We hit summer hard in Colorado this week, with 90-degree temperatures for several days on the west side of Denver. Because I only have a circulating fan upstairs, the border collies and I moved most of our daily living down to the half-sunken basement. It stays remarkably cool and comfortable down there all summer long.
Since I will turn 75 this November, I am entering a phase of life often called "live review." It is a natural tendency to tell stories and sort through your past, trying to find clarity and perhaps some meaning in all of it.
As such I found some old photos of me and my first dog and horse, back when I was in my teens or just turned 20, below. My pattern of life was already set at that point; a close connection to animals, lots of shared outdoor adventures.
I understand how lucky I am to go into classrooms throughout the school year to tell stories. Most of them are retellings of children's literature that I enjoy—usually outdoor adventures or stories about animals. I also include some romance and fairy tales during the year. There is always time at the end to take a few minutes and talk about what the border collies and I have been up to over the past month, which usually involves our latest hiking or backpacking trips. Based on the reactions of the students and teachers, that section is well liked.
When you reach my age, hopefully you are comfortable in your own skin. Long ago, I accepted that my inherent nature is to be an introvert. I don’t make friends easily, and I am not one for small talk. That path doesn't lead to a lot of romantic encounters, but I had one romance, and that matters. When you look back at seventy-four, you realize you don't need a crowd, and you don't need dozens of chapters. You just need to have known that true connection once. Having that one deep piece of history means I didn't miss out on that part of being human. For the rest of my life, give me a ridge to climb with my border collies, and I am right where I belong.
But that does not mean I don’t have a satisfying and rich life. Frequenting the same country dance hall for decades has given me a wonderful social outlet. I have so much fun doing two-steps, triple steps, blues dances, and waltzes that I can hardly believe my good fortune.
(click on photos below for larger image . . . - Esc or clicking outside of image will close it)
One of the best parts of dancing at the Rose is the ending of a good dance: a genuine smile, a thank-you, and sometimes a hug. Those small exchanges remind me why I love this community. The real beauty of the Rose is the joy people bring to the floor—their energy, confidence, kindness, and inner glow.
I also try to notice when someone is standing by the rail and may want to dance but hasn’t been asked. When the right song comes on, I’ll offer an invitation. If they say no, that’s perfectly fine. To me, asking a variety of people to dance is a small way to practice fairness and humility. Everyone deserves to feel welcome on the dance floor.
Being out dancing on a Thursday or Saturday night is also about resilience. All of us carry difficult things in life. To see through those hardships and still find excitement, happiness, and joy is one of the keys to a good life.
The dances I have at the Rose often carry a distinct current of romance. It sparks the moment we catch the rhythm, moving together in perfect sync to an exciting, driving beat. There is a unique thrill in the traveling partnership—sometimes locked face-to-face, sometimes moving side-by-side, but always tracking together at speed. We navigate the unpredictability of a crowded floor, guiding, reacting, and weaving effortlessly through the other couples as we squeeze along the rail. For those few minutes, the rest of the room blurs into a backdrop for our shared momentum. It requires absolute presence; you are entirely locked into the music and the constant, shifting flow of the person moving with you.
When the song ends and the motion stops, we come to a halt, completely out of breath, with a visible fire and passion in our faces from the sheer energy of the travel. It is a pure, concentrated form of romance. It doesn't need to promise anything tomorrow, and it doesn't carry the weight of expectations. It lives, peaks, and concludes entirely within the span of a three-minute song. Because it begins and ends right there on the hardwood, ordinary life can never touch it, wear it down, or kill it.
