It was the summer of 1958. I was four years old at the time. My brother, Tom, was eight, my sister, Cathy, was seven, and my younger sister, Peggy, would celebrate her first birthday a few months later. Our parents took us on a family vacation to Monte Rio, California, along the Russian River. We stayed at a place called Sunny Side Court, which was located just off Highway 116. For the purposes of this article, you may refer to the photos above. Sunny Side Court was small. We had a suite at the top of the stairs.

I have vague recollections of spending our days at the beach on the river. It was different from Ocean Beach near our home in The City. Rather than sand, the beach was covered with rocks. A small portion of the river was roped off for supervised swimming — or, in my case, just playing in the water. I also recall a slide which allowed kids and adults to climb the ladder and slide down into the river. I don’t think I ever tried it.

Looking to the right down the beach, the Bohemian Highway crosses over the river at that point on the Monte Rio Bridge. (As you might imagine, Google Maps was quite helpful in putting my thoughts together for this post.) On the other side of the bridge, there was a small miniature golf course. And, for some reason, I vaguely recall that another family we knew from The City was renting a home adjacent to the mini golf venue, though I do not know who that might have been.

Most of the memories I have of our Russian River vacation are a bit sketchy, but there is one experience I remember vividly. Keep in mind that it’s been almost 65 years since this happened. This event, apparently, was a bit traumatic for me.

One evening, Tom, Cathy, and I went to a dance located in what is now the Russian River Hall. I’m guessing that one of my parents walked us over to the hall, which was just a half-block from our room at Sunny Side Court. (Again, see photo above.) There were a fair number of people of all ages at this dance. My parents had invited guests to our rental for the evening, so I assume we were left under the supervision of some other adult. I seem to recall seeing Tom and Cathy having a great time, but I didn’t want to be there. I most certainly didn’t want to dance.

After sitting on the side for awhile, I was approached by a woman I did not know. She asked me to dance with her daughter. I declined. I’m not sure how quickly it escalated, but she eventually told me, in no uncertain terms, that I had to dance with her daughter. I refused. She was furious. At that point, despite my age, I walked out of the hall — alone — and down the road to Sunny Side Court. After climbing the steps, I sat on a chair outside the front door crying, knowing that my parents had company and not wanting to ruin their night. Before too long, my Dad, who must have heard my whimpering, came out and found me. He picked me up and carried me through the living room and into the bedroom, my head buried in his shoulder. I was so embarrassed.

That’s it. That’s the memory. I cannot say for certain, but I’m pretty sure that experience is the reason I have never liked dancing. Poor Kathy has put up with me, and this dancing phobia, for almost forty years. I used to be willing to dance after three beers, but now I rarely drink. Therefore, I rarely dance. Perhaps some day, I will enlist the help of a therapist to help me work through this issue.