I am on ilani’s mailing list. Early this year, the reality TV show “Dancing with The Stars” was on tour and appeared at the casino. I didn’t get a chance to go.
My wife, Helen, and I used to enjoy watching the show, and this brought back a memory of when we met and how I learned to dance.
It was after my college graduation in 1976, when I was living in California. My friends pulled a prank on me at a nightclub. They offered me a drink on an unoccupied table, making me believe they had purchased it for me. I picked it up only to find out it belonged to Helen.
I was embarrassed, apologized, and bought her a new drink. I introduced myself and we settled into an easy conversation. We had an instant connection and chemistry.
We went to the dance floor, and I could tell right away she was an excellent dancer. Other dancers were also admiring Helen’s footwork and movements. I was completely uncomfortable doing my awkward two-leg shuffle. Several fast songs later, the DJ took a break, and we went to Helen’s table. I was relieved, but not for long.
After a few minutes of conversation, the DJ returned. He played a slow song. I figured we were going to sit this one out. I was wrong. Helen stood up and took my hand. I was hesitant. She already knew I wasn’t much of a dancer. Now she sensed my awkwardness and discomfort. She leaned toward my ear and whispered: “It’s okay. I’ll help. Just follow my lead.”
She gave me a peck on my cheek and that’s all it took. I followed her to the dance floor with a heady sensation.
After two years of dating, we married in December 1978. By then, I had found out bits of family lore regarding Helen’s dancing. As a teenager, Helen and her brother competed in dance hall events. I learned that they had won numerous awards, in particular for their salsa dancing.
One day in 1995, we received an invitation to Helens’ nephew’s wedding. She glanced at me with a coy smile.
“I am going to teach you how to dance,” she announced.
“You already have,” I said.
“But not salsa dancing. I want you to learn how to do the cumbia and the cha-cha.”
She asked for her portable turntable from our bedroom. I went to get it. When I came back, she had a stack of 45 rpm vinyl records on the table. The lessons began.
“Despite his two left feet, I finally taught him the cumbia and the cha-cha,” she told her sister later.
The wedding date arrived. We were at the wedding reception table with family and friends, finishing our meal. The DJ introduced himself, congratulated the newlyweds and then played his first selection. It was salsa music.
Helen threw a look my way. “Are you ready?”
My eyebrows lifted. “What? There’s no one else out there!”
“I know. We’re going to get things started.”
I grinned, took a deep breath and we went out there holding hands. I was so glad she had given me lessons. Imbued with confidence, I managed to do rather well.
But eventually, Helen’s dancing stopped. She was diagnosed with an incurable disease and became wheelchair bound.
One evening we caught a doo-wop concert on TV. I sat next to her, enjoying her company and the program. I turned her way and reached for her hand. With our fingers intertwined I moved our hands to the sound of the music.
“You’re going too fast,” she said. “Slow down to the tempo.”
She took over to show me how it should be done. I had to chuckle. Despite her illness, she was giving me a dance lesson!
My mind drifted to when we met, and the kiss on my cheek that emboldened me to the dance floor for my first lesson. The memory moved me. I leaned in and kissed her on the lips. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she said. My eyes welled up. Instinctively, I sensed that was my last dance lesson. Her disease was progressing.
A short time later, in December 2020, Helen passed away.
To this day, whenever I hear one of her favorite songs playing on the air, I can’t help but imagine myself dancing with her once more.
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