Silver Dollar City

   In Branson, Missouri there's a theme park called Silver Dollar City.  Its logo is of a setting sun behind an axe driven into a log.  Silver Dollar City stands apart from every other theme park in the world.  The whole city is built with the theme of the Ozarks, particularly of the pioneer days.  Everything about this city exudes charm and cheerful reminiscence of days long gone.  

   Silver Dollar City is one of my favorite places in all the world.  Nowhere else have I experienced Nature and Society so in harmony.  It is a treat to be there, whatever time of year you choose to come.  

   Today I'm going to take you there.

   The experience begins long before you ever get close to Branson.  It begins the moment you open your eyes in the dark hours of the early morning.  The park opens in the mid to late morning, so it's best to get an early start.  Maybe pack a lunch for the road.  Oh, and if you're going with me, you'll want to bring along a pillow and a blanket.  Just trust me on this.  I'll explain later. 

   The drive starts off as an interstate cruise.  But at some point, you turn onto a different highway, and begin a pretty steady climb through Rural USA; you pass through small towns where time doesn't seem to flow at quite the usual rate.  Old churches, old schools, flea markets and quaint houses nestled seamlessly into the hills and dells of Smalltown, USA.  

   In between and past the towns, the road grows slim and meandering.  You are entering the Ozark country, and there's a feeling in the air of leaving your old life behind.  The road threads its way through rolling hills and pastures with horses and cows sedately eating their breakfast in the cool, still morning.  By this time the sun is rising, and you can see mist hovering in the lower valleys and above the rivers and creeks.  In the dewy freshness of the morning, Time seems to be losing his merciless, tyrannical grip upon your soul.  Sometimes I even get the feeling that I am traveling through time.  Into the past?  The future?  Who can say?  Somewhere better, that's all I know.  Somewhere beautiful and strange; somewhere I belong.  That drive, seen in the gold of a sunrise and the silver of the mist, is a small eternity that lives in the soul long after the destination has been reached.  

   After a while, the scenery becomes wilder.  Rock formations begin to appear on either side of the road.  The hills become rock cliffs, perpendicular and craggy.  Tiny waterfalls come bounding out of hidden channels, spilling themselves in their abandon to reach the moss and climbing greenery on the rock.  

   Finally, Branson itself draws near.  Branson, that quirky land-locked cluster of shows, oddities and entertainments.  And Silver Dollar City, the best of them all.  

   Once you park, you must wait for a trolley (or begin a very long walk uphill) to take you to the entrance.  It's the first ride of the day, and a pleasant one.  The breeze blowing your hair, the chatter of cheerful families, and the instructions blared at you through old speakers by a Santa-Claus type old man in the very back.  

   You are ushered to the entrance with an "All Ashore," command, and there you are, walking toward an unassuming door in a stone wall.  They aren't kidding when the signs say, "You have a great past ahead of you!"  

   I said that Nature and Society live in harmony in Silver Dollar City, and that's because unlike most amusement parks, there are trees galore.  Trees and flower beds with low stone walls.  The paths are of asphalt, thus clear and easy to traverse, but on every border there are thick woods and usually shrubbery and climbing plants allowed to grow alongside them.  In short, they have not conquered or subdued Nature, but rather have created a lovely lagoon where Nature and Society may coexist in close proximity.  There are many places to sit down everywhere you look.  In the summertime the trees provide shade.  In the wintertime, they break the icy wind.  Sometimes you can smell the woods, especially in the Autumn.  

   There are buildings everywhere, but they are built in old styles and with purposefully faded colors.  All employees are dressed in period costumes of the 1800s, and all of them are friendly and helpful.  

  As you wander the streets of Silver Dollar City, you will see shops of every kind in every direction.  You will smell home-cooking from the restaurants!  Skillet meals, potato twists, and fried chicken as well as the traditional pizza, nachos, funnel cakes, loaded fries, and grilled sandwiches.  One of my favorites is a bowl of Dippin' Dots ice cream.  There are stands everywhere serving drinks.  Frozen lemonade in the summer, and hot chocolate and wassail during the Christmas season.  

   You can see shows, too.  They have performers of all sorts at Silver Dollar City, ranging from full-scale theater productions, to musicians performing on the streets.  You can also stop to watch a blacksmith, a leather worker, a potter, an artist, or even a glass-blower in an indoor smithy!  All of this punctuated by the wailing whistle of the Silver Dollar City train as it chugs by.  

