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Friday night. Date night.

The excitement of Friday nights has not dimmed through the years, even as I have lived these past 20 of them alone. I still remember …


Texas dance halls. Pleasure palaces built mostly by the Germans. Dotting the countryside, sometimes a community unto themselves. Standing silent all week until the crowds came to dance on Friday nights. Filling with cowboys and their ladies, awaiting the first strains of that fiddle in the band.

Cowboys in button-fly bluejeans who danced with their hats on. Cowboys of all sizes and shapes, but all with the same gracious style of asking for a dance with a wink — and whirling around the floor in intricate steps, ever vigilant for the clear path. Never missing a beat. An ever-so-gentlemanly squeeze of the hand as the music is over.


Let me dance again just once more with Nicholas to the “Tennessee Waltz” at Schroeder Hall. And then two-step my way around the floor of the Nordheim Shooting Club to strains of “Fraulein” with Glenn. Let’s all join in for the “Cotton Eye Joe” at Lindenau, okay? And CC Cartwright (RIP) in Colorado — what I wouldn’t give to hear “Silver Wings” and see you coming for me across the floor.


Yep.  Deep within my heart, lies a melody. A song of old San Antone. Where in dreams I live with a memory, beneath the stars all alone.