I get up each morning, stumble to the bathroom, don my exercise clothes, and head downstairs to begin the day; the first interlude of a day-long dance. Mom and I negotiate her pills, coffee and toast, and support socks and then sidestep my to-do list around her needs and preferences for the day. A call from the school changes the steps to include another dancer and when Don comes home the dance changes again. Sometimes it is a slow, serious sway of memorized steps that is sleepy or listless, comforting or sad, and at other times it's an impromptu jig that energizes, conspires, or exudes laughter. Lately it has gone from random, unfamiliar movements to a frail ballet that the dancers dread. Yet, it is our dance and we struggle to keep time, do our best, and laugh along the way. Like many dances, it is a reflection of the varied tunes of life. Settle in for Lordi Jinak's version of the origin of Irish dancing. It's good to laugh at ourselves now and again.
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