This is one of my favorite pictures of my father and me. It's how I'll always remember him. We're doing a polka at my wedding, and it's one of the happiest times of my life. I'll never forget it.
How my father loved to dance! He should have been Fred Astaire, sweeping his Ginger Rogers, my mother, across ballroom floors. Instead, he spun paint brushs across walls and ceilings and drapped wallpaper in rooms other people would dance in.
He danced when he could. At weddings, he never sat down. Women always wanted to dance with him. They would come up and ask him to dance when my mother would tire. He never did, and he seldom refused. His delight in dance was too great to say no. Polkas, waltzes, fox trots, the Indiana hop - he knew them all. My mother never seemed to mind. She understood him. It was the dance, not the woman that mattered.
Maybe there's a ballroom in heaven, and he's dancing tirelessly there. Oh how I miss him!
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