If I had been on my toes, I would have known that a dust up with my mother was just over the horizon. She had a very tight focus when it came to the child she was rearing: my actions needed to burnish her reputation as a mother. Accordingly, she was sensitive to the perceptions of others, and I should have known she would give serious attention to this latest adventure.

I suppose it didn’t help that Mescalero Hills was a small place. News traveled fast and consensus formed quickly. For example, suppose a fellow opted for coffee with his lunch at Polly’s Chuck Wagon as opposed to his usual lemonade. His wife might easily have wind of it before the waitress was back around to offer him a warm up. Many in the cafe would take note. Questions would be sparked: Why was Dolph drinking coffee at noon rather than his lemonade? Was this a change-of-taste issue or was there a darker answer? Perhaps he needed a boost of energy because he was slipping around on his wife. After all, Janet Hubley had just finished up her divorce and was angling for a man. By the time Dolph got home, half the little burg could be certain that he was moving out and shacking up with Janet.

So, my mother’s ear was always to the ground and her nose in the wind, vigilant for anything that might threaten her reputation as the perfect mother. I was not concerned about such.

At this particular time, I was even less concerned than usual. I was preoccupied by what I deemed a higher calling. The baseball World Series was underway. Baseball was pretty much the chief concern of my life, and the World Series was Christmas, birthday and summer vacation all rolled into one.

The 1958 World Series had even more of my attention than you would expect. The competing teams were the New York Yankees and the Milwaukee Braves. The ’58 Series was a rematch of the ’57 Series, and the Braves had given the Yanks a good shin kicking in ’57.

The Yanks came to the ’58 Series with their pride on the line. Here was their chance, not just to regain the World Championship but to get even with the Braves. There was a lot on the line for me too. I was a serious Yankee fan. Everyone who knew me was well aware of this. I had taken a ribbing the previous year when the mighty Yanks failed to come through.

The Series did not crank up well for Casey Stengel and company. Going into Game Five, New York was down three games to one. The last time a team had come back from such a deficit to win a series was 1925. In order to win the series, New York would have to win the next three games in a row. Not that I would have admitted this publicly, but that would be quite a feat against the Braves. They were amply supplied with talent and highly motivated to bloody the nose of the Mighty Bronx Bombers two years in a row.

The crucial Game Five was played on a Monday. All I was concerned about was the game. Our principal gave us updates over the PA system once the game got underway. I did not even take a breath until the sixth inning when the Yanks scored six runs and seemed pretty assured of winning the game.

With the game headed into the final innings and the Yanks comfortably in the lead, I begun to pull my head up and get conscious with what was happening in my classroom. I realized that my teacher was talking about the oral geography reports that were scheduled to be given that day. I had forgotten all about it. I had been assigned to report on Greenland. If I had to march to the front of the room and deliver the report it would be deemed by Mrs. Pugh as woefully lacking in substance.

I listened intently. Mrs. Pugh was saying there would be a change in our schedule for the day. She explained that the Activities portion of class was going to run longer than usual and the geography reports would be delayed a day. With the threat of immediate humiliation lifted from me, I just barely listened to her explanation about why Activities was expected to run over time. We were going to start a unit on square dance, and there were logistical issues to be addressed. Assigning dance partners was one.

That suited me just fine. Anything was more welcome than the menace of trying to ad lib my way through a report on Greenland.

I would like to report that I used this reprieve wisely and got my report done that night. I didn’t. With the outcome of the Series still in question, responsible problem-solving was beyond me. At any rate, back to our tale.

When I was a third grader I was unsophisticated regarding social politics. I took it literally when the teacher said that she would assign square dance partners. Truthfully she did not so much assign partners as ratify the selections that had already been made.  Thus, through one machination or another, most of the pairing had been accomplished before we gathered at the back of the room.

I probably had the personality to get myself attached to someone in these circumstances, but, as usual, I did not know that such a process was afoot. What I was clear about was that in the end there was a predictable outcome to any activity that involved pairing or teaming up: a residuum of misfits and persona non-grata remained for the teacher to sort out.

I was frequently left with this little cluster of the dispossessed. I was sharp enough to notice that there were some benefits to this situation: I met a lot of interesting people. I was not seen as a snob. The kids on the margins liked me. Teachers knew they could count on me in a crunch. In this particular moment my third grade teacher had a crunch on her hands.

