There’s a Twist to My Story

You’re about to learn, as Paul Harvey would have put it, “the rest of the story.”

The Groundhog Day Community Celebration was just that — a celebration among people throughout the area, coming together to have fun and support good causes.

Capping off that fun was a generation dance in the former gym on the Moon Lake campus. Our exceptional DJ, Brian Anderson, featured music from the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s while attendees danced for Groundhog Day trophies, proclaiming their talents.

Why a “generation dance” and not just a “dance,” you ask? I’m glad you asked.

The year was 1979, maybe 1980, and I was a 5th-grader, quiet and nerdy (some things never change, right?). Against my social proclivities, I attended a generation dance at our high school. Students from most grades were there, along with faculty members, having a great time enjoying the music and fellowship.

Of course, I kept the bleachers warm and stayed far away from the dance floor.

And then it happened.

For reasons I’ll never quite understand, I became the target of Mrs. Hand’s attention. She was my music teacher, and I probably stood out in class for my command of the white flute-type instrument with red holes that, for some reason, was called a recorder. While other students struggled to produce smooth notes to traditional tunes, I was happily creating tones that drove away every cat and rodent within a 1-mile radius.

Back to the dance. I’m sitting there, minding my own business in my own quiet way, when Mrs. Hand walked over, took my hand, and dragged me to the dance floor. Excited and scared, I allowed myself to get lost in the music of the 50s — specifically, Chubby Checker’s “The Twist.”

Mrs. Hand twisted. I twisted. I twisted in ways I didn’t know I could twist. As the song came to an end, I fast-walked back to my seat, a changed person for having unleashed my inner Baryshnikov upon my classmates.

As it turns out, I twisted my way into the annals of Fort Payne history. When it came time to award the trophies, Mrs. Hand and I returned to midcourt to accept the statuette for the 50s generation.

She handed it to me, and I became its proud owner. The gold-colored plastic human standing atop the stone base stretched its arms high, hoisting a wreath in celebratory victory. The engraved plate proclaimed that the trophy’s recipient exceeded the performances of all others in dancing their way through the music representative of the 50s (a decade I missed entirely, for the record).

I’m certain my performance became the stuff of legends. If you’ve seen the movie “Napoleon Dynamite,” you can draw some comparisons.

And so that is why our Community Celebration featured not just a dance, but a generation dance. I wanted to give others the opportunity to twist their way into Mentone lore. To mark their place in the world. To plant a flag and say, “I was here, and my life has made a difference.” Come on, baby …Take me by my little hand and go like this.

And that, my friends, is the rest of the story.