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The Dance Card

At the estate sale I bought a young woman’s

dance card from a formal dance of the

Theta Chapter of Kappa Kappa Gamma

dated February first, 1915.  More than a card

it is a small booklet on a string with five

pages and a brass mesh cover, the

facing pages listing Engagements

and Dances with the names of the

musical numbers printed out

Ballin’ the Jack, The High Cost of Loving,

It’s a Long Way to Tipperary, 

When Grown Up Ladies Act Like Babies

and to end the evening, Good Bye, Boys.

The young men’s names are pencilled in:

Mr. C. Avery, Mr. Mann, Mr. Cook and

on line 13 the underlined note I kissed him

with his name given only as XXX.

Well well well!  What might the chaperones

Mrs. Bella Kirkbride and Miss Fannie Sanders

have thought of that?  And why did

this young lady keep her beau’s name a secret?

And whatever became of him?  Of her?

Of Mr. Mann, Mr. Cook Mr. C. Avery

and all the others she’d written down?

They are all certainly long gone now never

imagining that a perfect stranger would

one day wonder about their lives and loves

about who and what they became

whether they lived happily ever after

somehow escaped the ravages of war

or more likely died young and bewildered

in a foreign country a lifetime away

from formal dances no chaperone

to keep them out of harm’s way.

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The Estate Sale

At the estate sale we go through someone

else’s things, finger the linens, admire the

silver, the bone china, run our hands over

the smooth walnut table, the lovely corner

cabinet, rummage through the box of

old dance cards–1914!–the baby clothes

stiff with age, the tattered prints, maps,

postcards, memorabilia from so many

events and travels.  We thumb through

the dusted off books, ooh and ahh over

the fancy ladies’ gloves, sort through the

old photographs, try on the hats, admire

the handiwork on pillowcases, tablecloths,

needlepoint. We are on a journey through

someone else’s life with only these

artifacts for clues, no narrative, no family,

no one here to tell her story.  For example,

what became of Mr. Mann, whose name

appears on a February 1, 1915 dance card,

who asked her to save him a place for a

whirl around the floor to “Poor Pauline?”

Did he bow and kiss her hand when the

dance ended, did a romance ensue?

We don’t know the color of her eyes

(or his), the sound of her laughter, her

loves and losses, whether her dreams

came true, how many children she had

(if any) and why oh why they would

have let all these precious things of hers

leave the house with strangers.