42 I CHRONICLESndecision.” The decision was for thenplaintiff. Things have come so far innAmerica that the editors of a magazinenwere content to be pubhcly disgracednfor an appearance fee.nFather Andrew L.J. James is an EasternnOrthodox priest in Athens, Ohio.nLetter From thenHeartlandnby Jane GreernBeginnings Past All RememberingnThe Knights of Columbus Club is justnbeginning to buzz as we pull up atn7:45, 15 minutes fashionably late. Ourncars hold two families of three peopleneach; the two small boys—cousins,none in each car, for sanity’s sake—nlove each other madly and can’t bearnthe five-minute drive from our dinnernat Bonanza. My husband’s aunt andnuncle have been married for 48 years,nand their children are throwing them anparty.nThe club manager directs us intonthe room. To the left as we enter is thenguest book, presided over by my husband’sncousin’s wife and their infantnson. To the right is a long table withnold and new family pictures. Wearingna corsage and boutonniere, Milly andnJoe greet their guests.nMy husband and I, and his sisternand her husband, sit next to mynmother-in-law at a table full of family.nThe little boys and their three youngerncousins whiz off, playing tag as farnfrom us as possible. They use thenpunchbowl as home base, and I worry.n(I worry about it all, actually, and if Inhad my way our seven-year-old sonnwould sit politely next to me andnconverse intelligently with his elders.)nMy husband tells me to relax: This isnall de rigueur at dances, has been sincenAdam. I did it, too, in different ways,nwhen I was a child, but wanting mynson to be better than I am, I remainnunconvinced. “Look how well Inturned out,” my husband adds. I forcena smile. My sister-in-law grows softeyednreminiscing about going to dancesnas a little girl and then the long carnride home, sleepy in the backseat. “Incould still hear the music as if it was innthe car with us,” she says. Eyeing thenaccordions on the stage, I fear it mightnbe true.nAbout 8:30 the band comes in:nReiny and Burt on guitar and accordion,ntheir names embroidered on theirncaps, and a third man on the drums.nOne of the children of the honoredncouple gets on the mike and says thatnthe party is for them because they’venbeen such wonderful parents. They’rengoing to cut the cake now, he adds,nand would everyone please stand upnfor a moment and gather around it?nWe hear him, but no one wants to benthe first to walk across the empty dancenfloor, and after a second request theyncut the cake attended only by five boysnunder eight years old, all in theirnSunday best, greed in their eyes.nThe first dance belongs to Milly andnJoe, and now I know how they lookednat each other at their wedding. Thennthere’s a two-step, three waltzes, anotherntwo-step, then a couple of polkasnand a schottische to which we polka.nThe only real deviation in rhythmnduring the evening is “Blue SpanishnEyes,” performed without conviction.nThere’s something comforting aboutnparticipating in a dance whose beginningsnlie past all remembering. I looknaround and guess that the percentagenof divorces in this room must be nearlynas low as in a pondful of Canada geese.nThese ranch and small-town couplesnof all shapes and sizes dance togethernas if they were breathing or pulling ancalf or rolling over together in theirnsleep. I’d like to dance like that somenday. “One flesh” takes on new meaningnwhen one watches plain longmarriednfolks doing a plain immemorialndance (which can, hours later,ncramp up the legs of the immoderate).nThe five smah cousins, in groups ofntwo and three according to age, discovernParadise. They sit on the dancewaxednfloor and spin around. Theynswing each other by the hands as hardnas they can and then let go, fall, andnslide; drink waitresses dodge them deftly,nused to it. My son is wearing a pairnof white pants his grandmother gavenhim, and our table decides I’ll need anwhole bottle of Shout to get themnclean. I tell my mother-in-law no, I’mnjust going to send them to her.nThere are three extraordinarily prettyngirls, cousins and friends, all quiveringnon the brink of teendom. Theynnnhave asked the band to play what in mynyouth was called a bunny hop, and thenband obliges gallandy. The girls formna line, each with her hands lightly,nself-consciously on the hips of the girlnbefore her, and they start their sedate,ncharming circle of little kicks andnhops. A hitch: They have the floor tonthemselves. They tough it out, smilingnbravely and trying to make nonchalantnsmall talk among themselves as theynmove under the lights, although it’snobvious they’d like the earth to swallownthem up. The adults are not thenonly ones watching: I see my youngnson and his six-year-old cousin lying atnthe dark end of the dance floor, headsnpropped up on elbows, mouths widenopen but motionless for once, entrancednat the pretty sight. I grownfirmer in my resolve to lock him in thenbasement during his teens.nAt 9:30 the food is brought in,nmuch of it prepared by Milly herselfnanniversary cake, nuts, mints, dipsnand crackers and cold cuts, hot meatballsnand chicken wings and frenchnfried cauliflower in chafing dishes,nrelish trays, tropical fruit punch, andncoffee. The boys are dancing on theirntoes now, too wound up to eat. Mynhusband makes our son drink a Sprite,nsuspicious that the boys are innocenflyncommandeering whatever beverage isnhandy when they get thirsty. I start tonask him if he did that, too, when henwas a kid, but someone we haven’tnseen for a while bends over us and thenthought gets lost. I know the answer,nanyway.n’w’-‘^-rfeinThere are more than a hundrednpeople in the room, more family thannI’ll ever be able to meet or remember.nSome are not family but friends,nwhich amounts to almost the samenthing. By 10:00—11:00 in the timenzone we came from, just 90 milesneast—we’ve all danced with eachnother if we’re so inclined, caught upnon the gossip, our son is rubbing hisneyes as he hops up and down to thenmusic, and I’m beginning to feel thatnway myself. My husband drives us tonhis sister’s house, where we’ll spendnthe night. I look at him and out at thenclear sky, listen to the boys chatteringntiredly, and it comes into my mindnthat a family is like a galaxy, whirlingn