GALVESTON MIRACLE

Smelly Seaweed

 I am a year or more behind in my reading. Trying to catch up, but it’s a strain.

Reading the January/February 2020 issue of Discover magazine. an article titled Smells Like Sargassum interested me. That is to say, interested me more than the others.

For in 1945 I moved with my parents to Galveston. The beach was soon this boy’s playground. I explored the many and varied facets of that wonderful kingdom.

Shells were more plentiful then, and I accumulated quite a collection. And at some time during the years a flood of sargassum seaweed piled up on the beach.

We learned that it drifted in from an area in the Atlantic called the Sargasso Sea.

In addition to its obvious odor there was an item of unusual interest. A small fish, bodily conformation similar to the angel fish that I caught with a tiny piece of shrimp on a very small hook. In contrast to the angelfish’s black and white stripes, the smaller Sargassum fish was decorated with a yellow background marked with a brown pattern that provided perfect camoflauge in the sargassum grass.

But most interesting was that this cute little fellow WALKED on his pectoral fins, through and across the seaweed.

I presumptuously referred to it as the Sargassum fish – for that seems a logical appellation. But in truth, I can’t remember the proper name – even though my father took the time to consult references at the Rosenberg Library and learn what it is called.

I took pride in those distant times in knowing its name. Today I feel dismay that I cannot remember.

C’est la vie. C’est la vie de nombreuses années.

The article suggests – asserts, that the Sargassum seaweed belt was first noticed in 2011.

I don’t mean to be picky, and I hope that I’m not regarded as pedantic – but I must protest that this noisome abundance was plentiful on the Galveston beaches before 1950. And the origin of the yellow mess was known.

And after my migration to Corpus Christi in 1951 I discovered the ubiquitous annoyance on the beaches of Padre Island, and throughout the 1950’s.

But I am grateful for the discussion – memories of years gone by ...

