I love to dance even when I’m trapped in a hoopskirt so immense that I could be mistaken for a ruffly blimp. That’s one of the many reasons why Jason and I have happily become repeat performers at the Festival of Trees with our old-school pals.
There were probably about 90 yards of fabric stretched across all these dresses.
The Festival of Trees is a charity event that supports Primary Children’s Hospital. The Old Glory Vintage Dancers have twirled there annually for years. Jason and I have been involved in these performances for the last three years.
Although I’d have fun swaying with a toaster, people do add to the innate pleasures of prancing. We’ve made some great dancing buddies and laughing with them during rehearsals is as enjoyable as the turns of a reel.
Although I make most of my historic attire, I borrowed this elaborate gown from our dance leader.
I’m grateful for all the fine music, lively steps, excellent friends, and enormous dresses in my life.
Jason and I have been attending the Regency Romance Ball for almost as many years as it’s been held in Salt Lake City. So, of course, this February we again proved that any savage can dance.
He’s definitely handsome enough to tempt me.
This year, we Regency revelers convened at the Little America Hotel, a classy venue that added to the general splendor of the night with its stunning chandeliers and elegant furnishings.
No matter how many times I updo my hair Regency style, or have someone else updo it, it always looks different. I did not updo myself this year.
After filling up on asparagus with mixed greens salad, Welsh chicken, parsley potatoes and vegetables, homemade rolls, marzipan squares, trifle, and parsnip and carrot tarts, we danced the night away. Well, more precisely, we ate a considerable amount of food, danced a bit, feasted again, pranced a little more, and then stuffed ourselves further even though our esophagi were brimming. After all that, we settled down our cavorting tummies with hot tea and cocoa before skipping out on the dancefloor once more.
I made this flower arrangement for the registration table.
Jason and I were again among the dance instructors this year so we helped all of the confused gentry sort out Meadow Goose, Gay Gordons, Lady Mary Ramsey, Duke of Kent’s Waltz, Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot, Oslo Waltz, Take a Dance, and Sir Roger DeCoverley Reel. Sometimes chaos abounded but, on several occasions, our lines learned so fast I felt a surge of motherly pride for my step children.
Our dance friends are of every age and background but we enjoy conversing with them immensely.
Speaking of pride, Jason won the Mr. Darcy award for his fine costume. Was it because he wore his haughty disdain about him like a gilded waistcoat? Not really, but he did put on an arrogant act for the contest’s sake. Obviously, that feigned conceit paid off.
I refrained from making a new dress this year so my outfit was a repeat.
I love the Regency Romance Ball and I’m not the only one. Everyone is in good spirits at this event. For the ladies have the acute sensation that they have fallen into one of their favorite novels and the men intensely appreciate that the brownie points piling up will serve them rather well when they want to spend a Sunday watching football with their chaps.
Recently, in an act of great condescension that my ridiculous cousin won’t stop babbling about, the “esteemed” Lady Catherine de Bourgh invited me, Elizabeth Bennet, along with a full table of Churchills and Dashwoods, to her estate at Rosings Park for the weekend. The party was quite tedious really until one of them went and got themselves decapitated in the water closet late Friday evening. Then, I must admit, the discourse became a great deal livelier.
The fineness of the cutlery at Rosings matches the grandeur of the fireplaces, or so my cousin has told me on more than one occasion.
On Saturday, during a four-course dinner, Lady Catherine’s still-headed company attempted to work out who was responsible for Mr. Thorpe’s topless state. (For anything less than four courses wouldn’t be stylish enough for such a scandalous discussion.) Though insipid comments on the exemplary potatoes and silly romantic sentiments abounded, we eventually achieved enough common sense between us to come to a correct conclusion on why and how Mr. Thorpe managed to become considerably shorter.
One learns far too much about some characters after only one weekend in their company.
Some creatures do not improve upon closer acquaintance. Rather, intimate association may only prove them quite murderous.
I received an award for Best Actress and Mr. Collins obtained one for Best Actor. Certainly, he deserves ample recognition for his many efforts to provide the ladies with elegant “unrehearsed” complements but why I should be given an award for simply being myself is beyond me. Still, I suppose it is a small kind of accomplishment.
Recent Comments