There’s a dance hall hidden down a dirt path in these parts. Landmarked by a flashing road-front sign, this southern Vance County clubhouse is a converging spot for couples and singles alike. Its white washed walls are crowned with a green tin roof. And on Saturday nights, its wooden dance floor is graced with slick dance shoes.
This community building, located on N.C. 39, is known by area natives as the Epsom Country Club.
Established in 1981, the Epsom Country Club was founded by its current owner, Epsom native Ronald Renn.
“It’s not a money maker,” Ronald chuckles of the club, which years ago was funded by membership dues. “But it’s somewhere for senior citizens to get together.”
These days, the club is open to anyone seeking a family friendly environment, a Saturday night dance partner – and of course, live country music.
Last weekend, I attended my first community dance at the Epsom Country Club. I attribute this inaugural visit to Lois Eaves, who corralled me and most of Epsom to the Saturday night soirée because “the boys” were performing.
Now, “the boys” are my older cousins, Jimmy and Tony Eaves, who along with David Boykin and Bernie Long comprise a country music band named Destiny. And it was the muffled strums of their guitars, and likewise David singing lead, which guided me to the clubhouse steps that night.
Curtis Strickland, who coordinates the club’s weekly dances, welcomed me at the door with his customary, “Hey girl!” His greeting soon transitioned to club talk.
“Some of these folks will walk in here with canes,” Curtis said of the Saturday night crowd. “But once they get out on that dance floor, they’ll forget all about those canes.” And then smiling, he added: “Sometimes they’ll leave here without them!”
Once inside, I stood spectator to the scene Curtis had moments ago described. Women twirled in the arms of their partners – gentlemen who, unlike my generation’s male gender, could lead their ladies in a waltz, foxtrot or cha-cha.
“These folks can dance circles around me!” I said to the Eaves clan, joining them at a nearby table.
Like an awkward teenage girl at her high school prom, I gazed at the skilled dancers who stepped to the beat of each country song. And like that same awkward teenage girl, I found comfort in those few non-dancers seated around me. Cousin Jimmy then approached the microphone, leading the band in its next set as his wife Kelly cheered him on.
“He can’t remember to take out the trash, but he can remember all the lyrics to these songs!” Kelly shouted to our table, shaking her head as Jimmy belted out a Johnny Cash classic.
And that’s when someone tapped me on my shoulder.
“Would you like to dance?” asked the older gentleman named Charlie.
“Sure!” I smiled. “But I don’t know how to dance,” I warned Charlie as he escorted me onto the crowded floor.
“That’s OK,” Charlie assured me as he positioned my arms in appropriate dance posture. “Just relax.”
And from there, Charlie led me in a foxtrot. Well … he tried.
“Not too fast,” Charlie chided as I twirled double time to no beat but my own. “Move with the music.”
Fighting my internal fast-forward mode, I slowed my pace to my dance partner’s approval.
“Much better!” Charlie grinned after a successful second twirl, which ended our foxtrot.
As the evening concluded, the dancers bid farewell until the next Saturday night, when they’d congregate once more on that wooden dance floor. And after saying my own goodbyes, I slipped out the club’s front door, stealing one last glance at its golden-aged patrons and an era of grace that’s fading away.
This community building, located on N.C. 39, is known by area natives as the Epsom Country Club.
Established in 1981, the Epsom Country Club was founded by its current owner, Epsom native Ronald Renn.
“It’s not a money maker,” Ronald chuckles of the club, which years ago was funded by membership dues. “But it’s somewhere for senior citizens to get together.”
These days, the club is open to anyone seeking a family friendly environment, a Saturday night dance partner – and of course, live country music.
Last weekend, I attended my first community dance at the Epsom Country Club. I attribute this inaugural visit to Lois Eaves, who corralled me and most of Epsom to the Saturday night soirée because “the boys” were performing.
Now, “the boys” are my older cousins, Jimmy and Tony Eaves, who along with David Boykin and Bernie Long comprise a country music band named Destiny. And it was the muffled strums of their guitars, and likewise David singing lead, which guided me to the clubhouse steps that night.
Curtis Strickland, who coordinates the club’s weekly dances, welcomed me at the door with his customary, “Hey girl!” His greeting soon transitioned to club talk.
“Some of these folks will walk in here with canes,” Curtis said of the Saturday night crowd. “But once they get out on that dance floor, they’ll forget all about those canes.” And then smiling, he added: “Sometimes they’ll leave here without them!”
Once inside, I stood spectator to the scene Curtis had moments ago described. Women twirled in the arms of their partners – gentlemen who, unlike my generation’s male gender, could lead their ladies in a waltz, foxtrot or cha-cha.
“These folks can dance circles around me!” I said to the Eaves clan, joining them at a nearby table.
Like an awkward teenage girl at her high school prom, I gazed at the skilled dancers who stepped to the beat of each country song. And like that same awkward teenage girl, I found comfort in those few non-dancers seated around me. Cousin Jimmy then approached the microphone, leading the band in its next set as his wife Kelly cheered him on.
“He can’t remember to take out the trash, but he can remember all the lyrics to these songs!” Kelly shouted to our table, shaking her head as Jimmy belted out a Johnny Cash classic.
And that’s when someone tapped me on my shoulder.
“Would you like to dance?” asked the older gentleman named Charlie.
“Sure!” I smiled. “But I don’t know how to dance,” I warned Charlie as he escorted me onto the crowded floor.
“That’s OK,” Charlie assured me as he positioned my arms in appropriate dance posture. “Just relax.”
And from there, Charlie led me in a foxtrot. Well … he tried.
“Not too fast,” Charlie chided as I twirled double time to no beat but my own. “Move with the music.”
Fighting my internal fast-forward mode, I slowed my pace to my dance partner’s approval.
“Much better!” Charlie grinned after a successful second twirl, which ended our foxtrot.
As the evening concluded, the dancers bid farewell until the next Saturday night, when they’d congregate once more on that wooden dance floor. And after saying my own goodbyes, I slipped out the club’s front door, stealing one last glance at its golden-aged patrons and an era of grace that’s fading away.
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