   My parents took us to Silver Dollar City many times while we were growing up.  The whole place is so steeped in memories that I find it difficult to describe the place in a coherent, linear way.  

   We used to go in the summer, and we would get drenched on the American Plunge or the Lost River of the Ozarks ride (which sadly they have demolished this year; hopefully they'll build another water ride on its site.)  We'd walk around for the next few hours dripping until the sun and wind would dry us off.  It was part of the experience, and hey, at least you were cool for quite a while!  

   Some rides, like "Fire in the Hole," and "Thunderation," have been around for decades.  They're part of the old Silver Dollar City, and I find that even though I enjoy other rides more, I like their "tried and true," charm.  

   All of the roller coasters at Silver Dollar City have a theme to them.  The Great American Plunge is the theme of those crazies (they do exist, sadly!) who bundle themselves into barrels and let themselves float downstream and over waterfalls.  The posters say things amounting to, "Are you daredevil enough to brave the Great American Plunge?" 

   "Fire in the Hole," is an indoor roller coaster with a fireman's theme; each room shows a scene from old towns in the Ozarks, where notorious gangs like the Baldknobbers used to set fire to buildings, steal goods and livestock from the citizens, and the brave firemen who would rescue people from the burning buildings and homes.   

   My family is, without doubt, the most annoying family to ride with for "Fire In the Hole."  It's a tradition that my dad started.  When I and my sisters were younger, we were terrified of the dark and the hooded figures of the Baldknobbers.  My dad had the brilliant idea of sitting next to us on the train and saying things like, "It's daaaaaaaark..!" in a spooky voice.  Or yelling out obvious facts like, "The bridge is on fire!!"  "Oh, nooo, it's the BAAALLDDKNOBBERSS!" or, "WATCH OUT, it's the MOOON!!"  

   We admittedly hated it for a long time, but somewhere along the way it turned into reacting to everything with screams or yelling advice to the stationary characters, clapping along to the cheerful bluegrass music playing for one stretch in the dark, and *pretending* to be scared.  Perhaps it was a coping mechanism we used when we tried to coax the younger girls to ride it with us until we weren't scared anymore.  And of course, for the last drop we all yell, "FIIRE IIIN THE HOOOOLE!" 

   The other riders can't see who we are.  I can practically smell their bewilderment and embarrassment.  We revel in it.  Hey-oh!  No regrets.  It's a beloved family tradition.  

   I never have figured out what exactly the theme is for the newer, but no less beloved ride, "Wildfire."  I can't tell if it's supposed to be a lab for controlling the weather or plans for a flying machine or some strange combination of the two.  Then there's the "Tom and Huck River Adventure," (wonder who that's named after!) where you sit in a boat and shoot water cannons at riders on other boats.  I've only ridden that one once, sadly.  Oh, and there's the Giant Barn Swing, one of my personal favorites.  I especially love to ride it in the dark at Christmastime.  When you're shot into the air with your toes dangling over your head, you can look *up* and see Silver Dollar City all lit up below you in the thousands of Christmas Lights.  That is not an experience to be missed.  

   There's the Powderkeg roller coaster, which I frankly do not care for all that much.  I can do it, you know.  I just don't like the crazy acceleration at the beginning.  

   There's the new "Time Traveler" ride, which is really neat.  It's a ride that spins, but it's a *controlled* spin, not like the crazy stuff you see at Six Flags parks.  The theme for that ride is, obviously, an inventor (and his daughter) who invite you to join them in a "time-traveling experiment."  It's actually a very fun ride, and because it spins, it's really a different experience each time you ride.  The weightlessness you feel in the soar and rush make it a truly unique experience.

   But my favorite is "Outlaw Run."  It's a huge wooden coaster, and the theme is of a stagecoach attempting to outrun the outlaws wanting to hold it up.  No spoilers for this one except for what the female voice tells you each time you buckle up.  "It's gonna be a wild ride!"  

   I do love the Wild West music they play as you wait in line, and the Aaron Copeland-esque fanfare they send you off with, along with the sound of a whip cracking, and horses neighing.  "That was a little too close for comfort," you hear the old man's voice say as the ride slows to a stop.  "But here at Silver Dollar City, the good guys always win."  

