If you were accepted, you were going. End of discussion. Even threats of running away from home, undying hatred, or even suicide fell on heartlessly deaf parental ears.
So there we were, trapped like little rats, trying to master the mysteries of the box step, to the accompaniment of Miss Elsie enthusiastically banging out “Tea for Two” on the ancient piano while our far luckier peers with far more understanding parents were listening to Bill Haley and the Comets and bopping to “Rock Around the Clock.”
Attending Miss Comer’s required that the young ladies be attired in almost formal gowns and the young gentlemen suitably attired in dark suits and white gloves. The white gloves were necessary to forestall the leaving of sweaty masculine hand prints on the backs of those little formal gowns.
Our beaming parents thought that it was all so “darling.” We thought that it was all so totally, disgustingly yucky.
After the required trip down the formal receiving line which, to our mortification, demanded curtsying and bowing, the girls cringed on one side of the ballroom while the boys huddled on the other. No Man’s Land lay in between.
Miss Comer would glide elegantly to the center of No Man’s Land and demonstrate the finer points of the dance to be mastered. After twirling around all by herself for bit, she would call out her assistant, Miss Somebody Or Other, and they would dance together while Miss Comer kept up a running commentary on the steps to be preformed by the young lady and by the young gentleman.
I was never sure whether I wanted to laugh or upchuck as I watched that spectacle, repeated over and over.
Ultimately, the moment of true terror would arrive, as Miss Comer chirped, “Gentlemen, you may now ask the young lady of your choice for the pleasure of this dance.” At the command, “Miss Elsie, if you please,” Miss Elsie would begin to pound out music appropriate for the imminent crushing of toes and the trauma would begin.
Young adolescent faces instantly paled on both sides of the room and Westport’s young ladies and gentlemen began to twitch uncontrollably on either side of No Man’s Land.
On their side of the ballroom, the young gentlemen were not so gently pried away from the security of the ballroom wall and thrust out into the middle of No Man’s Land to fend for themselves. Any foolish attempt to retreat back to the safety of the wall was futile because it brought a less than pleasant physical contact with Miss Comer herself.
Her moves were good enough to have earned her a place on the defensive line of any football team. To my memory, no attempt at an end run around Miss Comer was ever successful.
On our side of the room, the young ladies began frantically trying to hide behind one another, which involved more than a bit of not so genteel or remotely lady-like pushing and shoving. This maneuvering always drew menacingly stern looks from our proud parents sitting in the parental peanut gallery.
The unspoken threat of being banished to our rooms for the rest of our lives if we didn’t “STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” was abundantly clear.
Although we never talked about it, I have no doubt that the very same horrifying thought was running through the mind of every young lady present at that moment.
“Oh, God, what if nobody picks me? I’ll die. I’ll absolutely die!”
Not being picked was a fate FAR worse than being chosen last for kickball at recess because any unfortunate left-over girl had to dance with Miss Comer.
There could be few more mortifying experiences in a tender adolescent life than having to dance with Miss Comer in front of everybody because nobody picked you.
As we all know, seventh and eighth graders come in all shapes, sizes and degrees of physical and/or emotional maturity. I was tall…very, very tall…taller than any boy in the seventh or eighth grade. OK, so I was taller than any boy in the ninth grade, too, for that matter. I was sure that I was taller than anyone else in the known universe and I probably was.
I can only assume that asking my towering self to dance was far too risky a business for most insecure, short lads, who would find themselves at eye level with what would have been cleavage, had I been just a few years older. Sadly or, perhaps, luckily, I wasn’t.
While there were a few courageous boys willing to take the risk and waltz me around the floor while staring at their feet with heroic concentration, I was forced to dance with Miss Comer far more than I would have preferred.
As much as I suffered the tortures of the damned as Miss Comer dragged me around the dance floor in front of seemingly everyone I knew, I must admit that the old gal was a pretty fair dancer and, at least, she didn’t tromp all over my feet.
We hapless victims of Miss Comer’s did eventually learn to fox trot, waltz, cha-cha and lindy with the best of them. But, I can’t help wonder how many of us still have to fight to overcome the urge to automatically curtsy or bow when we find ourselves going through a receiving line at a wedding these days.
Should I ever have the opportunity to meet either the Pope or Queen Elizabeth, I’m sure that the curtsying skills I learned at Miss Comer’s will come in handy.
Until such time, I’m having trouble justifying my parents’ investment in my mastering a proper curtsy.
Ballroom dancing would, no doubt, have been a valuable lifetime skill if the world had not abruptly changed in the late 60s and early 70s. With the advent of the Shag, the Frug and all the other “non-combat-sport” dances as the years went on, knowing how to fox trot didn’t exactly help us shine in most later social situations.
For most of us, ballroom dancing quickly became an archaic art form that only our parents and grandparents remembered and would actually engage in when other people could see them.
I actually learned to enjoy ballroom dancing, but I have real trouble finding men in my age group who manage a decent box step, much less a waltz. What a pity after what I endured to master the steps myself.
So, if another Miss Comer’s survivor finds himself suddenly overcome with a mad longing for a good tango, please do get in touch. I probably still have my Miss Comer’s party dresses up in the attic. And I promise that I haven’t gotten any taller.
