Over four decades ago, to find Sugar, I traded off my Model A convertible, minus the side curtains, for a closed-up car with windows and the works. After some solo dance practicing behind the barn, I was once again ready for North Star Grange. Those lovely volunteer dance instructors at the Grange Hall were very tender with me.
Soon I became good with my feet and body bounce. Later the tunes of “A Tisket, A Tasket” and the “Beer Barrel Polka” kept ringing in my ears long after the orchestra turned itself off.
Before developing enough intestinal fortitude to see if a Sugar existed, a couple of high school girls asked for a ride to the dance. Later their girlfriends asked to pile in too, and soon the names of Clara, Olive, Pete, Wyonia, Irene, and Theresa became familiar to me.
This load of future wives always came home with me. They were just scouting around and I was their daddy-o. A mother figured that a four-to-one cargo ratio had some built-in safety features. So that left me with an image that I had to live up to. My duty was to get them all home safely in time for some sleep before church time rolled around.