It was at Louise’s wedding. Harvey took Mrs. Lee to the dance floor.

It never happened. Harvey didn’t dance, wedding or not. Ralph did. He would take a woman, any woman, wrap around her waist, and drive her across the dance floor — her making steps she had never herself imagined nor believed possible. I always wanted to do that — be a true “lead” on the dance floor — but I was always nervous, and sweaty, leaving a palm print on the lower back that I imagined being talked about in the lady’s room. Ruined. Look at that. I will be marked for life.

Can you counter with, “It never happened”? Were there photographs, finding them would require an excavation of the attic, the luggage closet, and maybe even the sheds. Were they found, could they be true between the creases, the mouse urine, the dust and grime? They are not digital to be recreated on a myriad of screens, identical, all at the same time from Shanghai to Tulsa.

However, at Louise’s wedding, her father did tell a bawdy, shaggy dog tale, whose punch line was “Stop pedaling, I think the light is attracting them” about surprise multiple births, at home, in the countryside with insufficient utility light, and the simple understandings of simple folk.

The story about Louise continued with Harold, her true husband, rather than Harvey. It had something to do with staying warm because the night would be colder, without cloud cover in a transition from one season to the next and the weather could be unstable —- sharply sunny during the day, with a deep frost and even some black ice on the roads. It was still the wedding night and Harvey had borrowed a smarter car than he usually drove. Some guide, or following some farmer’s wisdom, suggested placing a blanket over the warm engine so that it would keep its heat during the night and start smartly in the morning. This follows the principle that engines measured in horsepower echo the same principles as their namesakes — a blanket keeps them warm through the night for the ride to town in the morning.

The blanket, under the hood of the car, however smoldered. There was no way Harold and Louise would have smelled the burning wool. Late in the night but early in the morning, it began to flame, at a low level, undetected by neighbors and not boldly enough to ignite any fuel. However, on throwing open the hood, the rush of air, cool and dense, the softly burning and smoldering blanket sprang into flame. The flame caught the oil soaked insulation on the hood, flaming segments dropped to the blanket covered engine – soon that too was aflame. Would the fuel ignite? Would the car be consumed in a conflagration? A steady beating with empty burlap sacks and copious amounts of water tamed the flame. No oil fire, no gasoline blaze. Plans for the wedding breakfast celebration were shelved.