Washington D.C. was a long way distant from the Llano Estacado both in miles and emotion. But inevitably the wave of change set off by Brown vs. Board of Education made its way to us. Mescalero Hills had integrated its schools in 1956, and everything had gone relatively smoothly. However, there was still some risk for public toe stubbing over the issue.

And this brings us back to Square Dancing.

In the end there were two boys and one girl who remained without partners. The other boy was a lad named Delbert. He had multiple social and behavioral challenges. He was typically dealt with by being designated as some unofficial assistant to the teacher. After Delbert was factored out, there was only Angela and me.

Up until that moment I did not know much about Angela. That she was a girl was the most significant fact. No hint of puberty had as of yet ruffled the waters of my life. Girls held no hormonal or emotional appeal for me.

Girls were just facts of life that to be accounted for. For instance, you could not hit a girl without expecting serious sanction from your parents and other authorities. They couldn’t throw, and thus were essentially worthless for baseball. They didn’t like to play army. They giggled too much. I frankly could not reason that they were of much use. I was disinterested.

Square dancing did not appeal to me either, except for the brief moment it had gotten me off the hook for the Greenland assignment. However, this was a school activity, and Mrs. Pugh knew I wouldn’t kick up a fuss. When I was instructed to stand by Angela, I moved to her side very agreeably.

Now we all stood beside our partners (except for Delbert, who had to stand right next to Mrs. Pugh!) while she read  from the instruction sheet that would go home to our parents about issues such as shoes.

Over the next few weeks we learned some of the rudimentary aspects and moves in square dancing. A great deal of the technical aspects of square dancing have faded with time. That’s not surprising since more than half a century has passed. But, I still remember four things crystal clear about Angela. One, she had the most beautiful and ready smile I had ever encountered. Two, she loved to dance. Three, she was real good at it. Four, with her as my partner, I learned a few hot moves myself.

It wasn’t long before Carlos and Angela started getting called out to demonstrate new steps Mrs. Pugh was teaching the class. I am not saying that Angela and I were the new Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, but we were good. We had fun. We liked each other.

Maybe that’s where the trouble really started.

At my elementary school, we had a number of Arts Assemblies each year. These were occasions when the whole school was in attendance along with a good number of parents. A collection of performances from the choir, the rhythm band, the drama club and gymnastics were typical.

I had never been a participant in these assemblies. Baseball was not on the play bill. Usually all that Arts Assembly meant to me was a Friday afternoon out of class and early dismissal.

This year was different.

Mrs. Pugh’s square dance class was to appear at the next Arts Assembly, and things had evolved in such a way that Angela and I had a little piece of our own to perform. You would have thought I was in a show that was about to open on Broadway. I never missed rehearsal and was always enthusiastic. Angela and I tended to our number as if our whole lives depended on it.

Lord, it was fun to dance with Angela!

Several times in the run up the the performance, Angela and I rehearsed our piece at the far edge of the square ball court at recess or even after school. Our delight in the activity and one another had been evident to everyone in class. Now that we were rehearsing outside, it was getting public exposure as well.

One night at supper I became aware that my mother was in “one of her moods.” These periodic storms were awful. They always began with silence and a scowl. I would do my best to steer clear of her. Sometimes these episodes of foul emotional weather had nothing to do with me.

When the issue was me, the storm would break in one of two ways. If it was a low level problem, it would be my mother who would eventually raise the concern with me. The good news about this was that she would generate a big verbal dust up, then go silent, hold a grudge for a few days, and the whole thing would dissipate. On the other hand, if the problem that set her off was something above a misdemeanor level, it would wind up in my dad’s court. The good news here was that my dad was unfailingly courteous and generally as fair as you could expect a fallible human to be. The bad news was the issue was of some gravity.

Tonight we were in the superior court.

The process began with my mother clearing her throat and casting a sour glance at my father. He appeared to be completely unaware of this gesture for a long moment or two.  Then he looked at me with a very neutral expression and asked, as he continued to cut his meat, “I hear you are learning to square dance?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” I said and smiled like a loon. You remember I told you that I had come to be tickled pink with the whole process.

As I answered, he watched me carefully and took a small piece of meat in his mouth off the end of his fork. “I was never any good at square dancing,” he said. “But I like to watch it.”

