A slow motion dance with my new life . . .

I took a walk in my new neighborhood with my sister, Jill and her kids last weekend, a long stroll down Summit Avenue, oooh-ing and aaaaahhh-ing over the gargantuan mansions we passed along the historic boulevard. No sooner would we decide on the one we liked best when we'd come upon another, even more opulent and dramatic, if that's possible. The architecture of the homes on Summit is the real-life definition of breathtaking. Truly, I could waste an entire day, gazing at a single edifice and still not see all there is to admire. . . kalidescope stained glass . . . intricately detailed Victorian "painted ladies". . . ornate yet stately carved stone. . . even chimneys are spared no elaborate attention—one home (even calling it a "home" sounds insulting) has towering chimneys with wrought-iron calla lilies imbedded in the masonry. . . and that doesn't even begin to touch the grounds and gardens . . . this alone could become a full-time job, admiring historic buildings . . .

Our meandering brought us to a party gathered on the lawn outside yet another grand residence, a wedding in full-swing. I immediately recognized the location—Bob and I had attended a wedding here ourselves, and suddenly, I was whisked away with the memories of a good ten years prior, sharing them aloud with Jill and the kids, though I was talking more to myself than anyone. . .

That beautiful fall night, Bob and I dazzled the wedding party with newly acquired ballroom

dance skills, waltzing, two-stepping, jitter-bugging and polka-ing, sometimes cheek-to-cheek, sometimes whirling around like tasmanian devils, like a scene from a movie movie—the crowd parted, including the bride and her father, and circled around Bob and me, as we danced the night away, in perfect time to the music swirling along with us . . .

Jill interrupts my story. "Wait a minute— Your Bob? Danced? Really?" More an accusation than a question.

A few seconds pass, and finally, Not willingly, I confess.

Bob and I had been married maybe four years the summer of the wedding of conversation. Shortly before the wedding, we'd embarked on a camping trip to northern Minnesota. Camping, as in, in a tent. Trip, as in, a whole week. Northern Minnesota, as in, no hotels this time, Little Miss Flat Iron Dependent. This wasn't our first camping trip together, but it was the longest, with no "buffer" night in a cabin or hotel at the half-way point, to ease the pain of "roughing it." Buffer, as in, appeasing Jen. Hardcore, in my book.

Bob decided we should explore north central state parks this time, and painstakingly planned our trip to include Itasca, Lake Bemidji and Hayes Lake, damn near to Lake of the Woods, mapping out our trip based on seasonal wildflowers in bloom. The morning we departed, it had started to rain and increased in intensity as the day went on. It not only rained all day but continued the entire week. And not just little sprinkles or soft drizzles. No, we were subjected to full-blown soakings, downpours—torrential deluges—as in, Each. And. Evey. Day. We had a "two-man" tent, as in, if you're lucky and happen to be African pygmies, and a smelly, sopping wet Alaskan malamute sharing our sleeping quarters. Smelly, as in, a vat of sweaty football players' post-practice laundry. The tent leaked, our sleeping bags were soaked, we couldn't cook a thing because it was too wet to make a fire. Bob, the eternal Ranger Rick at heart, said, "It's not that bad, Jen! We have Power Bars and Dr. Pepper! The rain'll quit soon!"

After three days of huddling in soggy, smelly quarters, gnawing on granola bars, I snapped—I tore open the tent, screaming, "I hate this—I'm going to go sleep in the van!" and stomped through ankle-deep mud puddles, yanked the passenger door open and slid into the blissfully dry interior of our van and slammed the door. And flipped the switch to lock. Bob sloshed through puddles after me, dragging Gaia behind him, but was too late. Doors were locked and I sat in the front passenger seat, crying. He pounded on windows, "Let me in, Jen! It's pouring out here! Let's talk!"

"No! NOt until you tell me we will do something with our time together, other than camping! I am done camping!It's not fair! It's all we do on our vacations—we never do anything I want to do, and I'm finally done with it!"

Rain streamed down his face as he continued to pound on the window. "Let me in, Jen—I meanit! I want to talk to to you, but I can't out here in this goddamned rain! Let me in, and we can talk! Please!" The genuine desperation in the emphatic please got me. Reluctantly, I flicked the switch on my door handle to unlock the doors and continued my sob fest as Bob quickly ledGaia into the back of the van before hopping in behind her. He slid his rain jacket off and slipped into the driver's seat and faced me.

"What the hell was that all about?" he sputtered as soon as he got into the van, grabbing an old dog towel to dry off. "What—are you five years old or what—we can't just talk, can we? You had to resort to dramatics to make your point?"

I was in no mood for logic. "We always do what you want to do for our vacations!" I interrupted. "For five straight years, all it's been is camping, camping, camping and I'm sick of it! I hate it, in fact, and as of this vacation, I've decided no more camping until you do something I want to do! Period!"

"Fine, fair enough! All you have to do is say the word—just tell me what you want to do."

Ballroom dancing.

"What did you say?" He stopped rubbing his head.

You heard me just fine. Ball room dancing. I want to take balllroom dance lessons. And I want you to take them with me.

"Oh god, Jen, please. Anything but that—and I mean anything. I can't dance! I don't have rhythm—"

You're a liar! You do too have rhythm—I know you'd be a total Deney Terrio! You'd love it, if you just gave it a chance. I gave camping a chance. . .

"Is there anything else you'd want to do?" his voice was weak and thin. He knew he was done.

No.

Anything at all? A cooking class? A language class?

Nope.

Heavy sigh. Defeat. "Okay. Fine." Another heavy sight. Dramatics have taken a turn. "Fair enough. Dance lessons it is."

I signed us up for dance lessons through Community Ed in Roseville, from a man whose hair was a little too greasy and seemed to pay a little too much attention to the little redhead in the class, according to Bob. I didn't care. I was happy, he was Fred Astaire, in my eyes, and a month later, we were able to show off our newly-acquired skills at a wedding on Summit Avenue. . .

Hours after I shared this story with Jill and her kids, I got the following e-mail from Jill:

Tonight, while walking with my you and my kids, it was moving as we passed gorgeous homes on Summit, to hear you talk of lovely times you and Bob had at a wine tasting benefit here, or how you two showed off your newly honed ballroom dance skills at a wedding reception there. Later, when we stopped into one of Bob's former wine clients, Solo Vino, the wonderful memories continued. Since his illness and his passing, this was, for me, the first time in a long time where I felt so connected to that healthy, energetic, hilarious, hard-working, uber-intelligent man who loved you with all his soul, and whom you loved and will continue to love with all your soul. He's so greatly missed, but hearing these stories, stopping by SV touched me so very much. Thank you, Jennifer and Bob.