Blurry Memories

In my prairie hometown, on a Saturday night, there was often not much going on, and we teenagers sometimes crashed wedding parties. These festivities usually had open bars stocked with rye distilled by an enterprising uncle of the bride. There were several unwritten rules: you made a cash donation to cover the freight; you could drink and dance, but not partake of the meal; and you couldn’t throw up more often than the groom. Such a bacchanal was where I mastered the polka at high speed, and ingested sufficient moonshine to suffer the first and worst hangover of my life.

Inspired by Building Community Through Dance. Image by Moyocoyaani.