Last night I dreamed I danced on my Norwegian side.
I’m ashamed to say, I’ve no idea what authentic Norwegian dance is like,
but I knew American Norwegians in Wisconsin, and they all danced the polka on Friday nights,
the same nights they would have big fish-fry celebration get-togethers
in the dark rolling dairy land countryside, no streetlights out there, but stars
to cast shadowed dark cows and dark stalking silos standing against the moon.
52 weeks a year, even in the dead of winter, that bouncing accordion music
rolling out of crowded barns, bursting with the life of people stacked to the rafters,
the double doors booming laughter and the smell of beer and deep boiling oil.
Polka and fresh caught trout, with five kinds of potato salad, green canned fruit salad Jello molds,
festive checkered knee-length dresses, cowboy shirts, bolo string ties, and pointed leather boots.
All those farmers kicking up their heels in celebration of life against midnight.
This was the Norway I knew back when in Wisconsin, and the way
I danced last night in dreams of my Norwegian side.
* * * * *
Aloha #WriterSaturday. Today’s #WritingPrompt is
Use it to inspire a piece of writing, and then post that piece somewhere I can see it. I would love to read what you wrote.