On Saturday night we went to a big ol’ hootenanny hoe-down in the hill country outside of Austin.

There were a coupla hundred folk there — kids and grown-ups — more than a few dogs and a potluck that stretched about the length of a football field.  We all set up tents in the scrub around the rambling wooden dance hall that served as the centerpoint of the night, and then set up chairs around our tents for some serious sittin’ and shootin’ the breeze.

The kids wandered endlessly — playing hide-n-go-seek and collecting cool rocks and old bottles. 
One of ours stopped by to ask, incredulously, if they had any boundaries at all.

At sundown, we all piled into the hall for two-stepping lessons (shuffle, shuffle, walk, walk) and from there we rolled right into a long night of rockabilly honky-tonking by Two Tons of Steel. The kinda thing that can bruise the bottoms of your feet after awhile.

(A few years back, my husband and I took about six weeks of dance lessons — western swing — because, well, we live here and we thought we oughta. But we could take six years of dance lessons and not move like some of these people born to it. I’d be really jealous if they weren’t so fun to watch.)

So the greatest thing about this party is that it’s basically hippie viral marketing. The party started 8 years ago and each year there are a whole heap o’ hosts who each invite ten couples and chip in some money and help string some lights. A little of that and a little of this and voila, you’ve got yourself a bash to behold. There’s a rowdie late night camping area and a family camping area and less than 6 degrees of separation all over the place. Nobody’s a stranger even though most folk have never met.

It gets you to thinking about new forms of international diplomacy, I’ll tell you what…