Dance is Spelled D-N-A

My dad is a lover of music and has a knack for staying current despite being able to get senior discounts at the coffee house.  He has great taste in rock, but a spin through his CD changer will reveal an eclectic assortment of albums that change often, and may include Amy Winehouse, Bob Marley, Van Morrison, the Rolling Stones, and whatever else strikes his fancy.  He has better taste than most people and definitely better taste than, well, me.

A related talent is his fabulous dancing ability.  Many times he's taken to a crowded (or empty) dance floor and proceeded to spin, gyrate, wiggle, point, and shake his way into the dancing hall of fame.  To the casual onlooker (or mortified offspring) it looks a bit... weird.  Like something he should only do in the comfort and privacy of his own living room.

Fortunately, I know what it's really about.  Music moves him.  It moves him in ways that bring him happiness, and unselfconsciousness, and he just has a good time.  And why not?  I love to see him dance.  It makes me laugh and reminds me that happiness and mirth and a sense of abandon are all a healthy part of balancing life in our microanalyzed world.

This is where it gets even more interesting.  Soon after Beep was born, my dad gazed at her tenderly and, in an awed tone, made a profound and profoundly sweet comment on the family genetics carrying on into the future.  And so they will, in our sweet little girl with my eyes and her grandpa's long fingers. 

But if Grandpa ever needed proof of her lineage, he need look no further than this video I shot of the two of them dancing in the car.  Music moves her, too.