___
Dale Eyerly Colson is a member of the Staples class of 1963.
Thanks Dale, I recommend everyone see Mad Hot Ballroom, playing at the Garden Cinema in Norwalk and see that Ballroom is a live and well in the schools of NYC for the same age group.
What a fabulous, beautifully written memoir! I laughed out loud and enjoyed it immensely. And now, no matter how much of my own childhood I might regret, I can now always be grateful that I never had to dance with Miss Comer! Thank you, Dale, for a beautiful start to my day.
I remember Miss Comer’s but my memory is of attending at a younger age, perhaps 5th grade. The class was held in the Y, as I recall, and that brings back memories of the 5 o’clock whistle emanating from the firehouse next door. Your description does a good job of dredging up those old memories, white gloves and all. My next door neighbor, the boy I played with growing up, went to the same class which shifted the focus slightly and made it less intimidating for me. But it surely was a non-negotiable activity from my parents perspective, especially as I was following in the footsteps of my two older sisters and one older brother!
Believe it or not, kids who grew up in grimy Bridgeport also attended Miss Comer’s ballroom dancing classes there. As a 12- and 13 year old who was beginning to be very interested in boys, I loved the whole process: the pretty dresses(my mother took me to Saks and Lord and Taylor in Manhattan—a thrilling experience), the white gloves, the lining up to see which boy would choose to dance with me. For some reason, I was popular, and I remember a wonderful fracas between two boys who dashed across the floor to get to me first, causing a stern Miss Comer to require that all the boys go back to the starting point and walk gracefully toward their intended partner.(This was before I realized that I have two left feet and that at best I look like a frozen statue on the dance floor. Apparently I enjoyed learning the fox-trot and the waltz, but I do remember some difficulty with the polka.)
Those memories were so verdant that I forced my eldest son, Jonathan (now a member of the RTM) to attend Miss Comer’s classes after we moved to Westport. He hated them. Luckily, the RTN requires no dancing.
As for me, I stay off the dance floor unless the band is playing oldies, I have a clear image of how awkward I would look attempting the meringue or the alleycat or whatever. I watched Mad Hot Ballroom with delight and fascination that these young kids could do those steps so beautifully. Despite Miss Comer’s steely determination, that’s how I dance these days—vicariously.
Thanks, Dale, for a lovely contribution.
I, too, went to Miss Comer’s, as did my twin brother and I believe my older sister.
But, like Luisa, I think I went in the fifth grade, perhaps sixth.
I do, remember clearly, however, on some nights being dropped off in front of the Y and then sneaking across the street to the Fine Arts Theatre for a while, and then hightailing it back to the Y to get picked up.
I guess that’s why the box-step is about the best I can do these days.
Dale has done a great job capturing the combination of awkwardness, insecurity and fear that prevailed in Miss Comer’s class. What I remember even more vividly is the embarrassment I felt before I even arrived. Being dropped off in front of the Y by my mother, and standing there in a blue suit AND WHITE GLOVES, often in full view of friends, was pure mortification. To this day, if I’m asked about my most embarrassing moment, I recall the laughs and snickers of my Miss Comer-less friends, whose teasing would last for weeks.
I still remember the day (it must have been about 1985) when my mother took me to Henry’s Mens Shop in Fairfield to get a pair of grey flannel slacks and a navy blazer. I was told that I was going to something called cotillion. I showed up at the Pequot Library in Southport and met a woman named Ms. Sadler (according to my mother Ms. Sadler took over for Ms. Comer who was her instructor). I believe the piano player was the same woman who had been ther since the 1960’s. We learned all of the different dances; waltz, foxtrot and box-step. One of the highlights at the end of the night was dancing to songs like “Rock Around the Clock”. I wonder if now at the end of the lessons the students listen to The Beastie Boys or Motley Crue?
As a Connecticut import, I missed the Miss Comer experience – but after reading Dale’s story, I FEEL as if I’d been there. Must go remove cold sweat.
Dale did a lovely job bringing back memories. I left New Britian in 1960 the last time, headed back for Alaska when my dad got back from Korea. In Fairbanks, we had the esteemed Mrs. Pigeon who taught us the “basic steps required in polite society”. I took the class in the fifth grade as part of the PE program in school ….. yes boys and girls it was mandatory here. We had 6 weeks of ballroom followed by six weeks of square dancing. It was so much appreciated by the parents that we got the afterscholl ballroom dance program for the next decade or two. Thanks for the memories Dale.
Reading this story makes me wish I had attended the classes.
