation that requires it. That is true for so many of our town’s former children! We can do any dance, anywhere, to any music, thanks to Mrs. Golotz. What a heritage for her to be proud of.

My husband is just starting on this journey, and hopefully we have decades to work it out together. Since it is hard for him to understand why I don’t advance faster in downhill skiing, at which he is awesome and I took up in middle age, I can’t help showing off a little with my dancing, as he valiantly struggles to put his feet in the right place at the right time.

Tackling new physical challenges will keep us young.

And we need to dance.

Dianne Russell Kidder is a writer, consultant and social worker, who is based in Lisbon. She is a regular contributor to this column. She can be reached by e-mail at groupworks@gwi.net.

Copy the Story Link