JohnCr8on’s Snapshots

I had one thing I cared about when we planned our wedding.  I wanted our dance to be open to the public – meaning anyone was welcome to attend.  I was glad when Joni readily agreed.

The open wedding dance is one of the icons that best symbolize what it means to live in a town like Atwood.

I was reminded of my fondness for wedding dances when I received a phone call and an email from Jack Henningsen.  He told me the story of meeting his wife, Marilyn, at a Harvest Festival at St. John’s Catholic Church.  (Jack contacted me after reading this blog.  One of the unexpected pleasures of writing “snapshots” is that I’ve connected with people who I don’t know well and/or seldom see.)

Though not a wedding dance, Jack’s story reminded of Joni’s and my wedding at St. John’s and our dance at the Columbian Hall in town.

I don’t like to dance.  I don’t now and I didn’t then.  That’s not why the wedding dance was important to me.  In fact, I seldom danced at the many wedding parties I attended.  Lisa Collins (now Moos) did try to teach me the two-step.  I mostly learned to bounce or perhaps I was skipping, heaven forbid.  I stepped on her toes as I often as I touched the floor.  Still, I did enjoy an occasional Cotton Eyed Joe.

When attending wedding dances, I spent most of my time in the parking lot.  There were more than a few in which I never entered the hall.  The parking lot was the best place to catch up with friends, trade gossip, speculate about romance (speculation being the operative word) and, of course, mix a drink or two.

The open wedding dance is symbolic of a marriage being a community event rather than a private affair.  Marriages, in many ways, belong to the community – in a small town at least.  In places like Atwood, everyone impacts your life.  Some more directly and forcefully than others, but everyone plays a part. 

The role people have in shaping their neighbors’ lives gives them a rightful claim to the wedding celebration.  The open wedding dance is a time for everyone to share in the joyous step being taken by the wedding couple.  The community helped to prepare them for this day.  Thus, the community should be welcome at the celebration.

At 24 years old, I was not so philosophical.  My thought at that time was simply, “Closed dances aren’t cool.”  I knew how we used to ridicule people who had a closed dance.  I did not want people saying those things about Joni and me.  Besides, who was I to deny people a chance to party?

The open dance also solved a practical dilemma.  There were not enough seats in St. John’s to accommodate all of Joni’s relatives – I had no idea that our nuptials would connect me to half the county.  It was uncomfortable crossing them off the ceremony guest list.  Opening our reception and dance allowed us to include more people.

My favorite moment of this wonderful day occurred between the reception and dance.  Joni and I sat on metal folding chairs in the Columbian Hall, taking a moment to catch our breath.  I can still see the smile on Joni’s face and feel the one on my own.  Joni’s family – who catered the entire event, my first real exposure to the do-it-yourself Mickey Clan – scurried about cleaning up the remnants of the reception.  There have been few times in my life that I’ve felt so at peace.

As Joni’s and my years together accumulate, the meaning of our dance has grown in my mind.  We meet couples in the various places we’ve lived – Boston, Maryland and Colorado – and trade wedding stories.  Our friends tell tales of private affairs for an exclusive set of friends – certainly wonderful events in lives. 

But, their stories make me appreciate that our celebration was open to all who cared to attend.

That’s what it really means to be part of a small town.  On the most special and personal of days, everyone is welcome at your “table.”  Your family, your dearest friends, your kindly neighbors as well as your rivals, the annoying people who gossip too much and the folks you simply can’t stand – everyone is there.  I wouldn’t want it any other way.

*             *             *

What’s your favorite wedding dance story?

We are going to the Mickey cabin in a couple of weeks for a three day weekend. It is one our favorite places to go as a family. It is especially fun when extended family or friends are able to join us. It’s literally a memory making machine.

One of our favorite winter past times at the cabin is skating on the lake. Joe and I spend hours together, and with friends when they are there, playing ice hockey and speed skating. I’ve learned some valuable lessons. For instance, don’t lean back when making a slap shot in hockey. You’ll fall on your backside if you do.

Joe gives me a head start so I can stay competitive in our speed skating races. I’ve also learned that if I hold my arms out wide it’s a lot harder for him to pass me on the corners. He usually waits ‘til the last lap to dart by. He’s a kind hearted soul. After each victory he says, “I’m sorry Dad. But, you did really good.”

We take breaks from our games to check on Johnson’s ice fishing efforts. He has a “fish TV” to see what’s below. It must help. For years, I never saw him catch a thing. First time out with the TV he caught four. Ada Grace made him throw them all back.

Inevitably, while down on the ice, one of the kids will say, “Dad, tell us that story about Silas and Paul.”

You’ve heard it 20 times, I’ll say.

