Full Circle

Tammy Curtis, Publisher

We have all been told at some point that life comes full circle. It’s true.

I had one of those full-circle moments a few weeks ago when we took our 13-year-old granddaughter to Music on the Square in Mountain View. We just knew introducing her to this tradition — musicians, dancers and all the fun that went with it — would be something she would love.

We were wrong.

She was a good sport and even attempted to learn to two-step with her other grandmother in the privacy of the gazebo. But it was short-lived. Out came her lifeline — her cellphone — along with that all-too-familiar bored look about three songs into the evening.

I admit I was a bit disappointed. We were all enjoying the band, and I was loving the moment, but we eventually had to leave to keep Princess Olivia happy.

It was on the side-by-side ride back to our camper that thoughts began tumbling through my head. That’s when I realized my life had once again — it happens more than once as you age — come full circle.

My mind took me back to the late ’70s and early ’80s and the Ozark Mountain Music Makers Jamboree in good ole Salem, Arkansas.

My 10- to 15-year-old self, along with my younger brother and sister, always knew when it was “The Day.”

The day of the week Daddy ended his hard-labored workweek at the sawmill. The day he finally got to quite literally kick up his boots. The day Momma’s hair was a bit closer to the Lord than usual, and the scents of Aqua Net and Cover Girl makeup overtook the bathroom air.

Daddy donned his best pointed-toe cowboy boots and darkest Levi’s. He paired them with one of those famous triangle-collared Ely pearl-snap cowboy shirts before piling on a handful of Stetson aftershave.

Then began the procession to what was commonly known as “the Musical.”

We secretly dreaded it but piled in for our journey to Country and Western music night. The familiar gravel road gave us a few seconds to grunt and grumble about the “stupid Musical where no other kids have to go.” 

The smell of buttery popcorn and hamburgers sizzling on the grill welcomed us to the building as “Testing, one, two” echoed through the microphones.

We settled into the front row of the pews and allowed the dread to set in.

Little did we know at that age, but Daddy was about five beers in and ready to dance. It didn’t matter if the music was slow, fast or anywhere in between. He was game.

Momma didn’t drink, so she was usually less than ready to assist him in showing off his mad dancing skills to the now-gathering crowd, as he was often first to hit the dance floor.

She always caved, though, and I sometimes wondered if she secretly loved it but wanted everyone to think she didn’t.

Anything Waylon, Tom T. Hall, Merle, Willie — all the old classics — became songs we knew by heart after all those nights at the Musical. We knew Momma loved to slow dance to “Rose Colored Glasses,” while Daddy was partial to Johnny Paycheck’s “The Only Hell My Mama Ever Raised,” which was somewhat of a true statement compared with his siblings.

The moment Daddy rose up to dance, we kids slowly sank below the field of vision of every other human in the building.

Sometimes his dancing resembled a roach-stomping competition. Other times, it looked more like a rain dance or summoning something from outer space. But we sat, watched and were completely embarrassed.

Momma, bless her soul, was a rather plump lady, but she matched his every step, gliding across that floor.

For some reason, our eyes were only on them — never the other parents who had also chosen to get up and embarrass their children. Those were the kids we somehow forgot were also being forced to endure this rite of passage for years, or at least until they were old enough to drive.

We would get popcorn, a Coke and peanuts, slowly dropping the peanuts into our Cokes as a method of distraction from the pure hell our parents were putting us through, almost as if it were some sort of demented fun for them.

We always loved hearing the drummer play “Wipe Out,” though. On that we can agree. 

And when Daddy and Momma, sweat pouring off them, finally asked if we were ready to go, we never said no.

As the years have gone by, I have often thought about the Musical and my parents with the benefit of hindsight. We lived in rural Arkansas, and the likes of Johnny Medford, Billy Joe French and Joe and Chuck Young were some of our earliest introductions to live music. We later met George Strait in Salem too but no one really knew who he was in the early 80s at the Co-op picnic.

While we wanted to hate it, those nights truly shaped us.

I still know every word to just about every old country song ever sung.

As I sat watching my granddaughter two-step with her grandmother, older ladies line dancing and couples on the square — some older than me — dancing their hearts out, I finally understood something.

Like my mom and dad, they weren’t out there trying to win a popularity contest or earn accolades for being the best dancers.

It was simply about having fun.

Where else could a family get free entertainment on a Saturday night in an era when children went everywhere with their parents and a dollar was truly hard-earned and respected?

Now, as fifty-somethings, we truly enjoy Music on the Square in Mountain View. But more than anything, I love that the experience transports me back to a time I once thought I hated and now remember with nothing but joy and fondness.

I am thankful that, more than 40 years later, Mountain View is still keeping that spirit alive for younger generations. It allows them to experience a little of what we did.

A tear fell from my eye when I heard “Rose Colored Glasses.” I couldn’t help but think Momma was in heaven, smiling down at me as I sat there, all these years later, with my own granddaughter.

Maybe one day Olivia will come full circle, too.

Maybe she’ll find herself at a Musical somewhere, trying to convince her own bored grandchild to put down the cellphone while she gets up and two-steps to “The Only Hell My Mama Ever Raised.” One can only hope.