the monday club

Long ago I composed a song about my childhood life at The Monday Club in my hometown. This was the first verse:

“When we were young and our souls were young, and we didn’t know what we didn’t know. We spent our nights at The Monday Club in each other’s arms, on the soft pine floor.” Corny, and hopefully a smidge of romance.

I have a hazy memory of the inside of the place, which wasn’t very big. Saturday nights, only Saturday nights. I knew a few dances, like get out on the floor dances. The twist, the jerk, could of done the stroll if I studied at math a little more. I think I was quietly wild enough for an okay watusi. But, all these more than 60 years later, I wished I’d gone all in with dancing. I would have learned the mashed potato, even the pony (like Bony Maronie). And this, perhaps my all-time favorite line in this musical life of mine – “Wish I could shimmy like my sister Kate.” The shimmy.

And slow dancing, oh, slow dancing. Didn’t always get a “Yes,” wasn’t always picked, but still, it was the start of a love affair. With slow dancing. I’m hoping I was with one someone or another, “in each other’s arms,” with this one:

Yes. Girl groups, the Monday Club, me and all of us.