The Small Story

CONCORD—Apparently, there is no jumping in contra dancing. 

It seems, somehow, that there should be. A semi-skip feels just right when you’re in the midst of a turn, caught up in a fever of foot stomping, and skirts billowing, and heads thrown back to the sound of the fiddle.

But 84-year-old Ephraim Weiss will not let you have it.

“No jumping,” he says, calm as can be, as you move with him down the row of dancers. “Don’t jump.”

There may be bigger players on the New England folk dancing scene, but for the eager, overwhelmed beginner, “Eph” the retired physicist is it. For decades, he has plucked strangers from the sidelines of Thursday night contra dancing in Concord, guided them into the so-called slow lane, and showed them how to turn.

“He’s kind of bossy, but in a good way,” says Julia Huestis, 53, a seventh-grade math teacher who learned to dance with Eph. “He’s a big shot.”

If you want to get technical about it, he is bigger on the waltz scene. He’s done an awful lot for that dance. But contra is where Eph started all those years ago, a family man in search of a hobby, and contra is where he likes to stay, dancing twice a week at this 18th century renovated barn, otherwise known as the Scout House.

A centuries-old tradition from France, in which partners stand across from, or contra, each other, contra dancing in America is a very friendly affair, the kind of thing that inspires summer camps. 

People who come alone are drawn into the crowd. Couples who come together sometimes split apart to dance with others. Smiling is encouraged, eye contact is required, and sometimes, between friends, there is a quick flirty kiss on the cheek, as the bodies pass by.

“I don’t think you can go anywhere else, and see people smiling for such a long period of time,” says Devik Wyman, 63, a jewelry store owner in Sudbury.

Even before his wife died, dancing was Eph’s main extracurricular activity- Scandinavian, English, and Balkan are his other favorite forms, practiced on other days of the week. And then, of course, there is his work as an elected member of Lexington town government, a civic duty he has taken seriously for decades. 

By now, everyone at the Scout House knows better than to expect Eph on certain days during the spring: He is busy doing the budget.  
                               

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Born in Brooklyn, educated in Illinois, a self-described rabble rouser for most of his life, Ephraim Weiss is a man of ideas. And to hear him tell it, dancing—across the board—is down. 

It happens every time a recession hits. Maybe people can’t afford the $8 ticket. Maybe they are just not in the mood.

“There are a lot of theories about it,” Eph says, sipping an iced coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts. “Some of it has to do with the state of the world.”

Still, one recent Thursday, the Scout House defied the odds, and packed in more than 100 people, high school students, middle-aged couples, retired musicians—dancing in the hall, chatting on the front steps, catching their breath in the kitchen, where paper cups of ice water sat on the counter.

This is contra dancing as it is supposed to be, with live music and laughter. But it is not contra dancing as Eph first experienced it, when he was a graduate student in Illinois, taking instruction from two gym teachers, stepping to recorded music. 

“That was a disaster,” he says.

Discouraged, he dropped it, only to pick it up again decades later, when he was a husband, and a father of three daughters, working in a laboratory at MIT. 

At the time, the school was making cuts, and Eph needed an activity to keep him strong and engaged, in case the worst came to pass. Inspired by his daughters, he followed them into folk dancing.

Eph was awkward at first—he couldn’t make his movements connect. But he practiced, and practiced, and practiced some more, while his wife went down her own path, an avid theater-goer, sitting in the quiet and the dark.

“She thought I was a little nutty,” Eph says.

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To the untrained eye, contra dancing looks confusing: parallel lines of people, stepping, turning, spinning, do-si-do-ing, palms against palms, hands on hips, until each couple has moved from one end of their line to the other, dancing with every other couple on the way.

What Eph sees, when he looks at all of this, are the patterns. They appeal to his sensibilities as a scientist. But there is also the fine music, and the seamless movement, and the comfort that comes from concentrating on the small steps that add up to each dance.

Thursday night regulars describe it as an escape.

Eph saw a young one the other night, sitting by the side of the dance floor; she couldn’t afford to come in. The recession, he figured. He paid for her ticket. 

“It was just a token thing,” he said. “But I think it made her feel better.” 

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Beginners are always welcome in contra dancing. The crowd forgives their missteps, and encourages their progress. But only one man will pull them into the kitchen, and promise to teach them how to turn in under three minutes.

That man refers to himself as the "the letter Eph."

The other night, as men milled about in kilts and women twirled in tie-dyed skirts, he arrived, at 7:30 on the dot, in his customary attire: Black shoes, black socks, black shorts, black belt, with a shock of color, a teal blue T shirt, on top.

Other men wear headbands, but not Eph. Sweat does not bother him. He lets it puddle and drip down his face. 

Eph has always had a soft spot for the newcomers. He sees them lurking in a corner, trying to learn from the blur of fancy footwork on the floor, and he sympathizes. Nothing good can be learned from the sidelines. So he guides them in.

A few years ago, he formalized this coaching with a class called “One Good Turn.” For a $50 fee, most of which pays for the musicians, Eph will teach you how to “be easier to dance with,” and how to “turn comfortably,” among other skills. 

This will happen, according to his brochure, in seven sessions. Partial scholarships available.

Eph will admit: He's no miracle worker. The other night, he spotted a middle-aged man on the dance floor. A former student. He paused to watch.

“He’s not a terrific dancer,” Eph said. “But he’s better than he was.”

And that, in the end, is all anyone can really ask from a beginner. Eph turned away. His work was done.