I remember when I was almost three and my father came home from work， swooped me into his arms and began to dance me around the table. My mother laughed at us， told us dinner would get cold. But my father said， "She' s just caught the rhythm of the dance！Our dinner can wait." Then he sang out，"Roll out the barrel， let' s have a barrel of fun， " and I sang back， "Let' s get those blues on the run."
We danced through the years. One night when I was 15， lost in some painful， adolescent mood. My father put on a stack of records and teased me to dance with him. "C' mon，" he said， "let' s get those blues on the run."
When I turned away from him， my father put his hand on my shoulder， and I jumped out of the chair screaming， "Don' t touch me！I am sick and tired of dancing with you！" I saw the hurt on his face， but words were out and I could not call them back. I ran to my room sobbing hysterically.
We did not dance together after that night. I found other partners， and my father waited up for me after dances， sitting in his favorite chair. Sometimes he would be asleep when I came in， and I would wake him， saying， "If you were so tired， you should have gone to bed."
"No， no， " he' d say， "I was just waiting for you."
Then we' d lock up the house and go to bed.
My father waited up for me through my high school and college years when I danced my way out of his life.
Shortly after my first child was born； my mother called to tell me my father was ill. "A heart problem， " she said， "now， don' t come. It' s three hundred miles. It would upset your father."
A proper diet restored him to good health. My mother wrote that they had joined a dance club."The doctor says it' s a good exercise. You remember how your father loves to dance."