Giving It a Whirl : Seniors Renew Friendships, Relive Past at Dances

LONG BEACH —  Couples glided and twirled around the Long Beach Senior Center’s ballroom. Though it was just past 1 on a Thursday afternoon, an odd time for nostalgia, the music was dreamy and irresistible. Vocalist Joanie Jay, backed by a band that called itself the Over the Hill Gang, was singing, “Could I have this dance for the rest of my life ?”

When the song ended, Jay, who was on a small stage, said into the microphone, “Give yourself a hand and don’t sit down; here’s another waltz.”

There were about 70 senior citizens--more women than men--in the large, pillared room. Each had paid $2 to get into the weekly dance at the 13-year-old center, which is at 1150 E. 4th St. (On Saturday, also a dance night, the admission is $3.)

“These dances allow them to get together with friends they wouldn’t see unless they came here,” said Nick Apodaca, the center’s director. “The relationships formed here are so meaningful to them.”

Apodaca said dancing is one of many activities offered by the center, which provides seniors “a chance to get out of their homes and, instead of just watching television, to continue on with their lives.”

“Tenderly” was the band’s next number, but a woman in a striped dress took a seat at the end of the wooden floor, nonetheless. “I had three dances in a row with one guy,” Rena Ippolito said. “I got tired and thought I’d sit down.”

Ippolito has silver-tinted hair; as did most of the women at the dance, she looked as if she had come straight from the beauty shop.

She had been dancing with a friend, John Palermo, but Palermo, 75, was now chatting with another woman. “He’s getting chummy,” said Ippolito, who did not sit for long. Another man soon came up to her and said, “Come on.” They got up to do a cha-cha.

The most skilled--and tricky--of the dancers were Juanita White, 63, and her boyfriend, Fred Hurban, 59. They regularly attend clubs that play swing music and, from time to time, enter dance contests.

White’s green-and-black blouse and black skirt were made of a sheer material, and her head was a mass of blond curls. Her fresh lipstick was a shade she described as “pink vibrations.”

“We just came to practice some new steps,” said White, breathing hard from jitterbugging. “This is a very fast dance floor, not sticky at all.”

Hurban was a bit less glamorous-looking, in a blue shirt and gray slacks, but was just as energetic.

To a jazzy version of “Kansas City,” this couple did the “St. Louis shag,” which involved a lot of kicking and spinning. Sweat dripped from Hurban’s forehead--”I’m 30 pounds overweight,” he moaned--and White’s dress flipped up to her thighs.

Many of the women were widows looking for a few hours of male companionship, but nothing too serious. “I’ve been by myself since 1963, and have loved every minute of it,” said Cecelia Zacour of Long Beach. “I’ve got boyfriends, but I’m freeeee .”

Nearby, Stuart Shakstad, who was with his wife, asked an old friend to dance. “I haven’t seen you since I don’t know when,” he said. “Well, I haven’t been around since I don’t know when,” a tiny woman named Joan LeBlanc answered. “My dance partner passed away. He was 92 and a heavenly dancer.”

But she did not lack for partners last Thursday. “I’m from England, we know how to dance,” she said. When asked her age, her eyes, beneath glasses, widened in mock anguish. “How am I going to get a boyfriend,” she said, “if you put my age down?”

As the band switched to “Satin Doll,” LeBlanc changed her own tune. “If I wanted a prospect,” she said, holding up her left hand, “I wouldn’t wear my wedding ring.”

Barbara Atkins, 81, who wore a red dress and white high heels, was sitting one out. “I just did two polkas,” she said.

Atkins lives in Long Beach, having moved from Los Angeles. “I lived on Wilshire,” she said. “Thank God I got away from all that noise.”

She emphasized that she wasn’t looking for anything beyond the next dance. “I don’t ever want to get married again,” she said. “But I wouldn’t mind having a friend I could trust. We have a pretty nice group of guys here, but some of them sort of act like they’re afraid to ask me to dance. I don’t know why. I used to be a pretty good dancer.”

About midway through the afternoon, the band took a break, and all the dancers moved to an adjoining room for lemonade and cake.

Everyone seemed happy except Louella Erickson, who had been told by a volunteer that her white shorts weren’t appropriate for a dress-up dance. “They shouldn’t tell us what to wear, as long as we’re comfortable,” said Erickson. “That’s a lot of nerve. I intend to speak to the manager.”

Erickson, who comes to the center each day for lunch, was eager to talk about one of her grandest moments. “I was a dental assistant to Dr. George Hollenbeck in Los Angeles,” she said, adding proudly, “I put in a porcelain jacket and a porcelain inlay for Ginger Rogers.”

With this memory, her disposition turned sunny, and she was ready to dance again.

Barbara Atkins sat at a table with a new friend she had found--Boyd Flathers, a quiet man whose trade had been carpentry.

“I’m pretty rusty,” Flathers said. “I haven’t danced for 40 years. My wife died in May. She had cancer of the pancreas. No cure for that.”

“I told him that dancing would be a great hobby,” Atkins said. “And besides, we need men .”

“You can’t sit in the house,” Flathers agreed.

Atkins was trying to tell him that dancing keeps a person young. “I used to dance in Hemet with a man who was 90 years old--Pop, we called him. He said, ‘Do you swing?’ and we started swinging. That was five years ago.”

Flathers listened and said, “I’ll be 80 in December.”

“I’m a young 80,” Atkins said.

“I’m an old 80,” the man replied.

Undaunted, she led him back to the floor. He took her firmly in his arms and, with no trace of rust, danced to “Tangerine,” which was popular long ago when their lives had just begun to ripen.

When they finished, he joked, “Look at her foot, where I stepped on it.”

The band, its trumpets and saxaphones blaring, switched to “Up a Lazy River,” which didn’t please Flathers. “I’m not too fond of that music,” he said. “Too much jive stuff. No polkas for me.”

As 3:30 neared, the number of dancers dwindled, but those who remained still smiled--at their partners and at the memories the old tunes had to evoke.

Atkins suddenly disappeared, and Flathers was left sitting by himself, too shy, he conceded, to ask anyone else to dance.

“Time to go,” he said, and he left, too.

The new friends had already gone their separate ways when the band, for the last dance, played, “Walkin’ My Baby Back Home.”