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Nostalgia May 2013

Puttin' on the Gritz

Let the Good Times Roll!

By Cappy Hall Rearick

Through a kind of strange synchronicity, we all are being collectively catapulted back to the summer of 1959 when girls wore crinolines and ponytails, and guys wore I.D. bracelets and no ponytails.

"Makes no difference if you're young or old,
You gotta get together and let the good times roll.
Whoa! Let the good times roll!" Ray Charles

Squeezed together at a table barely big enough to accommodate a small army of ants, Babe and I are clubbing it at Ziggy Mahoney's, the current island nightspot. Although we have lived on St. Simons Island for 15 years, we've somehow missed out on this throwback, party down, let's-hear- it-for-the-50s nightspot.

If we can find space on the dance floor, we'll dance as though we're still young, boogying to tunes made famous by The Coasters, The Drifters, Little Richard and Fats.

Whoa! Let the good times roll!

When the band plays "I Love Beach Music," Babe yanks me off my perch and onto the pygmy-size dance floor before I can say poodle skirt and saddle oxfords.

Closing his eyes, Babe swings me around as he twirls like Mikhail Baryshnikov. His baby blues open up just in time to keep me from crashing tush-first into the elderly twosome struggling to recall Arthur Murray's dance lessons: "One, two, kick. One, two, swing."

Surreptitiously, I check out his partner. She's counting too, while clutching a big white pocketbook as if she's got the Hope Diamond inside. She is wearing saddle oxfords and bobby sox. Believe me, you can't make this stuff up!

"Hey, Babe," I shout, hoping to be heard over the high performance sound system lacking reduction technology capability. Watch out for Fred and Ginger behind you." With his eyes closed again and wearing a goofy expression, he continues to boogie like nobody's watching.

I shag up closer. He backs up and plows smack into a senior citizen whose partner appears to be a walking cane. The man wheels around, bares his teeth and snarls like a dog. Babe, aka a Baryshnikov wannabe, is oblivious while twisting along with Fats.

I figure if we don't put some distance between Cujo, his metal cane and the two of us, we'll need rabies shots by morning. "C'mon, Babe," I shout. We weave through the entangled bodies on the dance floor and arrive at our miniature table where a large frosted mug of Coors awaits. Forty seconds later, that brewski is toast.

Wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, Babe stares at me as though trying to decide if he knows who I am and whether or not he's about to get lucky. "Why'd we quit dancing? I was in the Zone, baby."

I roll my eyes the way he does. "I just saved your life, Babe, and this is the thanks I get? That old guy over there was going to pummel you into the middle of next week with his cane."

"What chu talking ‘bout, girl?"

I point to the white-haired gentleman now slow dancing and gazing dreamily at his cane, which may sound like a blonde joke but it's not. Babe looks at the guy, shrugs his shoulders and says, "No problem."

"You almost knocked him down, Babe. Didn't you notice how ticked off he got? For all you know he could be a Gray Panther spoiling for a fight."

Babe gazes at the snarler again. "That little old twerp? I can take him."

I look at the diminutive man, and then at the 200-pound-plus Babe. "Ya think?"

Babe drains the last three drops of his beer before slamming the mug down on the table. He moves away from me quickly and I fear that he may be going after the dancing dude with a cane.

"What're you doing?"

He stares at me like I've got Moon Pies for brains. "I need another beer. Want one?"

The band starts playing “Carolina Girl” and before I can say Myrtle Beach, Babe is pulling my tired, 70-year-old bones onto the jammed dance floor, the fresh beer seriously history.

Beach music rings in my ears and all through my bones as I dance side by side with the white purse-clutcher couple and the old gentleman cavorting with his cane.

Through a kind of strange synchronicity, we all are being collectively catapulted back to the summer of 1959 when girls wore crinolines and ponytails, and guys wore I.D. bracelets and no ponytails.

Elvis was a prince, not as yet crowned The King. Little Richard was little and Fats Domino was not. The Drifters floated out their songs while we danced and drifted into tomorrow.

Laissez le bon temp rouler, as they say in N'awlins. Let the good times roll!

 

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