Dance Like EVERYONE Is Watching

In 1955, while attending Del Mar College I was required to take a Physical Education Course in my sophomore year. I had hated PE in high school, and I discussed the problem with my good friend Dale Lockwood. He suggested the Dance Class, which would satisfy the PE requirement. There we learned the waltz, rhumba, and tango — and a few others. Typical elementary dance lessons, following footprints on the floor. My skill was rather limited, and I needed practice and experience to become proficient — but it was a beginning. After that I did no dancing until 1966. After Doris divorced me, I lived in a garage apartment in Alice. One afternoon my friend Dale Lockwood drove from Corpus Christi in his new car, to collect me and take me back to CC to go dancing. A friend of Sonny’s date became my companion for the evening. We danced at a club on Ayers near Golihar. There, we sat at a table with several other couples, including Dale's sister and her date. My date soon had me doing the schottische. Jo Ann was pleased that I did so well, so quickly. I also danced with the other ladies at the table, and really enjoyed it. Sonny observed that Jo Ann and I seemed to be getting along very well, so he handed me the keys to his car, and suggested that I take my date home with me. “His sister would get him home.” When we left the dance and got into Dale's car, Jo Ann asked me where we were going. I said “To my place.” We danced all night long. I remember, while visiting Dale in Houston sometime in the early 1970’s, his current girlfriend showed up at his house. She wanted him to take her dancing. And she had a friend in tow. So the four of us went to a dance hall in the Houston port area. “Let’s take two vehicles.” The reason soon became apparent — Sonny and his date soon left to go find another form of entertainment. I modestly warned my companion that I was not a very good dancer. She was a versatile dancer, and had no problem following my unconventional lead. We were negotiating a crowded dance floor, when suddenly I looked up from my partner’s face to see that the dance floor was empty — except for one other couple, and us. I was astonished to see that the rest of the dancers were aligned around the floor, applauding the two couples who danced. I observed that the other couple was doing some very fancy routines — right out of the movies. I felt intimidated, and led my partner to our table. To my surprise, she complemented my dancing. “It’s always the ones who say they can’t dance who really know how.” There followed here a hiatus of thirty years, with no dancing. After I hooked up with Ruth in 2003 I had the pleasure of attending dances with her in a variety of formats. Mickey Davidson, married to Ruth’s cousin Joyce, hosted an annual party/dance at Moravian Hall on his birthday. At the first of these that I attended I tried to dance. Not having been on a dance floor for thirty years, I was awkward to say the least. Ruth was patient, and gently helped me around the floor. She was an excellent dancer, and guided my fumbling efforts. She also introduced me to her large group of friends and relatives. She danced with all of the men, and I was given to understand that I would dance with the wife of the man Ruth was dancing with. It was thus that I met Celeste. She was a very accomplished dancer – she led with a lock-step pattern of dance that was a continuous repetition of the same three steps. I confess, I had a hard time following her. In retrospect, I realize I should not have tried to lead. If I had learned and adopted the routine of her choice we would have done okay. She made it plain that I did not dance well. “You need to learn how to dance.” Slowly, in a progression of dance parties with Ruth, I began to learn where to put my feet. I did pretty good with the waltz, having learned while in college the one-two-three step progression. With Ruth I did quite well. With others, not so much. Most of the ladies had no interest in following my lead. So I was reluctant to “let it all out” whenever I danced with a new partner. Ruth’s very good friend Gerri was a member of the Revelaire’s Dance Club, which held monthly dances, with a live band, at Sokol Hall in Corpus Christi. The motto, emblazoned on each of the monthly invitations, was “Dance Like No One Is Watching.” Ruth and I attended, first as Gerri’s guest, then as club members. As we drove to the first of these dances Ruth explained to me that Gerri didn’t dance in the conventional fashion, but limited her style to a partner who stood and held her hand while she turned and circled around him. Therefore, Ruth suggested, I should probably not dance with Gerri. So I didn’t. Gerri sat out most of the dances, and it was a long time before I saw her dancing in the conventional style, arms around her partner. Eventually I realized that Ruth was concerned that because of my ineptitude, I would not be a good dance partner for Gerri. But after a couple of years I began to find my “sea legs”.I danced fairly well with a lot of different partners. I was flattered to be told by Gerri “Mickey, you are an excellent dancer.” At a meeting of the Revelaire’s Club officers I was introduced to the Club Treasurer. He acknowledged me by saying “Oh, yes, you’re the guy all the ladies want to dance with.” Another night, another dance, to live band music at Sokol Hall: The band was just returning to the stage, after a break. Ruth and I sat at our table, sipping our drinks. A young lady known to me only as the club secretary walked across the empty dance floor in our direction. Ruth said “She’s coming to dance with you…” I arose and walked to meet her. As we met she extended her arms, as to dance. I silently took her into my arms, and as the band struck up we danced toward the center of the floor. She had no trouble following me, and I held nothing back. I made all the moves that the music dictated. And she was with me every step of the way. Looking past her I saw that the entire dance floor was completely empty. The band was playing for just the two of us. And we danced perfectly, like we'd been together for years. I was aware of all this when she looked up and said "You're good" — and I was so taken aback that I stopped and stepped back from her to stammer "What?" She answered my question by repeating — "You're good." I re-embraced her, and we continued dancing until the band reached the end of the song they were playing. She disengaged, stepped back, and with a final glance up at me she turned away. I watched as she walked across the empty dance floor to her table. I never saw her again. I walked slowly across the empty dance floor to the table I shared with my beloved Ruth. I expected some comment from her, but she said nothing. Sitting at the table at one of the Revelaire’s dances, group discussion turned to the varying styles of dancing demonstrated by the various club members. One lady, a stranger to me (the club membership was over a hundred) made comments about the similarity of style of “... all the dancers, except for one guy who thinks he is Fred Astaire.” The comment went right over my head. Later, I reflected on it, and could not think of anyone who exhibited Astaire’s style of dancing. Years later, alone in my apartment watching movies on TV, I enjoyed Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse “Dancing in the Dark”, in the movie “Band Wagon”. I was struck by Astaire’s manner of varying his dance rhythm to conform to changes in the tempo of the music. And I suddenly realized that I instinctively do the same. And nobody else at the Revelaire’s dances ....... There, the usual style is the repetitious, unvarying progression of steps around the floor, leaving an invisible footprint trail just like the printed "footprint on the floor" instructions for learning to dance. It hit me – that long ago comment at the table at the Revelaire’s dance about Fred Astaire and style was directed at ME! I early found the endless repetition of the same set pattern of steps unacceptably boring – and I intuitively evolved a technique of following the music, with a slow entrée during the introduction to a phrase, then a rapid segue, often spinning and turning, to enter the main segment of the melody. I maintained a strict adherence to the rhythm of the music – maybe intuitive, perhaps learned in my years of playing in various bands and orchestras. My steps were like a parade of quarter notes, following the director’s baton, with an occasional half note, sometimes nuanced by the subtle arrogance of triplets ... then swirling and spinning my partner with eighth notes, to momentarily separate, then to reunite, celebrating our togetherness with a whole note. Ruth had no trouble following my technique — once she had decided to allow me to lead I was restrained when dancing with any other, "new-hatch’d, unfledged comrade." Few could follow me in my strange diversions of rhythm and style. But I am aware that the others around the dance floor watched me. In my memories, several particular occasions remain vividly pleasant. One was at a Revelaire’s Club dance at Sokol Hall in Corpus Christi. Ruth and I waltzed, dancing a circle around the outside of the large dance floor . . . to the magic of the band’s performance of the classic “Always.” There were no embellishments, no spinning of my partner out and away from me. No fancy steps. Just the delicious, whirling, turning, box step waltz, embracing my partner. We were perfectly in tune. Our mutual performance was impeccable. Another ... was at a VIP Dinner/dance at the Ortiz Center. We were seated next to the dance floor. The band opened with the introduction to Stardust. Ruth and I arose immediately, to dance from our table, across the carpet toward the dance floor. During the introduction I led Ruth in a slow, turning stroll toward the edge of the floor, with pauses at the end of each phrase. As we reached and climbed the sloping ascent to the dance floor the band slowed, then picked up the tempo and swung into “Sometimes I wonder why I spend each lonely night . . .” We whirled and turned grandly, then settled into a pattern of variable flowing steps that followed the beautiful progression of the tempo of the music. It was delightful. At a later Cotillion dance at the Alice Country Club, Ruth and I danced to a country western tune, name forgotten, that allowed us to move together while embracing tightly. It was more like making love than dancing. When the dance was over, Ruth clung to me and said “That was the most lovingly delightful dance we have ever shared.” Slowly, she released me and took my hand to lead me to our table. At the last dance I attended with Ruth, a 2013 Cotillion Dance at the Alice Country Club, the band leader lowered his baton, descended to the dance floor, and approached as Ruth and I danced by. I stopped when it became apparent that he was approaching us. His words to me will ever remain in my memory: “You, sir, are an outstandingly good dancer.” My regret is that I was so taken aback that I did not respond, as I should have:  “Ruth deserves all the credit. She helped me learn, and she does everything I do – and does it backwards.” Instead I simply mumbled my gratitude for his compliment. I wish I could recall the music we were dancing to. Please hear me – Never did I aspire to emulate Fred Astaire. His routines are much too complex, and require a much higher level of skill than I could ever hope to attain. My manner of dancing was completely my own. I never consciously thought about any other dancer's style while trying to develop and improve my own. But I enjoyed it. Even though very few could follow me. I miss it ...