If you start something that you and other people enjoy and/or believe in, you probably want it to last. This involves a whole new level of organisation: setting something up so that it can go on without you. Parenthood is like that, so why not dance planning too, eh? And, let’s be honest, sometimes/eventually your creation can only develop, thrive and survive without you.
Therefore, it is a good idea to recruit people who are just as keen as you are on your idea (can this be possible?) and to offer them responsibilities based on their specific talents. What those talents are, you will discover over time. Some of the people in your group will show up at an event even if they have to walk five miles in a rainstorm on a sprained ankle. Others might not be quite that dependable, but they have other rare and valuable skills. Still others share (or another shares) your bank account. If you have the right team, you can organise an event that you don’t even attend.
This was the case for MMWP’s last dance, the TLM Family All Saints (Anticipated) Ceilidh. It began on Sunday, October 25, in Edinburgh while I was on my way to morning Mass in Toronto with my brother George. However, I was confident that the event would be a great success because of the splendid triumvirate (or, arguably, quadrumvirate) of hosts in charge. Even if–as an ominous question sent by WhatsApp suggested–Storm Boelo prevented the band from crossing the Forth Bridge, my lieutenants would easily solve the problem with mobile phone playlists and a bluetooth speaker.
Happily, the Forth Bridge was not closed until shortly before the Noon Mass began, and the band went to the Noon Mass, half-an-hour’s drive away. (Or perhaps they crossed at Queensferry; I have not yet heard.) From Mr McLean’s subsequent report, I gather that the weather was too risky for Fife and Dundee families, but four Edinburgh families did brave the tempest, and so the dance went on.
Some dancers came disguised as saints, and others were in Highland dress, and still others wore church clothes (as most saints probably did on Sundays). Later I saw in the photos one particularly enthusiastic St. George.
“I forgot how exciting dressing up is when one is still a wee laddie,” sighed Mr McLean nostalgically, forgetting his decade or more of amateur dramatics as an adult.
It is not entirely clear from the photos and videos how many people there were actually dancing; at least two of the people I’ve only ever seen toddle. However, the parents present were among the leaders, and there was a variety of child heights on the floor ranging from small to titchy. The videos caught the music, of course, and it whisked me out of my childhood bedroom right back to the Dean. Such an amazing band playing for—maybe 22 people? But, you know, they wereour people. And Sophia remembered to give them the contents of the donations box when Mr McLean forgot. (Dance Rule Number One: Pay the band.)
Poor Generation X: we are getting old, we can’t remember everything, and we Catholic ones have brain damage from a childhood of singing Haugen, Haas and the St. Louis Jesuits. (Just joking, Fr. Foley!*) We most definitely need the Millennials and Gen Z to help us in our schemes. And, besides, Mr McLean is in a wheelchair, so it fell to Krzysztof to get both him and the supplies to Ravelston.
Krzysztof also took the photos and videos, for which I am very grateful. I try not to post photos of children, so you’ll just have to imagine why I am so delighted with them. And it fell to Sophia (again) to teach small-to-titchy children how to dance the rudiments of Scottish ceilidh dancing, so I’m grateful to her too. And I see that Maria, on occasion, left the band to help her. Thank you, Maria! And thanks to all the Wisps o’ the Tay for your generosity.
Thank you also to the parents and children for supporting the event despite Storm Boelo and the host of other things you could have been doing. (That said, I’m told it was the most fun and wholesome way to spend a Sunday afternoon, and I entirely agree!)
And, finally, thank you to Mr McLean, who watched benevolently over the ceilidh, represented the contract with the landlord, and suffered the rent to be extracted from our joint account. (A cleric swooped in at the last moment to relieve him of the duty of leading the Prayer to Saint Michael.)
*The last time I blogged a joke like this (2011), Fr. Foley, SJ, himself wrote to complain. I was shocked. It was as if the Glory & Praise hymnal had flown out of the pew rack to bite my nose.
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