The Haystack Butte Square Dance (short story excitement)

Today, I have exciting news. 

One night, I stayed up late and wrote a short story by hand. That story grew up. It was typed on the computer, put through rounds of edits and prodded by the fantastic writers in my critique group (thank you, Kirsten, Karli, Eliana, Sara, Rebecca, Heidi, Lulu, and Anna!) It was printed out on paper and scanned through for typos. Then, that little story was sent to the Story Embers Short Story Contest… 

… And guys, it came out with an honorable mention! 

This story is near and dear to my heart, inspired by the square dances my siblings and I attended when we were little. Today, I’m excited to share The Haystack Butte Square Dance with you. 

The Haystack Butte Square Dance 

By Hannah Martin 

Come to the Annual Haystack Butte Square Dance and Pie Social! 

Every spring, posters hung throughout the town, spouting news of the yearly square dance. It seemed like every soul who lived nearby came to dance. Trappers and loggers from the mountains. Farmers and ranchers who lived on the plains. Townspeople who ran banks and restaurants. 

They flocked to the town’s ancient meeting house, where a dance floor was set up in the middle of the room. Two wrinkled fiddlers played to their heart’s content near one end of the room. Soon, old Mrs. Campson arrived with a double bass and her husband towing a banjo. Together, they filled the room with melodies of all kinds. 

The music seemed to float out of the building and into the cool night air, bringing cheer to anyone nearby.  

A million flavors of pie glimmered on a table at the edge of the dance floor. Cherry, lemon meringue, strawberry, huckleberry, “Mrs. Johnston’s surprise,” raspberry . . . even an elk mincemeat pie. 

The room was bordered with tables and chairs, occupied by young children gobbling up their pie and then dashing back to dance. The older people of Haystack Butte lingered at the tables, making up the “pie social” part of the evening. 

Mrs. Mabel Olene Francis was one of these folks. She sat with her husband, a few friends, and a slice of chokecherry pie in front of her. But the pie barely tasted like chokecherries and the conversation seemed dulled. Even the fiddle music felt lifeless this year. 

“I’m happy to see you here, Mabel Olene,” Mrs. Borst said from across the table. “It was a shame you couldn’t come to last year’s dance.” 

Mrs. Francis nodded, dragging a smile across her face. “Mark is doing much better now.” 

“Thank goodness.” Mrs. Borst pointed to a little boy skipping along, just a little behind the older children. “And it’s great that Charlie came to visit!” 

Mrs. Francis watched her grandson as he spun in circles with other children, completely disregarding the dance steps. As Mrs. Borst chattered on, Mrs. Francis peered through the crowd. They clapped in time to the music, taking partner’s hands and swinging. Every face was lit up. 

She glanced at her husband, who leaned over the table deep in conversation with Mr. Borst.

 The button-down shirt and khaki pants he wore were a little tighter than she remembered them being. His cane, a newer addition, leaned against the table. 

Never had Mrs. Francis thought that she would be a part of the crowd that stayed at the tables while others danced. In the years past, she had only stopped to take a break when her feet felt like they’d fall off. 

 Now look at me, she thought. 

“Mark.” Mrs. Francis leaned towards Mr. Francis.  Last year, with the state of his leg, dancing was completely off the table. But time had passed and he had mostly followed the doctor’s instructions. Surely dancing couldn’t be too hard. “We should dance.”

He sighed and said, “I can’t, Olly,” and then he returned to his conversation with Mr. Borst. 

Funny how he can’t do anything nowadays. What had become of the boy she’d married? Years ago, he worked from sunrise to sunset. Now, he barely got up from his recliner. 

Does he remember that we met here? 

She hadn’t even wanted to go to that first dance. Younger Mabel Olene was easily satisfied with a cup of tea and a book for an evening. Her mother, though, disagreed, and with the help of Mabel Olene’s friends, she wound up at the dance. 

She’d stumbled along until she found the beat of the music. Mabel Olene learned when to turn and when to clap and where to step. After that, the evening was only fast music, swirling skirts, finely pressed pants, and laughter. 

It was impossible to stop dancing.

Now, Mrs. Francis heard the crowd clap at the end of a jig. A slower two-step song began to play. The younger children scooted to the sidelines while the adults held each other in their arms and danced. 

Mabel Olene had been part of the children standing on the side that first night, until a boy with neatly combed hair and a light blue shirt walked up to her. He asked, “Would you like to dance?”
“I would,” Mabel Olene smiled at him. “But I don’t know this one.” 

