Men dancing with their wives is not, no matter what the old song says, an unusual Chicago sight. I always make it a summer habit to walk over to the Daley Center and watch men dance with their wives in that yearly city-sponsored celebration called “Dancing Under the Picasso.”
One June day a couple of years ago I met Harry and Muriel, who had taken the train in from Hammond, Ind. They were eager to share their feelings and memories with a stranger. (At the time I was an editor and thus didn’t write a story for the paper. But the couple–“Don’t use our last name, though, because we don’t like to be the center of attention,” he said–were so charming that I kept the notes, perhaps to one day use in a novel. Or right here.)
“I can remember the first time he ever asked me to dance,” Muriel said, a spark in her eyes. “It was at a dance at the local church. I knew who he was. We lived a block away from each other, but he was three years ahead of me in school so I never thought that he would even know who I was. He was so handsome then . . .”
“And now?” he asked, feigning anger.
“More handsome than ever,” she said, grabbing his hand.
I asked the couple how many dances they think they might have danced together and they both said at once, “Oh, gee, that’s a tough one.”
After a few moments spent remembering wedding receptions, parties, church socials and “some lovely trips to the Empire Room,” Harry and Muriel estimated that they had danced together “about 6,000 times.”
“That’s a lot of hugging,” Harry said. Muriel smiled.
They danced only three dances in the plaza at Daley Center that day. Harry’s right leg was giving him a bit of trouble. But they had “a great time, as always.”
“We’re not so old,” said Muriel. “I’m only 67 and Harry’s only 70.”
I called the couple a few weeks ago. They have no plans to visit the city this summer, but “Harry’s leg is fine,” said Muriel. “And we danced up a storm last week.”
