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Some stories are better left untold |
** Author's Note: The shag is a southern derivative of swing dancing or, as Charlestonians might say, swing dancing is a northern derivative of the shag. âThe South speaks in satin syllables. She listens with heirloom ears honed by honeyed tongue and polished by long lineages. And when the South walks, why she doesnât walk at all. She dances a slow, smooth shag that could âmost seduce the sun.â Sandra sighed that âend of the worldâ dirge composed by Stravinsky but perfected by teen-age girls. She was acutely aware that her own Yankee syllables were more like clipped corduroy than satin and that her meager lineage would fit quite nicely on a 3X5-- with a little room left over to spare. And, should Sandra ever dare to forget, the familyâs annual trip down South to visit southern kith and kin never failed to remind her. âIâm a traveling manâ crooned her current heart throb. Sandra turned her transistor volume up--from high to a âtorment the parentsâ blast and tried to drown in deep hazel eyes. But even Ricky Nelsonâs browns could not cure Sandraâs blues. She twisted the ends of her straight black hair and counted the Burma Shave billboards. Anything to distract her from the nightmare she knew was awaiting in Charleston, South Carolina âwhere the Ashley and Cooper rivers meet to form the Atlantic Ocean.â âWhat Chutzpah!â Sandra thought. âMeet to form the Atlantic indeed. Those southerners sure enough have chutzpah. I have to give them that--not that theyâd have a clue what I meant.â She smirked as she thought of greeting her cousins with âYaâll sure have some gall now, ya hear â in her most vicious imitation of a southern drawl. Sandra sneaked a glance at her reflection in the rear view mirror. Sadly, no miraculous metamorphosis had taken place since the family piled into the old black Buick in New York City. Only angles stared back at her, nothing but angles from head to toe. Sandra hated being that skinny, straight-haired damnyankee amidst all those southern curves and curls. On the outskirts of Charlotte, an old Chevy pick-up piled with produce advertised âRipe Peaches at Peachy Pricesâ. Sarah loved peaches, but one look at the display of tawny pink perfection and all she could think of were her cousins with their Tangee lips and Baby Oil-bronzed bodies. She almost gagged remembering the year sheâd tried to color her own milk white skin with QT and turned a semi-permanent neon orange. Sheâd spent the entire summer parading down Folly Beach like a psychedelic popsicle. Sarah could still hear the snide snickers from Cousin Beth--the longest drawl in the world couldnât soften them. Sarah watched from the rear window as the truck full of peaches grew smaller--shrinking as fast as her own self-confidence. Too soon, the salty sting of shrimp and ocean announced their arrival at Folly Beach. Cousin Beth was waiting to greet them. She wrapped both curls and curves around Sandra, then stepped back and drawled, âWhy honey, whatever donât they feed yaâll up there in New York? You need some good olâ grits on those bones. And, sweetie, donât they sell any of those Tony perms up North? â âOh, and by the way, I saved my old Rose Marie Reid bathing suit for you. I hardly wore it at all. I kinda outgrew it--if you know what I mean,â she drawled dropping her eyes to a swelling womenâs breast.â And so the nightmare began. ===================================== The juke box was swallowing nickels as fast as nimble fingered teens could feed them. âBe Bop A Lulaâ was blaring and sand filled shoes shagged on the peanut shelled dance floor of the Boardwalk. Ponytails bopped and duck tails dipped. Beth was breathless when she returned to the table where Sandra waited--listlessly counting the waves tumbling in. Beth had been dancing for the last two hours. Sandra hadnât left the table. âToo bad, sweetie, that yaâll Yankees just canât seem to dance. Well, mayhaps yaâll can do a little twist or somethinâ, but youâve got to have some rhythm to do a southern shag. And youâve got at have some blue blood flowinâ through your veins to do a proper Carolina shag.â Sandra sighed and turned her mind to more important matters; she counted wave number 3,004. 3,005 was rolling in when Billy Buckly tapped her on the shoulder. Billy was a true son of the South. His syllables were so satin they slid from his lips, his drawl stretched way out to tomorrow, and his blood lines were as long as all of Americaâs yesterdays. âMay I have this dance?â he asked. Before Sandra could even begin to dog-paddle, she drowned in hazel eyes--Ricky Nelson eyes. She took Billyâs hand and tossed her black mane over her shoulders. She slowly slipped off her flip flops. Sandraâhad been waiting all her life for this moment. âWhy wonât you stay just a little bit longerâ Jackson Browneâs sexy song soon filled up the dance floor. But before too long, no one was dancing anymore--no one but Sandra and Billy. Sandra shagged soft and sultry. Billy dipped long and low. Sandra shuffled and spun. Billy mirrored her. Billy swung and Sandra whirled. Billy thrust and Sandra belly-rolled. âJust one more time,â sang Jackson Browne. When the last plaintive note was swallowed by the waves, two hundred teens clapped in amazement. And Billy Buckly fell in love. âThe South still speaks in satin syllables and listens with heirloom ears. She still dances a slow, smooth shag that could âmost seduce the sun. But there is neâer a mention of the folly at Folly Beach way back in â69 nor a word spoken of the damnyankee girl who really did seduce the son.â |