Your right Dale it did bring a smile to my face. Dale is my older sister and I followed in her footsteps at Miss Comers. I was lucky in that I got to inherit all her leftover party dresses depite the fact that I was taller and even more akward then she was. I have great memories of Miss Comers as well. It gave me the oportunity to dance with my big hearthrob Allen Ditriech (I’m sure that’s not the way it’s spelled). He had gorgeous red hair and he was a great dancer for a 5th grader( not sure exsactly if that was the grade or not).He didn’t even mind dancing with me depite the fact that I did tower over him. Besides the weekly classes we also had parties occasionally where we would wear our really special party dresses. We even had dance cards that we had to fill out. I saved mine for years with allan’s name on it. One of the highlights of the years I attended was the evening that one of Miss Comers young gentleman students wore Micky Mouse ears through the receiving line. It was a big scandal at the time. Needless to say Miss Comer was not amused and he was escorted out of the Y’s ballroom in a flash. Thanks Dale for the memories. I know we have talked about these great times in the past but to see it in writing was so special. Being so far away from Westport up here in Canada made me feel like I was home again. Oh, and Allan I still have room on my dance card,and I still remember how to do the Cha Cha Cha.
What a refreshing article! It just brought back memories of a time that seems much more innocent. As I get older, I yearn for the “good old days” and I am fascinated by what the world in the 50’s and 60’s held for those in upper middle income neighborhoods. I grew up in an Italian-Irish-Jewish neighborhood in the Bronx, and attended an all girls Catholic school up until college. ANY interaction with boys was at basketball games (we were cheerleaders) or at the very rare high school dance where the nuns and the “Holy Spirit” politely measured the distance (with what seemed to be a yardstick at the time!) between girls and boys. AND it was true that patent leather shoes were not allowed in the fear of boys gaining an unseemly view of girls undergarments via the shiny reflection (we also couldn’t have beehive hairdos: because French girls wore their hair that way symbolizing an Eiffel Tower which was in France and France = romance and love; therefore, the hairdo could lead to “ooh la la”. Thank God for the sexual revolution in the late 60’s! BUT who knows what psychological damage all those wickedly funny stories wreaked!
I am happy to say that today social dance and etiquette is alive and well right here in Fairfield county, and I would say a lot of the children probably feel the same way they did back then…boys don’t care for it; girls love getting dressed (at least in the younger grades). I’ve heard that 5th grade up, at least in the Mayfair classes, the kids love it. They have Rock n’ Roll parties and do Country Western line dances as well. The Barclay group comes to Fairfield (for the public and private schools – last year the classes were held at the Pequot Library and Mayfair has classes for Greenwich Academy and Brunswick.
I think today more than ever social graces should be a part of our children’s lives in the advent of all the new technology and reality shows – a return to the basics should be welcomed (like it or not – lol!).
Hi Dale
Great read – thanks
I think I must have been in your same class. I had forgotten all about the dance cards. I think if I look in my parents attic I might just find them.
Dale,
Wow!!! Makes me long for the years before the New Morality took hold. My own daughters took tap and jazz which instilled a love of dance, so the ballroom stuff wasn’t such a hard sell. They were glad when they pledged sororities that dancing had been part of their education. Thank you for sharing such an eloquent memory!
Wonderful article Dale!
I luckily did not become a victim of the Miss Cromer experience, and I dont know why! Our families were so close back then I’m sure one would influence the other in almost everything.
The closest I came was when a choreographer was hired to teach the male cast members some “dance and rythem moves” for the Staples Players production of “West Side Story” and we practiced in her studio. It was quite a chore and funny to say the least but we managed to pull it off! “Once you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way”!!!
Thanks for the memories!
Hi Dale:
On my recent visit to see my brother, Tom Hindle, in Westport this summer, he and I were reminiscing about Miss Comer’s classes back in the late 50’s. Ah—the sweet innocent times, post WWII, pre-ending of Camelot. Who can forget the dance cards, party dresses with crinolines, navy blue suits, the white gloves….
I know that Westport has changed, like everywhere, but the difference to me is small compared to the difference between Westport then (or now) and anywhere else I have lived in or traveled to in this country or the world. Westport in Home.
Barbara Hindle Chapman, Staples class of ‘63
Thanks So Very Much for these postings!! From age 4 until 2nd grade at Black Rock School in Bridgeport (128 Seabright Ave.) and then 50 Lewis Drive in Fairfield, I took ballroom dancing classes from Irene Comer! To this day, I use what she taught us and have shared that knowledge with my wife and 2 daughters!
My memories are far different. I took instruction under Irene Comer for ballet and tap lessons every Thursday for two yrs, with enjoyment and exposure to experiening and acting with grace and class. It was a far cry from climbing tress and billboards with my brother, but I loved the duality of it! I could be a tomboy one day, or a prom princess at a weekend dance, the next,! I loved my jeans and sneakers, but I also loved the pretty dresses and patent leather shoes… And I LOVED dancing. Irene Comer, epitomized good taste, culture, professional dancing acumen, and again, pure class. I’m very thankful I got to be one of her students. Made me smile, remembering Elsie who played on the old, black walnut, piano, perched on stage in the auditorium!
I have just now enjoyed the privilege of reading this wonderful article on Ms. Comer and the ballroom dancing experience that so many of us were “volunteered “for in a Westport of long ago. Thank you Dale for capturing the essence of this venue both in emotion and thought. I admit I did not look forward to those lessons but ironically find myself years later very active on the ballroom scene in Orlando, Florida. So a very late thanks to Ms Comer and to you Dale for rekindling the memory.
Jim Lewis
Staples ‘57