   Autumn is probably my favorite time to be in Silver Dollar City.  There's the Harvest festival, the pumpkins everywhere, the hot cider and cocoa.  Sometimes the water rides are still open in September.  Also, that's when most people are back in school, so it isn't as crowded, and you have shorter wait time for everything.  

   And then there's Christmas.  The shows are heartwarming and touch on the true reason for the season.  During most of the year, they play Bluegrass music throughout the park, but at Christmas, they play a lot of Mannheim Steamroller Christmas albums, classics like the Carpenters and Michael Buble, and sometimes even symphonic arrangements of the familiar carols.  It infuses the atmosphere with rich warmth and old magic.  There's a giant Christmas tree that gives a light show, beginning when the sun goes down, and playing different songs at fifteen minute intervals.  At Christmas, there are a lot of attractions that sound more exciting, but the light show is actually the most exciting.  

   Silver Dollar City is, as I said, steeped in memories of my family and friends.  I've been there in the euphoria of child-like glee and the glow of its innocence.  I've experienced it in loneliness, even when, (or perhaps especially) when in a crowd.  I've felt myself lost there--emotionally set adrift in a sea of existential angst.  I've experienced it in heartbreak, grief, and tears.  And there have been times when I've come back in triumph, free at last from burdens I had long carried.  Every time I visit, no matter where I am in my life, some of my childhood comes back to me.  When I am walking the streets of Silver Dollar City I am ageless and capable of anything.  

   Silver Dollar City exudes joy and wonder.  Freedom and order, Nature and Society, new beginnings and old memories side by side.  Families and Friends, Neighbors in the faces of the crowds.  Nostalgia and whispers of promises yet to be fulfilled.  Youth and Age, Laughter and Solemnity together in a wondrous dance.  Piercing Joy, profound sadness, and the deep certainty underneath it that one day all will be well.  

   I am always reluctant to leave, and I get the sense that the City feels sad to see me go.  The blow is softened by the, not one, but two lovely gift shops you must walk through.  I love the last-minute shopping on my way out.  The trolley ride back to your car is peaceful.  At least I have always found it so. 

   Once you're out of Branson, there's one more section to the trip.  One that most people don't think too much about.  The road back.  That drive is incredible in the light of the rising sun, but I like it under the moon just as well.  

   I love to drive.  While most people are zonked out and resting, I'm wide awake, navigating the winding roads in the velvety darkness of the country night.  Somehow the way back is always facing the moon.  She hovers in the sky just over the road ahead.  She's an old friend of mine.  We hold long conversations without saying a word.  I'm thankful that most people sleep on the way home, because it gives me time to process the day, to store away memories, and to sort of organize it in my mind.  I have time to think over what I liked, what I disliked, what I needed more of, what I can do better next time...and of course reliving the best moments.  My mind can wander in that dreamy state of lunacy that somehow always gives me clarity.  

   I love to make playlists for myself, and I have a few for road trips.  I can put them on and sing softly, if I like.  I'm integrating yet more memories into the songs.  Building them into my consciousness, mind, and personality.  Into my past, present, and future.  

   My mother loves to drive, too.  She liked driving back from Branson when our family would go for the day.  I suppose I get it from her.  I learned the hard way as a kid that my Mother needs cool air circulating in the car to stay awake when she drives late at night.  One or two miserable experiences where I couldn't keep warm and couldn't sleep at the tail end of a long tiring day taught me to always bring socks, a jacket, a pillow, a blanket, etc./all of the above for the road back!  So I crank up the air to stay alert.  I layer up and brace myself against the cold.  I think of it as a challenge to up my driving skills. 

   When I reach the bridge over the last river, I can see the radio towers far away on my right, their little red lights twinkling and dancing and waving across to me to welcome me.  That's when I know I'm almost home.  It makes me think of one of Tolkien's poems: 

   "Then world behind and home ahead,
   We'll wander back to home and bed.
   Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,
   Away shall fade!  Away shall fade!  
   Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,
   And then to bed!  And then to bed!"  


   See you soon, Silver Dollar City.   


~Cadenza   

A Defense for Dance

   I have a theory that every little girl is born with an innate desire to dance.  

   I suppose I am constrained to modify that.  There are exceptions, I'm sure.  It's possible that there are some women who do not feel any desire to dance, nor can remember a time when they did.  

