Coming down the drive, sheltered by tall elms, maples and cottonwoods, a familiar feeling of running barefoot through cool grass came over me. Tree trunks rimmed with mud remind one of a giant straw in a rounded-lip glass. As the breeze off the river graced my face, I could swear I heard an orchestra playing a sultry rendition of a Perry Como song called Surrender. Time seems to have stood still out on Kentucky Route 8.
I’d been invited to lunch at Doyle’s Country Club in Dayton. Two members have been working on an application to put the camp on the National Historic Register and had been to the Tharp Dayton Heritage Museum to research the history of this beautiful sample of what the Dayton riverbank once was. Progress is good, but so is honoring our past. Knowing that a sample of a time gone by could be preserved alongside of Manhattan Harbor and other developments along the Ohio. It gives me hope.
Sixteen cottages line a field that hosts activity during the summer. A pool, a kitchen, and the lower field leads to a beach that remains untouched by development. However, my lunch companions led me to a beautiful structure they call the dance hall. From the outside, it appears to be reclaimed materials, put together to fashion a gathering place. Mounting the steps into the sheltered room, I was transported to a post-World War II era.
Instantly the ghosts of dancers gripping one another tightly and swirling along a floor that seemed connected to their feet captured my imagination. Moon glow might have illuminated swooping bats among the tall trees that had survived the ’37 flood outside. Shutters would have tilted out to move the still air and cool the brows of heated jitterbuggers. Voices, caught on the breeze off the river could still be heard as an echo of a time that stood still.
Descendants of original members from 1919 still bring their families to Doyle’s every year in those first warm days of spring. It is a microcosm of democracy with its own constitution. Each member family agrees to pay dues and to a substantial investment of sweat equity to keep their summer home in shape. On this particular visit, a storm kept members busy clearing downed branches. Twigs and sticks lying about would become a game for children before two teams of mowers would attack the week’s growth of velvet green lawn that rarely needs more than a summer rain to keep its verdant hue.
Standing in the dance hall, I could still hear the music, only now it sounded more like Nat King Cole singing Unforgettable in every way… . Marcele and Angie, my tour guides, point to small holes in the aged dance floor. I bend to examine them, each one the size of a bore from a carpenter bee. “Do you know what those are?” Marcele asked with a knowing smile. I could have guessed termite drills but had little other ideas and when I looked up, Angie bent to trace her finger close to it and said,
“That’s where flood waters come through to relieve pressure.” Of course, to stabilize the floor, keep it intact rather than a splintered mess, destroyed and floating down river.
The air settled in the hollow building, the caw of a crow outside drew my attention to the opposite end of the building. Sun edged into the space in a romantic sort of way. Was it the shadow of the waving leaves outside the building? It called up the sound of a crescendo of violins, a whispering beat of brush on drum skin, a velvety voice and this picture of couples relaxed into one another, desperate for the summer night to go on forever.
Dayton Heritage Museum 