During one stormy Saturday night, Dad proudly announced we would be trying a new place: D.C.'s Country Junction in Lowell, Indiana. My Mom heard about the place (known for their line dancing) and somehow talked Dad into going. While my Dad drove our family's Buick Skylark toward Lowell, my brother and I nervously watched the lightning fill in the night sky. After seeing a tornado in an old black-and-white movie at my Grandmother's house, the two of us were fascinated (and terrified) of severe thunderstorms. This particular nasty summer thunderstorm safely moved through the area during our 30-minute commute and left the air feeling more humid after we finally stepped out of the car at D.C.'s crowded parking lot.
As the four of us stood at the entrance awaiting the host to seat us, I immediately noticed the action on the dance floor as folks stomped their feet and did a form of dancing that was completely unfamiliar to me. My parents never exposed us to Country Music and, thus, line dancing.
Growing impatient (and hungry), Dad finally approached a passing staff member. The young bus boy motioned for us to sit wherever we chose...so we did. We moved to a booth close enough to the dance floor and buffet. After a few more minutes of waiting, my dad finally flagged the same bus boy and inquired about our waitress. The bus boy told us to just grab a plate and head to the buffet; this news delighted me as an abundance of fried chicken sat within a few feet of us. At this point, my Mom whispered something into my Dad's ear which caused a moment of panic between my parents.
My Dad waved over the bus boy a third time and the two struck up another conversation. When it ended, my Dad signaled to us that we had to leave. Wait, what? The thought of leaving without eating while the smell of crispy fried chicken danced in my brain wasn't sitting well with me. My parents hurried us to the car where Dad finally revealed what really happened inside D.C.'s Country Junction. His nervousness morphed into laughter as my Dad admitted that D.C.'s was actually closed that night for a private wedding reception! The poor busboy thought we were part of the wedding. We wound up eating at some nearby diner and, from that day forward, my Dad never veered outside his comfort zone of Michael's, Zante's or Shakey's Restaurants.