   Certainly plenty of women can, and do, claim that.  And what do I know?  I don't have any studies I can cite or scientific data to show.  I have done no research.  I could easily be wrong about this.  That's why I called it a theory.

   I have a sense that I am treading on very touchy ground here.  I've noticed a lot of women are very defensive about this issue.  Most of the women I observe would disagree with my conclusions.  Yet I find something fishy about the immediate defensiveness of these ladies.  If it were like any other hobby, say, knitting or (for another extreme) hunting, women tend to be pretty chill about it.  "Yeah, that's not really my thing," they might say with a laugh.  Perhaps toss in a joke or two.  It's no big deal, and no one pretends that it is or isn't, except in playfulness (or immaturity.)  

   But dance...there's something about it.  There's a certain polarization when it comes to dance.  Some folks make no secret of how much they love to dance.  But there are just as many if not more people who do.  There's this embarrassment in people's response to the subject.  Either they get uncomfortable and change the subject quickly, or (and this is particularly true of women) they adopt this sheepish wistfulness, as if that desire ought to be treated with guilt or ridicule.  

   "I only dance when I'm really drunk!" 

   "I don't really *dance* dance, I just kind of wiggle..."

   "Oh, you do NOT want to see me dance!"

   "Oh, no...I'm not a dancer...I never learned..." 


   There are all kinds of reasons people can feel that way.  For a lot of older women, they used to dance back in their shall we say, former lives, and have tried to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their past.  Also I think many women feel intimidated by the dancing they see broadcast before them constantly.  They can't move like those people in the music videos.  Or the television shows, etc.  Those people make it look so effortless, and they feel clumsy by comparison.  (But of course these ladies are not taking into account the years of practice that those seemingly perfect dancers have put in.)  

   Like I said before, I can't make a scientific argument about this.  I'm just going to state my observations.  The anecdotal evidence, I guess you could say.  

   I see that most (grown) women are embarrassed by the idea of dancing.  Many teenage girls are too shy to try it.  And yet there are many who are wistful; they'll sometimes let it slip that they wish they could before they recover themselves with a joke and a laugh.

   Even in the defensive types, there's a certain ferocity about their disdain for dancing that intrigues me.  If they really didn't care, they'd just shrug it off.  Their immediate defensiveness indicates that they are suppressing that desire within them.  Perhaps they are ashamed of it, or the idea carries a certain amount of baggage that they would rather not address.  It seems to me that a lot of women these days aren't being honest about it.  Which I suppose is easy to get away with.  There doesn't seem to be much between "club" dancing and the formal setting of a ballroom or wedding.  

   And yet, look at little girls.  Most of them from the instant they can toddle about instinctively bob and sway and twirl to music.  They do it naturally, spontaneously.  Haven't you ever seen a little girl twirling her skirt, especially if it sparkles?  There's this incandescent light in her face, her eyes just glow.  She is a picture of innocence, a little girl radiant in her beauty, in her femininity.  There's a time when a little girl dances without caring if people are watching or not.  And there is usually a time, however short, when she wants people to watch her, wants to be seen and delighted in.  Especially by her father.  She wants to be daddy's princess.  

   Somewhere between childhood and maturity, that desire to dance gets muddled, and often completely lost.  It's a sad loss.  I suspect that it's more important than most people realize, or care to admit.  It seems to be tied inextricably to that inevitable Wound that comes for every human who lives in this fallen world with its fallen people.  But that is another discussion that others have written about in detail. (i.e. "Captivating," by John and Staci Eldredge, and "Wild At Heart," by John Eldredge.)  

    I'll be the first to admit, I have not studied ballet, jazz, or tap.  So you could make the argument that I am not a "real," dancer.  But I have always been a dancer in that, when I was happiest, I danced to express my emotions.  Or else I was dying to, inside.  Or I could hardly contain myself until I was alone to do so.  I have always been aware of how innately I move to a strong rhythm in a song, whether by a discreet tap of my foot or a bob of my head.  I always fail those "Try Not To Dance," challenges.  It's torture until my body betrays me and involuntarily responds to a surging chorus or a drop of a beat.