“Just tell it, please.”

And, so I do…

We went camping out at Steele’s Pond one winter. We liked to camp in the cold. We must have, because we went back year after year. Our parents would drop us of at the Sportsmen’s Club in Blakeman and we’d hike the rest of the way in – about three or four miles, I’d guess.  Little did I know that I was walking by your mom’s house on the way to the ponds.

One winter, I got sick while we were camping.  Since we didn’t have cell phones, we couldn’t call anyone.  I spent half the night outside the tent.  I could barely make it back to Blakeman the next morning.  Turned out I had a fever of 104 degrees.

“Dad, what about Paul and Silas?”

Right.  Paul and I camped together the most.  We spent one winter day huddled over a transistor radio straining to hear the 1974 NCAA Final Four. I was nine and Paul was ten. KU lost to UCLA in the consolation game. It was the year that UCLA’s string of seven consecutive championships came to an end. It may have been one of the last times they played a consolation game.

“Dad, what about Paul and Silas and the lake?”

Okay.  Okay.  Paul, Silas, our friend Todd, and I camped out at Steele’s Pond one winter when I was 15 or 16. I had to be older because Silas drove us to the campground.

After we set up camp, we headed up the hill to one of the ponds. It had been cold for several weeks but it was warm on this day. We tested the ice on the pond and decided it was thick enough to play some hockey.

We found a few sticks and crushed an aluminum can to make a puck. We were having a great time. Paul and I were on one team. Silas and Todd on the other.

At one point in the game, Paul hit the “puck” toward the edge of the pond. Silas and I raced to get it. Silas was way ahead of me so I let up and turned around. Suddenly, I heard a loud crack.  Then a splash. I turned back around and saw that Silas had fallen through the ice.

Silas, arms flailing, immediately began to yell, “Help me. Help!”

I got down on my stomach just like we learned in scouts and started to inch my way toward him. I would try to pull him out even though he was much bigger than me.

That’s when I heard Paul yell from the other side of the pond, “Stand Up!”

Silas climbed to his feet and discovered the water was not quite knee deep.

“Dad, was Silas scared?”

Well, that was kind of the end of the story.

“Dad, did you think he was going to drown?”

Just like every time, that’s all I’ve got.

“Dad, did you keep playing hockey or did you quit?”

Stories over.

“Dad….

I have known my father-in-law John Mickey (we call him Johnson) a good five to ten years longer than I’ve known my wife, Joni.

Johnson was an active scout leader when I was a boy.  My first clear memory of him was at a scout campout at Crystal Springs.  It was October 11, 1975.  I remember the date because it was my birthday.

Johnson cooked a pineable upside down cake in an old dutch oven.  He is and was a good cook, even on a campfire.  I was given the first piece in honor of my day.

I took a bite, which included lots of pineapple.  I said thanks and headed back toward my tent to let the other boys know the cake was ready.  I walked right past the door of the tent and ducked behind the back.  That’s where I dumped the remains of the cake.  Yuck.  I have never had pineapple upside down cake again.

Johnson was great to have on campouts even if I didn’t appreciate his confections.  He laughed.  He joked.  He was loud.  All the things that young boys enjoy.

When I started dating Joni, he was just as I had remembered him from Scouts.  Enthusiastic.  Jovial.  And, of course, loud.  We got along great even though we had very little in common.  Johnson was and is a passionate outdoorsman.  Let’s just say, I’m not.

Joni and I were very young when we decided to get engaged.  I was 24, midway through my first year of graduate school.  Joni was a junior at Kansas State and not yet 21.  Matt Cunningham helped me plan a romantic dinner on the Plaza in Kansas City of which I remember very little, except that I ate my meal in less than 2 minutes.

Joni and I were nervous to tell our parents our news.  We weren’t sure how they would respond.

We called ahead from a payphone on our way home from eastern Kansas.  We asked my parents to join us at the Mickey’s.  My parents clearly knew something was up because my Dad arrived with champagne.  Betty was surprised to see the bottle and became nervous with anticipation.

We made our announcement.  My Dad popped the cork.  Betty was surprised.  Johnson was silent.

Later that night, Johnson and I settled on the couch in the living room to watch a little TV.  Joni and her mom were in the kitchen.  My parents had gone home.  It was just the two of us.

I had never, in all my years before or since, experienced an uncomfortable silence with Johnson.  That night the tension was thick as molasses.  Johnson didn’t speak for 10, 15, nearly 30 minutes.  He just sat there looking straight ahead at the television.

I was getting nervous.  Was he mad?  Was he disappointed?  Did he disapprove?

At long last, he turned his head in my direction and asked the rhetorical question I’ll never forget.  “You don’t fish much do you?”