There was a certain tentativeness in the way she moved her body to the lively strains of the quick-step dance rhythm. Jane Seymour’s movements suggested a conflict between conventional restrictions and her desire to appear youthful and in sync with the rest of the competition.

Mr. Charlie Gumbs

Each move seemed like a venture into new territory. As I watched what was to be her final appearance on “Dancing with the Stars”, my thoughts flipped back to an occasion in the summer when I was fortunate enough to witness another dance, one that will forever remain in a sacred recess of my mind.

No large audience cheering, only three on-lookers, no melodic band just the cracked but tuneful hum of an old man and a younger woman as they danced to the tune of “The Tennessee Waltz”. It was a moment that begged to be captured and placed in the archives of time, yet I could only stare in wonderment while my camera remained firmly lodged in the bag at my side. My brain refused to give the command. It was as if I could not risk losing one rhythmic move, one sway. My eyes clicked away at the scene, capturing the slide show in one forever memory.

On a recent trip to the land of our birth, my cousins and I went to find Charlie Gumbs, a ninety-seven year old icon on the Anguilla landscape. We had fond memories of the lively old man who in his younger days had provided the sole trucking service to a large portion of the island including the area in which we grew up. Following the directions given by some helpful persons in the neighborhood, we finally spotted him sitting upright on his porch watching the world go by. As we turned into the driveway he stood up and directed my cousin into a favourable parking position. Eagerly we climbed out, and there he stood on the top step, tall and stately with carefully creased felt hat, well pressed pants and shiny brown shoes. If he had known we were coming he could not have been more elegantly attired.

We took turns trying to jog his memory of who we were by mentioning our parents. There was little success until his attention settled on one cousin, who reminded him that his name and her childhood nickname were the same. He looked at her for a moment then burst out: “Miss Charlie!” He hugged her like a long lost daughter, repeatedly exclaiming: “Ah-yer look Miss Charlie!” Content with this breakthrough, we spent a pleasant half hour or so listening to the more recent details of his life, and his interesting recollections of his departed wife’s pamperings. Each day she would lay out his clean working clothes on the bed in the order in which they were to be worn; even his shoes were polished and shining, ready for him. We smiled as he boasted of his utter helplessness in the kitchen. “I’ve never even boiled water,’’ he declared. He had been a man of the road – that was his life. But he had finally reconciled himself to being stripped of his driving privileges by his concerned children, who could not rest easily abroad knowing that he was sitting behind a wheel on the increasingly dangerous streets of Anguilla.

“Ah-yer look Miss Charlie! This is a wonderful day for me,” he mused. Triggered by a vision of him waltzing to the sweet strains of string band music some long time ago, she stood up and reached for his hand. “Let’s dance.” The magic of the moment enthralled me. I was looking at an elderly gentleman, still sprightly and light-footed, eyes closed, a mischievous smile crinkling his face as he relived some hidden faraway memory. His partner, flowing hair and body swaying to the ageless lilting rhythm of “The Tennessee Waltz”, circled in the arms of time. The years fell off him with every turn and sway; I watched the transformation, and was transported with him to that distant past. It was a short dance, but in those few precious moments he had recaptured something vibrant still pulsing in his blood. He had been young again. I now know what it means to be caught up in a time warp. Even though I berated myself afterwards for not having captured the dance on camera, I think the sanctity of the moment was somehow preserved. It was a spontaneous expression of pleasure that awakened an elemental consciousness lying dormant within. There was Charlie dancing with stars in his eyes, and experiencing life in the rhythm of his heart, feet and heart moving as one.

As we finally tore ourselves away from Charlie’s verandah we promised to return for his one hundredth birthday. And if God grants him the privilege of reaching that milestone, and if we too are fortunate enough to be there, I hope he dances with Miss Charlie again. And this time I’ll wear my camera on my arm to capture the greatest star of them all.

Editor’s note: This story was written before the passing of Mr. Gumbs’ wife which was a sad occasion for him.

| Printer-friendly page | Send this article to a friend |

World News