| Saturday nights he'd jam the van  with the upright silver bass and the curvysousaphone, mouthpieces carried
 in his pockets to keep them warm.
 He'd pick up the guys and headfor Iowa dance halls, play big-band style
 and pack the house. Back then,
 the gang played standards,
 some oom-pa-pas and little waltzes. 
 The dance floor was packed to the rafters with suits and circle skirts; sometimes a pretty woman sang.
 
 "It's getting a little dry  and dusty up here," Jerry'd say, and beers and whiskey sodas appeared.   My father drove home after,half asleep, a little jazzed;
 his throat choked with smoke   and lips bruised and sore.  The horns, their big bells silent, settled once more in the back,   those Saturday night beauties—the ones  he held tight, the ones he crooned to,  my mother keeping time at home.                    © by Karla Huston.Used with the author's permission.
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