behind the guy in the orange hat on the right.)
The Dances:Oh, just forget about the dances, ok? I can't tell you anything about dancing. I have deleted more dance data from my brain since that weekend than I've been able to retain in the nearly two years that I've been clogging!
I had planned to write about the dances. Remember -- first I wrote about The Place, then about The People? The final installment in my Fontana Dam Series was going to be about the dances. But I can't very well write what I don't know, can I?
Ok. So I've forgotten all the dances. I guess my circuits just got overloaded or something. My system crashed. My wiring went blooey. I lost my marbles. I did too many Whoo Whoo Whoo Triples. (Yessssss -- I worked that in -- the one step I can remember!) There are some things about the weekend that I haven't forgotten -- I could write about them before that fuse blows, too...
As we were approaching Asheville (about 80 miles from our final destination) during afternoon rush hour on Friday, Greg decided it was time to stop and buy a bottle of whiskey for himself. I didn't mind; after all, he was giving up his weekend so he could accompany me on this "clogging spree." How could I complain if he wanted to get a little mellow? I'm just saying -- Friday afternoon, rush hour, strange city...oh well.
We hadn't seen any conveniently situated ABC stores -- you know, the kind with a nice big sign out front and easily accessible parking on the side -- as we drove into town, so squashing down his urge to be like all those other guys who won't stop and ask for directions, my husband stopped at the first gas station we came to and asked where we might find such an establishment.
Well, it sounded easy -- about three miles straight ahead on the right. Greg told me, "Look for the "usual" big red ABC sign." Like I should be familiar with that because there's one right across the street from our house or something. I can't think of any time in my life when I've needed to remember what the usual Alcoholic Beverage Commission sign looks like. Sure, I know where the store is in Greensboro; sometimes I sit in the car while Greg runs in. Ok, I've even gone in with him a time or two. But I didn't know I was supposed to commit the sign to memory!
Now see, that's the kind of thing that makes Greg get really irritated with me. Especially when he's stressed. Like when he's in a strange place and traffic's heavy and we've already driven four miles and haven't found what we were looking for (i.e., that familiar big red ABC sign.) We had to stop again. Aha! We hadn't driven too far. The first guy just wasn't good with distances. If only we hadn't been so quick to turn around before we stopped and asked someone else...
Well, now that we had the correct information, guess what -- no big red sign. Just a little one. And the store itself could have been nicknamed "You Can't Get Here from There." I'm not kidding. We had to keep circling around until we could get close enough to call it parking.
I was so pleased that we'd found what we were looking for that I just wanted to sit in the car and revel in my relief. Greg happily rolled down the windows and left me. I had closed my eyes for a second when I heard a voice saying, "You only live once. You only live once." It was a black guy, neatly dressed, with braids all over his head. Not dreads, but neat little braids -- the kind that take a long time to do. He was walking up from the main street, entering the liquor store as he repeated "You only live once" into his cell phone. I'd kind of like to make up a story about him. (Some other time, maybe.)
I remember being amused by some of the signs we saw along the way. There was one for a barbecue restaurant that said "Butts on the Creek." (Of course it included a drawing of some pigs' butts. Heh-heh.)
I liked the road sign that read "Beside the River Road." I've been thinking they should rename our road, "Decimated In Order to Make Way for FedEx Road."
And I loved walking into the Hellbender Pitt Stop and ordering a beer before the final "exhibition" on Saturday night. I imagine we were a pretty daunting sight (even without our clogging shoes) -- Greg and five women. (We were not intimidated by all those biker dudes!)
Well, if I should happen to remember anything about the actual dancing at Fontana Village, I'll do a fourth installment. Don't hold your breath, though. At least I was able to provide a photograph of people dancing.
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