Barn Dance

The morning I arrived up north a thick mist lay over the woods. Tree trunks rose ghostlike on either side of the car as I drove slowly down the narrow dirt road. Spring had arrived early this year, and the fog nestled like a warm, damp blanket over the budding trees. By the time I pulled into the clearing at the end of the road, traces of dawn were beginning to appear in the sky. I stepped out of the car, my senses immediately awash in northern Michigan: a racket of birdsong, the smell of swamp and lake water, the feel of gritty sand beneath my feet. Something about this place drew me out of time and into the lazy rhythm of the woods, a luxury that made it easy to forget that this place wasn’t always one of peace and relaxation. It hadn’t been that way at the beginning. 

I glanced behind me at the little log house, still sleeping along with its inhabitants under the starry sky. Deciding to leave the house undisturbed, I turned to walk down the sandy path toward the lake. I crossed the little wooden bridge, the creek bubbling serenely below. In the dawning light I could barely make out the little wooden sign hanging from a post next to the bridge: “Rhoads Lake,” it read in crooked white letters. Up on the hillside off to my right, the ruins of the old barn overlooked a wide, grassy space. The Rhoads family, so the stories went, used to host big, riotous dances in the barn, enraging the local church deacons. Later today this spot would be the site of another dance - one to celebrate my wedding. I smiled and continued down the path, lost in memories and thoughts of the day ahead.

The first sight of the lake always took my breath away. It wasn’t a large lake, by Michigan standards; the boathouse was slightly dilapidated and the dock seemed to be slowly sinking into the sand with each passing year. But the utter peace of undisturbed nature surpassed all that. The surface of the water was perfectly smooth, like a sheet of glass reflecting the early-morning sky. Mist rose off of the water, and through it I could make out the vivid colors of wildflowers beginning to dot the perimeter of the lake. In this tranquil scene, it was almost impossible to imagine the tumultuous beginnings of this place we now call Rhoads Lake: but I had heard the stories, and, in this place where time stood still, could almost catch glimpses of what life was like in that time for my great-grandmother, Florence Rhoads.

The night Florence was born was the coldest anyone could remember, forty degrees below zero. Wind howled over the tree stumps where the forest had been. The land companies had lured the family to this remote spot in northern Michigan with the promise of cheap farmland, a dammed creek to power the mill, and abundant lumber. But when they arrived in the summer of 1906 the loggers had stripped the land, blown out the dam with dynamite, and sent the lumber downstream, leaving nothing but a wasteland behind. By the time Florence was born five years later, her father and brothers had rebuilt the dam, re-planted the forest, and were slowly beginning to eke out a living with their lumber mill.

That frigid January night, Earl, the oldest, was sent out with the horse to battle through thick snow to fetch the doctor in town. They barely made it back in time for the little girl’s appearance in the world. That night was so bitterly cold that the newborn had to be bundled in quilts and laid on the open door of the wood stove just to keep her alive through the night. In the morning, the fire had gone out and snowflakes had drifted in through cracks in the tar paper walls. But Florence, it would soon be evident, was made of hardy stuff, fit to face the challenges of this wild land.

It was spring, and the barn doors were thrown open to the fresh air. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating columns of dust billowing into the air. The barn had lain dormant all winter, but springtime called for a vigorous cleaning and, following that, one of the Rhoads family’s famous barn dances. The deacons and elders in the nearby Mennonite churches heartily disapproved of the Rhoads family. The widowed Mrs. Rhoads and seven siblings flatly refused to attend church - unlike their reserved, unworldly neighbors, they were not Mennonite and liked to say that as such, they knew how to have a good time.

Little did the church leaders know, however, that members of their church were flocking to the Rhoads family’s barn dances. That night the open doors and blazing light inside the barn revealed a throng of people: Mennonite churchgoers, townsfolk from Comins and Fairview, and farmers from all over the county. The dancers wove in and out, up and down in lines along the dance floor, reels and jigs accompanied by whatever fiddles, guitars, or banjos could be rounded up that night. And Florence sang, her clear, high soprano voice sailing merrily over the din.

But that night a surprise was in store. At the height of the dancing, when faces were rosy and flushed, feet were beating out a thunderous rhythm on the barn floor, and Florence’s voice was nearly hoarse from belting bawdy folk songs, a wagon pulled up outside. For a moment, nobody noticed the somber deacon standing in the doorway. Then a hush fell, the fiddle dying away and dancers stumbling to a halt. 

“How dare you,” glowered the deacon. “Dancing like heathens to this ungodly music.” He rounded on Florence. “And you, young lady. After attending our church for years now, I should think you would have better sense.”

Florence turned white but, not one to be cowed, stared defiantly back at the deacon. Her family knew she often went to town on Sundays, but she had conveniently neglected to mention where she had been going.

Her siblings gaped in disbelief. Then, abruptly, her older brother Sheridan burst out laughing. “Florence goes to church,” he cackled, wiping his eyes. The other Rhoads siblings were quick to join; Florence’s brother Oscar tousled her head, much to her chagrin, and her sister Ellen exclaimed “Well, I never!” in amused disbelief. Their laughter was contagious: a few onlookers joined in with nervous giggles, and before long the barn rang with laughter. The deacon looked on, scandalized. From then on, the elders in the Mennonite churches strictly forbade their members from attending the Rhoads family dances… with limited success.

Years later, Florence Rhoads caused yet another scandal in the Mennonite church. The new young pastor, Frank Mitchell, had arrived in town, a bachelor from the big city of Chicago. The church conference simply didn’t know what to do with Frank and his worldly, progressive ideas, so they shipped him off to the remote town of Comins, Michigan. The young women in town fawned over him, but he had eyes only for one, a girl with big brown eyes and an unconquerable spirit who came to church without her family. Florence’s siblings stopped laughing, but they didn’t stop holding dances in the barn. Frank and Florence were married in the church with one of the biggest dances yet held afterward in the barn to celebrate. The rafters rang with the sounds of fiddles and guitars, skipping feet, and Florence’s voice, singing as ever.

Tonight, the barn is quiet, boarded up and sagging into the hillside. Below, the wide expanse of grass is ablaze with miniature torches outlining the makeshift dance floor. Tables groan under the weight of food piled high, lawn chairs dot the yard, and laughter fills the spring evening air. A couple of cousins play the guitar, my sister plays the fiddle, and my mother sings. On the dance floor, I squeeze the hands of my newly official spouse.

“We threw a pretty good party, didn’t we?” He smiles and agrees. We look around at our gathered family members: they’re neighbors and descendants of neighbors, because in an improbable twist of fate, my husband grew up in Fairview, mere miles from this very spot, the son of a Mennonite pastor. I smile to think of my great-grandmother Florence and how she and her siblings would have laughed at the way the generations circle around.

Our wedding dance continues late into the night. Bats begin to dart out from the walls of the old bunkhouse and flit off into the sky. Locusts hum in the woods surrounding our clearing. A sweet, damp smell drifts off the lake, unchanged for a hundred years. In the cool evening air, I can almost imagine a clear, high voice floating on the breeze.