Dirty Dancing

An article in the local weekly newspaper caught my eye. It seems the City of Copperhill Board of Alderman is considering loosening the restrictions on dancing in some downtown businesses. Where is Kevin Bacon when you need him? In case you’re too young to remember or so old you’ve forgotten, that’s a reference to the movie Footloose in which Kevin Bacon, as a young man from modern suburbia, moves to a Bible-belt town that bans dancing. The only thing remotely notable about the movie was its theme song by the same name sung by Kenny Loggins.

Copperhill is the same city that voted last year to equip its police cars—all two of them—with radar. We were happy that both Andy and Barney got the new equipment.

Copperhill is located across the state line in Tennessee about 15 minutes north of me. It’s the twin city (and I use the term “city” loosely) to McCaysville, Georgia. There is painted line running through the two cities that marks the Georgia-Tennessee border … or maybe not. Georgia contends that Tennessee is hogging some of its territory, and there is an ongoing border dispute between the two states over the exact location of the line. McCaysville is in Fannin County, Georgia, which until recently was a dry county, while Copperhill is located in Polk County, Tennessee, which allows the sale of alcohol. Copperhill residents resisted being placed in Georgia primarily because it would have meant they would have to drive 40 miles for a beer. Link. That’s a damn good reason if you ask me. Fortunately, Fannin County changed its tune on alcohol a few years ago. 

It comes as a surprise to me that dancing is an issue in Copperhill. The demographics of the city would suggest that there is not a lot of loose boogy-woogying going on. According to the 2010 census, it has a population of 354 people with a median age of 50.3 years. It’s hard to imagine a bunch of old farts being lewd and lascivious on the dance floor. 

I don’t know what the current restrictions are. I did not have the curiosity to find Copperhill’s City Hall to check out the current ordinances. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be driving to Copperhill to cut the rug anytime soon. I do know that in 1996 the city forbade dancing in any establishment that served alcohol. According to the newspaper, the current ordinances allows dancing if the dance area is separated from the alcohol sales area and is at least 144 square feet. I don’t even know where to start trying to figure out the logic of the city fathers in enacting that ordinance.

The paper quoted City Recorder Alexis McClure: “The intention is to review the billiard/pool hall regulations from the state and exclude certain types of dancing such as exotic dancing, but allow bar owners to have a dance floor for couple dancing. We just don’t want to open the floodgates for other dancing that is inappropriate for the city.” 

Good luck with drafting an ordinance that will pass constitutional muster. Can you say “void for vagueness?” 

I’m going to attempt to stay on top of this story. It interests me from so many perspectives. In the meantime, if you’re looking for a place to do the forbidden lambada, better steer clear of Copperhill, Tennessee. You’ll know you’re there when you see all these people walking around with tight asses.

* * * * *

Glory be! Spring has finally shown its face in Fannin County. One day last week, as I was driving on a winding country road, I saw a small splash of color among the bare trees and matted leaves on the side of the road. The daffodils have bloomed. Their appearance does not mean that the cold, wet and weary weather of winter is over, but it does mean that spring is on its way, and I, for one, couldn’t be happier.

This is my second winter in North Georgia, and it hasn’t been a lot of fun. Even though the first winter was colder and there was more snow, there was a novelty to it because it had been 40 years since I last lived in a place that had a real winter. But the novelty is gone this winter to be replaced by a general feeling of dreariness and captivity. 

The weather has not been the sole cause of my gloom and doom perspective. There have been worrisome events over the last few months. My mother took ill necessitating a month-long trip to Florida in January, and I have another one slated in a couple of weeks. My oldest son has been fretting over getting into graduate school; we’ll know about that in a few days. Finally, my youngest son started boot camp for the Marines a week ago.

Naively, I thought I was done with stress and worry when I took off the suit for the last time and bid goodbye on my life as a trial lawyer and city attorney. I envisioned life in retirement as a long pleasant day drifting down a placid, flowing stream in a small row boat laying on soft cushions and nibbling snacks from a picnic hamper. (I have no idea where the image of a Sunday afternoon in Victorian England came from. It scares me.) 

But real life has a way of intruding into pleasant fantasies, and that’s just the way it is. As the song by REO Speedwagon goes, you got to roll with the changes, and one of the changes I’m looking forward to is the end of winter and the arrival of spring here in the North Georgia mountains. I’ve said this before, but living here and being outdoors more makes me more attuned and sensitive to the slow cycle of the seasons. The ancients saw spring as a period of joy and rebirth, and man, am I ever ready for it.