   The first time someone ever asked me to dance was after a group lesson of ballroom dancing.  This man old enough to be my grandfather with slicked-back hair walked right up to me holding out his hands with a kind smile on his face.  I remember being nervous, but also curious and rather pleased.  I knew that I'd always longed to be asked to dance.  But I was scared too, no doubt about it.  I was so new to it.  

   He walked up to my table and asked me if I wanted to dance this song with him.  He held out his hand.  I had to place my hand in his to accept.  I don't hold hands with men, certainly not strangers.  And this man was a stranger to me.  But in this room, different rules applied.  Here it didn't mean what it meant out there.  It was a formal invitation.  I looked up at his face.  I couldn't tell how old he was, but there was an unaffected kindness in his smile that made me want to smile back.  I knew he was a good dancer.  So I placed my hand in his, accepted with a smile, and stood up.  

   He led me out onto the floor.  When I told him I didn't know how this step went, he immediately began to demonstrate.  After a few tries, he pulled me toward him with his right hand, offering me his left.  The next thing I knew, I was standing with his right hand firmly placed on my shoulderblade, my left arm draped over his right.  I was standing in his personal space.  I felt uncomfortable.  But he led, and I followed.  We were gliding in a simple step.  If I focused hard, I could remember which way to move my next foot.  When I wasn't sure, he directed me, I couldn't tell how.  

   By the middle of the song, I began to smile a little, to myself.  My feet were falling into the rhythm of the song's beat.  We were in sync.  This wasn't so bad.  He was so sure of himself, so completely in his element, that it didn't feel awkward or threatening anymore.  His arms were a firm framework.  His hands stayed steady and still.  We were standing quite close to each other, but it was respectful.  There were certain rules and boundaries, and they were both understood and practiced.  

   When the song ended, he thanked me and escorted me back to my seat.  


   Once I had a taste of ballroom dancing, I wanted more.  At first I had to coax myself to go, but once I was there, I was glad I had come.  There were so many different dances!  The Foxtrot, Rumba, Bolero, Salsa, Cha-Cha, Swing, the bold Tango, the Waltz, and my personal favorite, the Viennese Waltz.  That's the fast kind of waltz that you see in movies, where the dancers whirl, skimming the outer reaches of the ballroom's edge. When I got home, I scribbled down the name of every dance I could remember, and put it where I could see it.  When I glanced at the list, I tried to remember the basic step for each.  Some were easy to remember, others I continually confused with another.  But once I knew one of them, I practiced it in my room.  As the weeks passed, I was foxtrotting across the halls, waltzing in the kitchen, and cha-cha-ing back and forth in my room.  

   I started recognizing dance patterns in songs I heard.  The DJs at the ballroom played all sorts of music.  They spanned anywhere between Sinatra-era swing to hit songs played over the radio.  They also played world music, songs from other decades, instrumental pieces, and sometimes haunting scores from movies.  

   I had to work at it, but once I got the basic steps differentiated from each other, it got easier and easier to fall into the rhythm of a song I was hearing.  When I went back, I could see how much I had improved.  Some people began to teach me new steps to build on top of the basic.  The group lessons were helpful in that, too.   

   I began to see a strange change in myself.  As I continued to go, confidence was building in me.  As I began to learn and abide by the rules of the Ballroom and of the Dance, I found I was no longer afraid to be right up in people's personal space.  I began to even be able to make eye-contact and converse cordially as I danced.  I was losing my fear.  

   What's more, I began to be more physiologically aware.  I became more coordinated, more graceful, more light on my feet.  My feet didn't get tangled up as much.  My reflexes improved.  I learned to keep my knees bent for fluidity in my movements and to keep my center of gravity low.  I learned control.  It was like I was acquainting myself with my body in ways I'd never known before.  I was inhabiting my body in a new way.  And naturally, my muscles strengthened from the new exercise.  It was good all around for me. 

   Not all dancers are the same, of course.  Some just bounce as they walk in the proper rhythm.  Some are--not as young as they once were--and could not lead with strength or fluidity anymore.  Some were far more interested in holding a conversation than the actual dance.  

   The young boys were stiff and awkward, and obviously scared.  I was always kind, and tried to be reassuring.  But most of them stuck to their friend group and wouldn't ask me.  

