How sweet it was

by Doug Crowe
Tuesday, December 11, 2007 1:15 PM MST

The old Sweetwater Dance Hall is gone.

When I was a young man, it stood on a little bluff a mile or so downstream from Devil's Gate on the south side of the river. It was here the "Sweetwater folk" came together to recreate, celebrate and, occasionally, procreate.

I will attempt to describe for you a dance at the Sweetwater Hall, but please know that reading this will be like having sex by mail -- not the same as actually participating.

Unlike city folks' dances, these gatherings never were segregated by age or social status. Everyone from up and down the river showed up: babes in arms, little kids, big kids, single folks, married folks, ranch owners, ranch hands, cats, dogs and horses.

The opening act was a gossip session. Attendees lived all over the lower Sweetwater, from little isolated pockets in the Granite Mountains to secluded valleys way up in the Rattlesnakes.

There were no telephones in that country then, and most of the roads were not user friendly. Consequently, on those rare occasions when folks got together, there was a great deal of information to exchange: who had a new horse, who was courting whom (overtly or covertly), who knew a funny story, who had a new recipe, and the old reliable standard: hadn't this last summer been the hottest, driest, windiest, wettest, coldest (take your pick) summer in living memory?

Sooner or later, a ragtag assortment of locals who could pound the old community piano or blow a mouth organ or stroke a fiddle would detach themselves from the crowd and begin to tune their instruments.

Following 10-15 minutes of squeaking and squawking, they'd strike up a tune, usually something slow like "Streets of Laredo" or "The Tennessee Waltz." Young married couples would be first on the floor.

Soon, however, everyone would be there, from 90-year-old great-grandparents to kids barely out of diapers.

Little girls would stand on top of daddy's boots as he scooted them around in time to the music. Bewildered young boys would be dragged out on the floor by prepubescent females a head taller than them.

As the evening progressed, the tempo would pick up and about the time the band first played "Orange Blossom Special," men folk would be making regular trips outside for liquid refreshment.

The decibel level would increase as they whooped and stomped until the wooden floor jumped up and down like a trampoline. As time wore on, this cacophony would be joined by protests of irate wives as they voiced their displeasure at the antics of their consorts.

Said husbands presently would be hustled outside, stuffed into a pickup and returned to hearth and home where they could be more easily controlled.

Consequently few, if any, married folks remained on the premises after midnight.

Of those who did remain, the male cohort would by now be besotted, brain-dead, bulletproof terpsichoreans.

The women would have imbibed alcohol in quantities sufficient to lower their inhibitions but, to the sorrow of many of us, not enough to lower their Levis.

It was great sport, though, because all of the Y-chromosome group thought they might get lucky while the ladies enjoyed being the center of attention and were not averse to letting a bunch of fools fantasize.

Unfortunately, all good things must end and, sooner or later, bleary-eyed band members would tire of watching this pas de deux, resist impassioned pleas for just one more rendition of "Rose of San Antone" and stop the music.

The remaining combatants then would file out to the fleet of battered, old pickups scattered amongst the sagebrush and, valiantly resisting the pangs of reverse peristalsis, drive off squinting into the rising sun.

Maybe all of this doesn't sound like your cup of tea, but I would give a great deal to be present at just one more night at the Sweetwater Dance Hall.

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