Marching to the beat of a different drummer

I never made the majorette team--but my best friend Betty was the star solo twirler.  She had nimble fingers and coordination big time and could throw up fire batons and catch them--always providing a spectacular half-time show at the high school football games.

I didn't watch the games, but I was mesmerized watching Betty perform.  She didn't date a college boy like I did at fifteen and sixteen, but she came over and fixed my hair for special dates, even on my wedding day in 1967.

We took piano lessons together on Tuesday and Thursday morning before school.  I sat in Miss Marguerite's overheated living room and listened as the teacher oohed and aahed over Betty's playing.  "Exquisite!" she said--about Betty's musical talents.

My responses from Miss Marguerite? Well, let's just say they were more measured, more tepid. I had, she said, "a good touch."

I didn't make the majorette team or the cheerleading squad, much to my dismay.  But I did--by some stroke of luck--get to be homecoming queen.  Here I am the night I got my rhinestone tiara, standing beside the man I'd marry a year later.

I had a bit of reputation in those days for having "two left feet."  I never believed it until I discovered this photo of myself.  I don't remember this parade--but it must have been an open-to-everyone pre-high school marching event.

I can't help noticing that my left foot is touching the pavement in the parade while everyone else's right foot is touching.

Thoreau wrote, "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he is listening to the beat of a different drummer."

I guess that's true for girls, too.