In 1953, I was five years old. I lived with my parents on a farm in Saskatchewan 鈥� beyond the power grid. No indoor plumbing (outdoor bif 40 yards from the house), no electric lights, heat from a wood stove, no telephones and no television. And no computers. Despite this, my childhood was wonderful, filled with adventure and new things to learn, exploring all there was to explore with my cousins. We played three-man scrub in the summer and hockey on a nearby slough in the winter. Did kids have more fun in those days without Xboxes and iPhones? I鈥檓 sure we did. Adults? Well, I recall the many visits from and to neighbours with my parents staying up until all hours, visiting, laughing and playing cards. And there was the round of house parties, annual district picnics, school Christmas concerts, monthly visits to town and, in the winter, the Saturday night dances in the schoolhouse (where my mother taught Grades 1 to 9) just across the grid road from our farm. Yes, I think our parents enjoyed life much more than parents do in this hectic, instant-communications age with every conceivable luxury at their very fingertips. This essay should prove it.
During the winter, there was a dance every Saturday night. Admission was 25 cents for adults. Children were free. Our parents were expected to bring bologna sandwiches and squares or cookies. Coffee was provided. A huge cauldron of the hot, dark liquid burbled and perked during the entire evening and night. My mother and my dad had the hall ready for the night鈥檚 festivities long in advance 鈥� snow cleared, fire burning in the barrel stove, a string of coal oil lamps lit, outdoor toilets ready (with Sears and Eaton鈥檚 catalogues), cash box with change, coffee made, etc.
People started showing up early in horse-drawn sleighs and cabooses, Model A cars, late 1940s cars, half-tons, one-tons and on foot. I remember the billowing, swirling fog when warm met bitter cold as people came through the front door. Despite that everyone had come together for a dance only a week ago, everyone greeted each other as if meeting a long lost friend or relative 鈥� men shaking hands vigorously, and women hugging 鈥� laughing, joking and light banter. Farmers, of course, soon engaged in conversations on farming 鈥� cattle, the price of grain and how much snow. My cousins and I took stock and reintroduced ourselves to our neighbours鈥� kids. It was going to be a good night of solid fun. Yes sir.
The orchestra arrived at the schoolhouse early and begin tuning up. It was considered a great honour for a local musician to play for a Saturday night dance. Music was typically provided by a trio playing guitar (a banjo sometimes), accordion and fiddle respectively. Occasionally, the school piano was added if someone could be found to play it. It was strictly an amateur affair but that mattered not at all. There were no amplifiers and no microphones. The musicians did not sing nor were they polished instrumentalists. Didn鈥檛 matter. They had great appeal. They likely knew about 12 songs (which they played over and over all night long) 鈥� two old time waltzes, two polkas, two schottisches, two fox trots, two two-steps and two square dances. There was always someone in the crowd who could call a square dance. Interestingly, Saturday night dances of 60 years ago enjoyed the services of a floor manager whose job was to wax the floor (sprinkle dance wax) and keep the dance going smoothly.
The dance music was composed entirely of old time tunes. The orchestra always started with two old time waltzes, and there was always a space of time between any two dance tunes 鈥� enough to allow couples to walk once around the floor. The dance area was small, and crowded, so it didn鈥檛 take much time to go around once. The orchestra played in sets of two. After the old time waltz set, the floor manager usually called for a fox trot. And from there, the dance floor began to really heat up 鈥� schottisches and polkas.
Everyone, young and old, was up for it. Farmers were in great physical condition in those days as a consequence of daily hard labour. There was a 40-minute break for lunch at midnight (which gave everyone a chance to visit). The dance generally lasted until 5 a.m. at which point parents bundled up their children and headed home to do chores. No sleep.
One of the primary differences between dances then and dances now is that back then there was no bar. That did not mean there was no alcohol present because most of the men (and some of the more adventurous women) came well supplied. The beverage of choice was whiskey followed by rum and vodka, and home brew (powerful stuff). In contrast to today, where almost everyone (those adults who consume alcohol at dances) imbibes inside the dance hall after having purchased a drink with mix at the bar (run by a bartender and his or her assistant), at a 1953 country dance no one drank anything inside the hall except coffee.
Outside it was a different story. A nod of the head and a farmer would invite a buddy (or perhaps three or four friends) out for a shot of 50 proof rye straight up 鈥� no mix. In the subculture of the day, this was how many men expressed hospitality and bonded. These rituals were always accompanied by revelry, jokes and laughter and fight predictions (later). And, downing a couple of shots of straight rye at a country dance, was a right of passage for most young men because it symbolized entry into the hyper-masculine world of rural men (wives were usually the designated drivers for their husbands and children).
Then the bitter cold persuaded the revellers (not wearing coats, and often shirts wet and frozen with sweat) to head back into the hall to do the polka, or perhaps the schottische 鈥� until it was time for another round of hospitality. Remarkably, most men did not over imbibe, but of course, there were always a few, and a few teenagers who could not walk by the end of the dance.聽
As a professional DJ for 18 years and band leader for 20 years previous who has played for and DJd hundreds of wedding and community dances, I can tell you that nothing has changed in this regard over the decades.
The Saturday night dances were huge fun for kids. We chased each other around inside and outside. We wrestled each other. We tried to dance the schottische with our mothers鈥� coaching on the far side of the dance floor. We stole cookies and we traded cookies. When we finally exhausted ourselves at about 3 a.m., our mothers would tuck us in under some desks to sleep for the remainder of the dance.
Every dance had a stag line of young male hopefuls who would give anything to dance just once with a pretty young girl. Or, she didn鈥檛 have to be pretty 鈥� just female. The line stretched from the edge of the dance floor back into the porch. The young pretenders jockeyed for position throughout the evening. It wasn鈥檛 that there were no girls. There were many 鈥� dancing with each other 鈥� waiting for a young man to ask them to dance. What was lacking? Courage. What if she said no? A fate worse than death. Finally, after frequent trips out for double shots, a young man threw caution to the wind, walked smartly over to where the girls were sitting and asked politely for a dance. There now, that wasn鈥檛 too bad now was it? The example was set and soon others joined in to make a night of it.
Every dance had a fight. It wasn鈥檛 really an angry fight. Every district had its stalwart who vied for the championship. Everyone knew who was going to fight whom, and approximately when.
At about two a.m., the challenger deliberately walked into the current champion and invited him outside. The music stopped. The hall cleared. The men formed a ring while the women crowded into the porch. Children were kept in the hall and not allowed to see the fight. Some of us weaseled our way out by the vehicles for a ringside seat anyway.
Women cried and pleaded with their husbands not to fight (knowing they would fight, of course). The fighters squared off and circled as their supporters yelled encouragement. There were three rules 鈥� no hair pulling, no gouging and no kicking. The contestants were invariably in superb condition (from daily hard farm work) so there was little chance of serious injury.
Then they engaged鈥� shoving, pushing, punching, wrestling, bear hugging. The fight lasted until the fighters were exhausted. At this point, my dad (six feet, three inches, 285 pounds and strong enough to lift a 45-gallon drum of gasoline on to a half-ton truck) waded in and pulled them up with the instructions, 鈥淥K boys, shake hands, have a drink and let鈥檚 go back in the hall.鈥�
It wasn鈥檛 uncommon to see the two pugilists laughing, arms around each others鈥� shoulders stumbling back into the hall. It was a real fight, but nobody got real upset 鈥� not even the loser.
So, did we have more fun at a Saturday night dance back in 1953? We did.