“I can show you.” 

And so the boy led her out to the dance floor. He held her waist and she set her hand on his shoulder. It took a little while to find the one-two-one-two beat of the music, but before she knew it, she was dancing! 

“I’ve never seen you around here before.” The boy smiled. “What is your name?” 

“Mabel Olene.” After saying this, she glanced down at her feet to make sure they were still moving correctly. “What’s yours?”
“Mark Francis.” He smiled. 

They spent the rest of the dance talking. Mabel Olene tripped a few times, but every time she looked back up at Mark, his eyes were twinkling. 

At the end of that dance, her heart felt like it would flutter away. 

Now, Mrs. Francis felt like her heart didn’t even have wings to fly. Mr. Francis was still absorbed in his conversation, oblivious to the dance happening around them. 

He used to have hobbies. He used to grow a big garden in the summer and hunt when it grew cold. Nowadays, all he did was read the paper and talk with other men.

“Virginia Reel, folks!” The caller said. “Line up for the Virginia reel!” 

Mrs. Francis leaned over to her husband, once again. “Come on, Mark.” She waved her arms.  “It’s Virginia Reel, for goodness sake!”

Mr. Francis shook his head, motioning to his cane. “I’m not young and spry anymore. You know that.” 

She wasn’t particularly surprised, but she still sighed. Mrs. Francis watched the young people -the spry ones- dance. It was a big crowd, so big that there were multiple lines. Even Mrs. Anseth, who had been the Sunday school teacher for at least a hundred years, joined in. 

She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. Once, she had read that it was easier to stay in the glories of the past than the sadness of the present. And so Mrs. Francis went back to that first square dance. 

Mabel Olene had been asked by another boy to dance the Virginia Reel. He was nice, but smelled like fish. Her friends, Eadie and Sarah, were on either side of her in the line. The three of them laughed together as the Virginia Reel progressed.

At the end of that dance, the fish-smelling boy left, much to Mabel Olene’s relief. Endless chatter filled the room until someone called out, “Postie’s Jig!” 

A few stray people came to the middle of the dance floor. 

“Come on, I’ll teach you!” Eadie said, dragging Sarah and Mabel Olene to the dance floor. 

 Groups of people formed squares and walked through the steps without music. Mabel Olene did her best to keep up, which proved to be more challenging when the music began.

Eadie pointed. “Turn that way!” 

She spun and swung around with different partners. She wasn’t sure where to go, but somehow made it back to her spot. Thanks to Edie’s help, Mabel Olene and Sarah successfully made it through the dance.

After that, they went to the pie table. Mabel Olene chose a slice that looked like shining jewels on the inside. Over their pie, Sarah told a story of her sister’s shoe at the last dance. 

“I tell you, Mabel Olene,” Sarah said as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. “It went flying across the entire room!” 

Eadie added, “It was like Cinderella!” 

Oddly enough, Mrs. Francis had forgotten about how much fun she’d had with Eadie and Sarah. They had met on Mabel Olene’s first day at the Haystack Butte school, and quickly became good friends. The three of them stayed tightly knit throughout their school days, but then Sarah and Eadie married and moved away. I wonder what they’re up to now. 

The squeal of nearby kids brought her back to the present. 

Lines of people followed each other under a couple’s arms raised in a bridge. Mrs. Francis followed the steps along in her head, tapping her foot to the beat. She could become old and cobwebby in the head, but she would never forget how the dance went. A few stray dancers paused, unsure of what to do next, but that was quickly remedied by someone directing or pointing with a kind smile. 

Then the music ended and a new, unfamiliar tune began.

Adults and children stepped back, and the teenagers of Haystack Butte took over the dance floor. Young men spun ladies round and round. It was more upbeat than any of the other dances Mrs. Francis had seen. 

“Well that’s new,” she heard Mrs. Borst say. 

Mrs. Francis saw a girl in a light green dress standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching the other young people. 

Then a boy, long and lanky and in a freshly starched button-up shirt stepped near her. Mrs. Francis couldn’t hear what they said, but the girl beamed at the boy. He held out his hand. They started dancing in the same way as everyone else, seeming to tangle their arms together and then untangle them with ease. 

“You think this is the new ‘swing’ we’ve heard so much about?” Mr. Francis asked. 