   There were the men who liked to dance, but did not lead.  They just sort of swung you about and expected you to know what to do.  Or who twirled relentlessly or who mixed up different dances with no discernible pattern.  And there were those poor fools who pretended they knew what they were doing when they clearly didn't; who corrected you for not following them, even when you couldn't have known what they wanted you to do. 

   There was a couple who came frequently.  They were stunning when they danced together.  Long practice and well-practiced romance and friendship made them a delight to watch.  Once I had the luck to dance with this gentleman in a Foxtrot mixer.  I could tell from his stance just how professional he was.  The song was a cover of "Singin' in the Rain," and this man bore a lovely resemblance to Gene Kelley.  His smile had the same melting quality, and I was delighted.  Once, when I accidentally miscalculated and stepped on his toe, he apologized for not leading the step well enough.  He told me when a lady made a mistake it was the man's fault.  

    There was the man there who walked like a king, and led with the skill of an instructor.  His ability to lead was astonishing.  He could whirl me into steps I'd never done before and whirl me right back to normal again before I knew what had happened.  His smile was kind and joyous.  He told me it was the man's job to show off the lady, and he did.  When he danced with me, I felt as graceful as a bird.   

   And then there was the silent, solemn one who taught me many, many steps.  He was a patient teacher.  He was strong, but graceful; he reminded me of some great cat with padded paws.  When he invited me to a dance, he took me on a journey.  

   There's something about the Art of dancing that reflects deep, deep realities.  

   Marriage is like a dance.  Someone has to lead, and someone has to follow.  Leading takes sacrifice and responsibility.  Following takes as much strength as leading, only of a different kind.  And just as when a couple dances, everyone's eyes are fixed on the lady, so everyone is entranced with the Feminine's grace and poise as she submits, yes,---yet transcends that submission with joy and love.  It's give and take, it's lead and be led, the roles change continually.  It's a game, a riot, it's spontaneity wedded to teamwork.  It takes absolute trust.  It takes courage.  

   The Christian life is like a dance, too.  I don't know where He's leading me or how to follow Him.  He doesn't give me step-by-step instructions.  He leads, He nudges, He's always there.  He teaches, and I do my best to heed Him.  When I stumble, His arm is there to steady me.  When I am weak, He is my strength.  When I am angry and try to run away, His love never lets me go.  And He spins me through each moment with an undercurrent of joy.  There's a promise of better things coming.  It's an adventure.  And He's there, taking me into His joy and His love. 

   Dance reflects the reality of romance.  The game of pursuit, the subtlety, the fire.  The passion, the vulnerability, the trust. 

   Now that I know the archetypal realities that Dance reflects, I can't help but wonder why we try so hard to suppress our natural yearnings for it.  Is it because we're afraid to let ourselves feel those yearnings?  

   I can't help but think it would make a vast improvement in our lives if children and teenagers were taught ballroom dancing.  It would help young men and women to feel more comfortable in their own bodies.  It would build confidence.  Young men would learn how to touch a girl with respect; to be neither grasping or terrified.  It would build strength, grace, and trust.  A young man needs to learn grace to pair with his strength.  To wed romance with his masculine soul.  A woman needs to learn how to follow, even (dare I say it!) to obey. (Gasp!) She needs to learn not to fear, nor to resent him for his strength, but rather to learn the difference between competence and corruption.  To recognize each when she sees it in the world; to respect the one and reject the other.  To be so confident in her beauty and her strength that she gives life, nurtures, and brings forth beauty in everything her life touches.  

   I am personally convinced that within the vast majority of woman there's still that deep desire for dance.  It's denied and suppressed, but not quite dead.  Oh, if men only understood this about us!  If only men were taught how masculine it is to lead with grace and power!  If they only knew how irresistibly attractive that makes them to us!  If they only knew how we yearn to be led, to be made to feel graceful, to feel that we matter!  If they had any idea how it thrills our hearts to be chosen for a dance!  If men only could glimpse how deeply tied romance is to dance--to know one is truly to understand the other.  Maybe they wouldn't be so reluctant to learn.  I wish they knew how we long to be swept up in the music, to be--for a moment--taken, led into the music itself!  It's rather like being caught in the current of a river.  Inside a song, inside the beauty, reflecting it, sharing its loveliness...and not to be in that place alone.  To share that reality, that experience, with another.  

   Dance reflects archetypal realities.  We deprive ourselves grievously to suppress it.  


~Cadenza