Johnna MacDougall dances with Soma Beats in the Tri-Lakes Pride parade in June 2024. (Enterprise photo — Aaron Marbone)

Spin, clap! Roll hands low, roll hands high!

Spin, clap! Roll hands low, roll hands high!

We pass Garden Street and the Adults Center, and swerve a few steaming piles of dung from the bleating protests of four goats being reluctantly tugged by the local 4-H club. Volunteer firefighters, clustered in their garage, laugh at us, or with us. I get why, I mean, we are sorta of a spectacle of fun.

We are SomaBeats and Bucket Ruckus. A few dozen costumed dancers, drummers and walkers grooving to our own music. Under flags and puppets, pounding sick beats on five-gallon pails, pots and pans we shimmy down South Broadway. We deliver a spontaneous high-energy performance for the Saranac Lake Gala Parade. There’s no perfection. We’re only professionals at deliberating feather length and rhinestone placement. All we need to perform is a few months of rehearsal and a healthy dose of reckless abandon. It’s Carnival Baby!

At the post office, Kyle drops in a new rhythm on his frying pan da-da-da-da-da, da–da-da-dah, and we line up, our feet gliding over snow clumps. Gloves peel off sweaty palms, wigs are straightened. After a final nod and a quick booty shake, we whirl feet-first into the gauntlet of Main Street.

When I was a wee lass, I scrambled for Tootsie Pops and Hubba Bubba tossed from floats. I never knew someday I would be center street, but here I am, jigging past The Fiddlehead. I stop a second to hug my cousin, and rush back into place.

Children perched on shoulders with a birds-eye view are wrapped in scarves and multi-colored hats. The spectators are a cornucopia of wool, Gore Tex, t-shirts and classic floor-length fur coats, harvested long before PETA had a voice.

Our eyes are locked on one another–counting steps, claps, and shuffles–but our ears are tuned to Kyle. His drumsticks, his bucket, his frying pan: it’s all him.

It’s a very little known fact, well before now, that Kyle Murray was part of the Pumpkin Holler Gang, and was no stranger to parade life. Kyle, and his brother Miles, frequented Capital District parades on a tandem bike in full costume. A few years after moving to Saranac Lake, Kyle felt a nostalgic twinge, and with a little nudge from Lawn Chair Lady Sue Grimm, Noel Prellwitz and Dave Salizaar, Bucket Ruckus was born.

Every year Kyle crafts new rhythms, and SomaBeats creates dances to match. After some tweaking, and a whole lotta patience as we hammer out the kinks, we have a blueprint for the parade.

Kyle leads his crew — veterans like Colin Dehond and Dusty Grant, and Dan King, along with fresh faces. Our saunter down mainstreet is a cosmic expression with Kyle at the helm, drumming like mad, and walking half of the parade route backward.

As we pass Woodruff Street, my base layers are soaked, and I have double vision. In Real Life, there’s a wall of people on the Berkley Green, warming by the fire or drinking cocoa. Yet, as we bounce and hop, I see the past: a sparkling, triangular ice prism in front of the Berkeley Hotel, and people clap from the second-story balcony.

Here, I pause. I find the backdrop of The Hotel Saranac against a crystal blue or snow filled sky. I am grateful to be part of this historic event created by the Pontiac Club in 1897. Winter Carnival does as intended, provides a reason to be creative, and something to cheer about. People need a winter-time boost, just as those seeking the cure needed a lift through the winter of their lives.

SomaBeats, like The Canoodlers, The Lawn Chair Ladies and The Dance Sanctuary, are each tribes. We are there to lend dry socks, share glitter, celebrate new babies, and support during debilitating grief, unexpected injury and shocking illness. We bring flowers, we bring soup. We are a witness to each other’s lives.

What we can offer the group changes year to year. Tammy Loewy and Zoë Philippa Smith are good at choreography so they lead. Kelly Carter and Chris Newman are the fashionistas. Beth Bartos-Martin is our resident MD and cheer captain. This year’s newbies are: Erika Sydney Sipos, Gabrielle Popp and DeAnna Brown. Returning dancers are: Danie King, Angie Cook, Molly Fisk Jacobson, Kelly Haas, Jaime Fielder, Colleen Corrigan, Wynde Kate Reese, Shannon Bower Portal, and yours truly. Behind masks, bling and the zing, behind us all, is our founder and heartbeat, Johnna MacDougall.

Johnna MacDougall, a Mindful Health and Wellness Educator and NYS Licensed Massage Therapist, founded SomaBeats four decades ago. Johnna is more than her impressive CV. Johnna is a force. Johnna’s goal was to dance, to create, to share community. Based in Saranac Lake for the last 21 years, SomaBeats uses rhythm as a way to foster creativity and personal expression.

In 2010, at my first SomaBeats dance class, the bone thundering drums echoing, Johnna got in my face, “Come on, Sista, you gotta shake those chains free! Shake ’em!”

SomaBeats dancers have rhythm, we’ve got style, but it’s Johnna who gives us groove. On Saturday February 8th, if the stars align and the creek don’t rise, listen for her do-it-for-Johnna war cry, “Ay-ye-ye-ye,” urging you to grove, or at least tap your foot.

We continue past the throng of people at Newberry’s parking lot who are loud and proud. We gasp for breath and steady our nerves. Everything that preceded this moment was a warm up. It is game on. Now we dance for the caged congregation at The Waterhole #3. This is it, The Thunderdome.

The emotional tsunami at The Waterhole is something I hope everyone feels once. We twist, stretch and stomp as a cacophony of noise crashes down. The patrons of said establishment are neighbors, former classmates, and friends we haven’t met. They’ll be shoveling their driveway Sunday, but today they cheer and shout marriage proposals as we let loose.

Dripping with euphoria, we wave and blow farewell kisses wiggling our way to the judges platform. A cannon booms behind us. People hug on the street. Fresh baked pizza scent wafts over us as we line up. Nerves abated, I am so hungry I would trade my whole costume for a hot slice and a bottle of water.

We have one last time to get funky. We toss energy like hot coals in the four cardinal directions, and up–up-up to the heavens. We scatter joy, and hope it lands somewhere sacred, or on someone who needs it most.