His friend, Mr. Borst, sighed. “Gosh. Those young folks are so full of energy.” 

Mrs. Francis watched the button-up shirt boy dip the girl in the green dress. They looked so young and alive. The grins on their faces never disappeared, never faded. 

She glanced at her husband… what had happened to his smile?
She watched this new kind of dancing until the song ended and a new one began. A circle of people formed, adults and young children joining back in. Mrs. Francis couldn’t remember what this dance was called, but she could remember the steps all the same. 

“Come on.” She took Mr. Francis’ hand. “We should dance.”

“Mabel, my leg.” He glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Borst. “I think I’ll get myself another piece of pie.” He chuckled lightly, but Mrs. Francis spotted the smile fade fast. 

Cane in hand, he went to the pie table.

She bit her lip, and her eyes began to sting. She walked to the wooden doors leading outside. Taking deep breaths of frigid night air, she surveyed the nearby creek and lawn. Remains of iced-over snow were scattered among the patches of brown grass. 

Mrs. Francis felt like the wilted, tired grass that had been in the cold too long. 

Faintly, she could hear the music playing inside, but what use was it when she couldn’t dance along to it? 

Looking up at the moonlight, she waited until the choked-up feeling in her throat went away. 

The door opened, providing a glimpse of the songs inside. A little girl and her mother, bundled up in matching blue coats, stepped out. 

As they made their way down the sidewalk, the girl said, “My feet hurt, Mommy.” 

“I told you it would be good to take a break.” 

“But I couldn’t.” The little girl explained, “It was too fun.” 

The mother chuckled. “I know.” 

The little girl had to be close to Charlie’s age. 

Charlie. 

Mrs. Francis thought of all he’d dealt with – the loss of his father, trouble at school . . .  and yet he still managed to laugh. No matter how many times he scraped his knee, he kept going. 

 Mrs. Francis straightened up. She stepped back inside, where a waltz had just begun. Right away, Mrs. Francis spotted the girl in the green dress, dancing with the same boy as before, happy and joyful looks on both of their faces. 

The one-two-three rhythm of the waltz kept Mrs. Francis from returning to her seat.

I’ve missed far too many dances already.  

She spotted Charlie standing alone on the edge of the crowd and walked closer to him. “Are you having fun, Charlie?” 

“Yes, Grandma!” He smiled at her.  He had changed so much since the last visit.  Mrs. Francis couldn’t fathom how fast children grew. “But I don’t know how to do this dance.” 

“It’s a waltz.” Mrs. Francis said. “But it’s actually quite simple. Do you want me to show you?”
“Sure!” Charlie paused for a moment. He held out his hand and bent down, all dramatic-like. “Grandma, may I have this dance?” 

She laughed. “I’d love to.” For a moment, she saw a fleeting glimpse of the man she’d married all those years ago. 

As they stepped onto the dance floor, Mr. Francis stopped them.

“What are you doing?” He asked, pie in hand.
“Well, I came here to dance,” she said with a bit of acid in her voice, “so I’m dancing.”

She turned back to Charlie and taught him how to waltz, focusing on the music. “My toes follow your toes.” 

“It’s like a box,” he said, not lifting his eyes up from their feet. 

They didn’t move quite to the rhythm of the song, but anything was better than sitting on the sidelines.

While she danced with Charlie, she spotted the boy and girl. They seemed to be made of the music, waltzing along with soft steps. The boy twirled the girl occasionally, her dress fanning out and fluttering with every movement. 

Suddenly, Charlie stepped away from Mrs. Francis. At a tap on her shoulder, she turned around.  There stood Mr. Francis. She noticed that he had neither his cane nor the pie in his hands. 

“Olly…” 

She stayed silent. 

“I’m sorry.”  

Their eyes met. 

Mr. Francis held out his hand. “Do you want to dance with me?” 

She looked up at him and for once didn’t have to force a smile onto her face.  “Yes, I do. Very much.” 

He took her hand and placed his other on her waist. She rested her hand on his shoulder. They waltzed. For a moment, she felt weightless. No aching joints or sagging skin or slow limbs could stop her. 

If she had looked over at the young couple on the other side of the dance floor, Mrs. Francis would have seen the girl’s lovestruck face and the boy’s twinkling eyes. 

But she didn’t need to, because she had her own twinkling eyes to look up at. 

And… there you have it! This story was a true joy to write, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. 

Have a great rest of your day! 

-Hannah 

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