We ate in silence.

He spoke again after a bit. “Someone told me you cut a fine figure at it, that they had seen you practicing. Actually I guess ya’ll say ‘rehearsing’?” He looked at me quizzically.

“Yes, sir, rehearsing,” I said, smiling. “I guess I’m decent.”

He was quiet again. He had this marvelous conversational technique that almost always insured that you would go on and say more. It was a kind of attentive silence. You knew he was interested by his demeanor and the cast of his eyes. He didn’t say a word, but his countenance beckoned.

“There’s going to be an assembly,” I said. “My class is going to be in it.”

“Yes, indeed,” my mother said coldly, speaking for the first time. “There is going to be an assembly.”

My father and I stopped, turned toward her, and he gazed at her a moment. It was an evil tone if I ever heard one.

“I saw the flyer,” my Dad said. “I’ll be there.”

He was one of those dads who was always there unless he was traveling, which his work demanded occasionally. I was pleased to hear he’d be there, and a smile spread across my face.

But my mother just said in a caustic tone, “Oh yes, everyone is going to be there.”

My father did not even look up at her this time.

You could tell when things irritated him with respect to my mother. With some couples irritating remarks provoke looks and retorts. The more provoking, the more engagement. With my dad it was just the opposite. It was not so much that he ignored her. What my dad did was more a simple recognition that she was speaking. He offered a slight nod of his head toward her, coupled with a silence that spoke volumes regarding his disapproval or sense that her remarks were not helpful.

It was clear now that mother was headed toward a blow up.  But I wanted to say my piece before the storm broke full.

“I’m dancing a special number… me and my partner. We have a special routine we do,” I said with enthusiasm.

“Oh?” he said. “I sure want to hear about that.”

“We sure do,” mother said with a tone dripping with venom.

Now she had gone too far.

My dad looked straight at her and said: “Mother, we’re just having a pleasant conversation here about square dancing.” And then, “I sure would like to have some more of that corn bread if you have some over there on the stove.” My mother got up from the table and moved from the dining room into the kitchen for the cornbread without a word.

My dad turned his attention to me.  “Tell me about this special number,” he said.

Well, once started I went on and on like a drunk man. Who knows what all I said. I do remember that I described what Angela and I were going to do in great detail, about the music, and what everyone else was going to be doing while we would be in the spotlight.

He listened and smiled. “Well, I don’t want to miss that show.” He meant it. He never said anything like that casually. He offered a thank you for the cornbread my mother had brought back.

“Tell me about your partner, about Angela,” he suggested.  “I don’t believe I know her.”

I told you earlier that in those days I was a little slow when it it came to social politics. As incredible as it seems now, I thought my mother’s snootiness had something to do with a disdain for square dancing. Finally, it flashed in my mind that the real issue was not square dancing, but who I was dancing with.

“You say her name is Angela?” my dad said gently.

I smiled.

“Tell me about her,” he said.

I said she was a dynamite partner and I liked dancing with her. I remember saying she liked knock-knock jokes, was good at arithmetic, and had helped me some with homework a couple of times. I reported that her Father was a Yankees fan too, just like me. I had met him once when he came to pick her up at school and we had talked a minute.

My dad was not a Yankees fan. He just didn’t like them. I never knew why.

He said at last, “Yankees fans are a little scarce around here. I guess you ought to keep track of Angela’s father given you investment in those New York boys.”

Then he smiled at me, and I smiled back. I kept waiting for him to say something about the fact that Angela was Black, but he didn’t. The conversation went on to this and that. Dessert came out. Pecan pie.

Near the end, right before it was time to clear the table, my dad tilted his head and looked at me.

“Son, did you pick Angela as your partner?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said.

He looked at me in that gentle but attentive way.

“The two of us were all that was left, except Delbert, and you know…..”

“I know,” he said. “Delbert isn’t going to match up easily.”

I nodded. I looked him square in the eye. I knew what he was trying to determine.

“I like Angela,” I said.”Nobody made me dance with her.”

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t glance at my mother. He said firmly to me: “And nobody is going to stop you from dancing with her either.”

That was the end of it.

Except, my ego will not let me end without a report on the Assembly. It came off well. I am not exaggerating to say that Angela and I pretty nearly stole the show. We were good. It was a lot of fun. I am sorry you missed it.