A Saturday night of dancing and paying tribute

Oh, he was cute. Big brown eyes, dimples on either side of the mouth, a winning smile. How could I resist?

Which is how I wound up on the dance floor—at his invitation—on this particular Saturday night. Truth be told, he wasn’t much of a dancer. Then again, what would you expect from a 5 year old?

The occasion was a hangar dance at the Show Low Regional Airport to honor the military and its veterans, some harkening back to World War II.

More than 300 attended, dancing to the sweet sounds of the Santan Swing Band out of Phoenix. And boy, could this crowd dance, especially one couple, she decked out in a sailor cap and suit, cut off at midriff. Samba, foxtrot, cha-cha-cha, they did it all. And yes, they dipped.

Most of the folks were over 50, a few using canes. We were lucky enough, however, to wind up sitting next to a young family: mom, dad, and two sons, ages 9 and 5.

Also with them were the boys’ grandmother and grandfather. Though he never spoke of it, the grandfather, we later learned during a recognition ceremony, was an Army veteran and Purple Heart recipient.

But he was not the reason his family was here this night. It was his 9-year-old grandson. “He has loved the military since he was 3 years old,” explained the boy’s mother, her long blond hair swirled into a ‘40s-era do. “He knows every airplane. He’s the one who insisted we come. And he loves the music.” Sure enough, once the band struck up, he was on the dance floor with his mother, doing a quite passable jitterbug.

Before that, he had quietly stood in line, waiting to shake hands with clearly the most decorated man there in uniform, his chest glittering with medals and ribbons. When the boy finally got to meet the man, he wore a look on his face you usually only see on teens when they meet their idols.

Just before dinner, when the flag was unfurled and “The Star-Spangled Banner” was about to begin, the boy removed his newsboy-style cap, along with that of his younger brother.

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A medley of tunes was also sung for each of the branches of the military, with veterans asked to stand when their particular song was sung. I’d say at least half the room stood up for one song or another, including a few women.

Recognition was also given to those who had lost a relative while serving, as well as those still going through the agony of loved ones missing in action.

Still, all in all, it was a festive night, with pink clouds billowing in the darkening western sky, past the hangar’s cavernous opening. Outside rested a C-47, which, we were told, dropped paratroopers into Italy in 1943. Inside, raffle tickets were sold for a next-morning ride in the lumbering beast.

The band played on for more than an hour before finally taking a break. Many in the crowd decided it was time to leave, including one elderly woman, Army cap on head, cane in hand, making her way down the aisle.

“Thank you for your service,” my friend told her.

“Oh, honey,” she replied. “All I did was push papers around.”

They also served who typed.

Not long after, we, too, headed for home, stars twinkling above us in the cool night air.

As for my dance partner, cute as he was, he still has a way to go when it comes to flattering the ladies. In the middle of our dance, he solemnly informed me: “My mom said if I asked you to dance, she’d give me a dollar.”