One Saturday night in July, I went to a Western Dance party organized by the members of the Lordstown SCOPE. I didn’t recognize many of the songs the band played, but since I enjoyed going to dances in college, I couldn’t resist getting myself out on the dance floor and having a good time. Among the other dancers was a white-haired woman named Dorothy who came dressed for the event, complete with Western boots and a fringed shirt. I noticed she was looking for a dance partner, so I offered to join her, and I was quickly able to learn her step. A good-humored man named Frank tried to follow along with us, and he’d slump his shoulders in exaggerated defeat whenever he made a mistake. Whenever he’d start to get the hang of it, he’d smile to his spectators seated at the table to assure them he had figured it out, but at some point he would slip up again. When Dorothy and I finished dancing, she gave me a hug and said that we made a good pair. She asked me how old I was, and then when she told me her age, she added, “See, age doesn’t matter!” Despite the years that separated us, we’d found our rhythm.
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