I went on a little vacation into the past. Originally I was supposed to take my nephews, but football intervened. I’m from Texas; football is a religion here. I know better than to stand between my nephews and gridiron glory.
So I went with my friends Vikki and Laura instead. (Sorry boys! Another time.) For reasons too complicated to explain, we flew into Greenville, SC and drove cross-country past the giant peach…
…to Williamsburg, VA. After a night in our semi-plush timeshare (hot tub, granite countertops—not on the hot tub, private deck with insanely noisy frogs and bugs and things…) we went to Colonial Williamsburg and crossed a bridge into the past.
This was on the bridge. It was a fascinating walk; along the way it had markers with a year, saying things like “at this time you have never watched a television” and “at this time you or someone you know owns another person.” It took a while to cross that bridge because we had to stop and marvel over each marker.
Once we arrived back in the past, we saw a note that Martha Washington would be receiving visitors at a specific place and time. We thought it would be a fine thing to meet the General’s wife (family legend has it we’re vaguely related) so we arrived at the appointed spot, got vouchers, and took our place in line.
It was only after we got inside that we realized we were in the wrong place. Somehow we’d wound up in a colonial dance class. In that situation, there was really only one thing to do…
So we did.
The gentlemen learned to “put their best foot forward” and show off their shapely calves as they bowed. (This apparently set colonial ladies’ hearts a-flutter.) We ladies learned to lower our eyes demurely (the better to gawk at the gentlemen’s calves) and curtsey. Then we performed a complicated series of maneuvers involving spins, hops, circles, and more, all to period music on a reproduction colonial flute.
It was grand fun. You should try it! I’d show you how but without the nice lady telling me what to do next I’m not such a great dancer. But I can curtsey like nobody’s business and I’ll be sure to check out any calves presented to me. I’ll refrain from comment, though. A lady never tells.