The Son of Man

Near bout everyone I ever knew told me that Dad was an extraordinary country and western dance partner. Even Mom said that when they would go to the Kilgore honky-tonks, all the gals would line up to dance with Dad. I did not witness that particular fan club, but I do remember watching Dad on roller skates making the hardwood floor in Henderson look like an Olympic ice rink as he spun and twirled with his partner dancing in perfect rhythm to the 45 RPM platters of the DJ.

In later years, Dad confessed to employing certain compensating strategies in deference to advancing age and declining health. In simple terms, he would delay dancing until a song was about half over and he would on occasion create an excuse to stop before the end of a song. Seems his lungs and his legs were not of the quality and endurance that he once boasted.

Lacking Dad's enormous talent for "hoofing", the ole ranch hand languished in dance oblivion until the ripe old age of FORTY. At that time, yours truly simply decided to learn the damn "stuff" and then engage in the activity as social graces required.

Big surprise, Gene's only son found it was a fun activity and great exercise, (no...the roller skate version was never an option for the athletically challenged).

What followed was 20 years of occasional public displays, not unlike peacock strutting, with satisfaction that Dad would not be too embarrassed by the choreographed efforts of his offspring.

Bottom line: Went to the outdoor dance floor behind the German restaurant in Walburg last night and the rest is history. The world has come full circle and the old fat boy very gratefully resurrected Gene's strategy as a hedge against embarrassment.

"For the Son of man shall come in the glory of his Father" (Mathew 16:27)